Chapter 58 I Really Want to Advance My Career So Badly, You Forced My Hand

Feng Ju exhausted every ounce of strength to chase all the way to the residential compound's entrance, where he was forced to a halt.

The black-faced arch-fiend and the special envoy had both vanished without a trace.

"I couldn't keep up with the special envoy's pace. Damn it! If my innate foundation were just a bit better, and my martial arts cultivation a bit higher, I might have been able to keep up, or even execute that arch-fiend right there in the room."

Believing he had missed out on a monumental contribution, Feng Ju was gripped by a bitter wave of frustration and helplessness. His breathing turned dejected; he wanted to advance so badly.

Then,

A pale, expressionless white mask expanded rapidly in his field of vision.

"Another one?" Feng Ju started in shock. A chill rippled from the soles of his feet straight up his spine, and his throat bobbed involuntarily.

Then, a blazing light shot from his eyes, and his entire head grew hot. "Another one!"

The sudden reappearance of the enemy filled Feng Ju's chest with such a surge of pleasant surprise that his adrenaline skyrocketed, instantly banishing and overshadowing all thoughts of the arch-fiend's danger.

Even as Feng Ju shouted a warning, he bent his arm at the side, thrusting his short blade straight at the bone-white mask.

"This guy looks kind of familiar. Oh right, it's Feng Mu's cheap old man."

"But I'm not Feng Mu anymore; I'm Mask, the arch-fiend member of [Destiny]~"

Feng Mu turned his head away indifferently, not a single ripple of emotion in the depths of his eyes. Toward Feng Ju, he felt neither love nor hatred; he would neither deliberately increase his force nor hold back when striking.

Just like the expressionless face of the mask itself, he maintained a uniform, detached indifference toward everyone.

He raised his hand into a claw, caught the blade between two fingers, and twisted it effortlessly into scrap metal.

With a blur before Feng Ju's eyes, his entire body was hoisted into the air. The mask vanished from his sight, and the next moment he crashed heavily onto the ground, leaving him dizzy and disoriented.

Feng Mu stepped squarely onto Feng Ju's chest and launched forward with a sudden burst of speed. Darkness clouded the latter's vision as he coughed up a large mouthful of blood.

Paying no heed to whether Feng Ju lived or died, Feng Mu brushed past his obstruction and lunged toward the nearest group of constables with the momentum of a thunderbolt.

Just as he had anticipated, having just watched the black-faced fiend run off, they had certainly not expected another fiend—Mask—to pop up.

With their guards momentarily lowered and unprepared, the speed at which they drew and aimed their guns simply could not keep up with the ferocious enemy tearing into their ranks.

Before one constable could even rest his hand on his holster, Feng Mu beat him to it. His hooked fingers whistled through the air, shearing the gun barrel clean off like foam, along with several smoothly severed fingertips.

Another constable drew his weapon, but before he could take aim, Feng Mu closed the distance and gouged out his eyes with a swift, predatory sweep.

A third constable didn't even have time to draw; roaring in fury, he wrapped his arms around Feng Mu's waist in an attempt to tackle him, only for a single claw to rip his spine right out from his back, causing him to instantly collapse limply to the ground.

Feng Mu's speed was not as blinding as the dark-faced man's, so he could not afford to let these constables create distance and kite him with gunfire. He possessed no nimble footwork to dodge bullets.

Therefore, he had to neutralize and incapacitate as many constables as possible at maximum speed. He cared not for instant kills; his sole objective was to cripple their ability to draw weapons in a single stroke.

If they died, it was simply their time to perish; if they survived, he certainly wouldn't bother finishing them off—that was far too wasteful of time.

Feng Mu was seizing the initiative and racing against time, for the constables had already reacted and were frantically widening the distance between them.

They, too, had realized that unlike the black-faced man whose movements were practically invisible, the mask before them did not possess such blinding speed. His strength alone was terrifying, paired with vicious claw techniques; the moment anyone was grazed at close range, flesh, bone, and sinew would be pierced through like tofu.

"One, two, three... six, seven!"

Feng Mu kept a silent tally in his mind. When he crippled the seventh constable, the gunshots finally rang out.

A sharp pain lanced through Feng Mu's lower back as a bullet penetrated it, apparently tearing through an intestine. Blood gushed out in a steady stream from the wound.

Feng Mu's pupils instantly turned crimson. With a stomp of his foot, he lunged forward like a starving tiger pouncing on its prey.

Terrified out of his wits, the constable who had fired squeezed the trigger repeatedly. The next second, the gun chamber exploded—Feng Mu had deliberately plugged the muzzle with his fingertips.

The shattered chamber sent flying bullet shrapnel bursting backward, peppering the man's face.

His shrill, miserable scream made the hearts of the other constables preparing to fire quake with fear.

These were all veteran constables from the precinct, and it wasn't as if they had never seen formidable martial artists before. The black-faced man from earlier, as well as the scar-faced woman before him, were both terrifying, mowing down lives like grass.

Yet, they were still flesh and blood; they still had to dodge bullets rather than charge head-on to clash strength with strength.

Plugging a gun barrel with one's bare fingertips—was this even human? And most horrifying of all, it was the gun chamber that had exploded, not his fingers?

Feng Mu withdrew his hand. The flesh on his fingertips had been blown away, exposing grim, hook-like finger bones.

His finger-hooks slashed forward, cutting a streak of white brilliance through the night. The shrieks before him came to an abrupt halt. The blood spurting from a severed carotid artery speckled the white mask with crimson dots, making it look all the more eerie and demonic.

This was the first time tonight that Feng Mu had delivered a coup de grâce.

Lowering his head, Feng Mu used his fingers to dig three bullets out of his abdomen, leaving three bloody holes that continued to ooze.

The icon of [Frenzied Blood] on his retina blazed brighter than ever before.

Desires for bloodshed and slaughter flooded his mind, and tyrannical emotions clawed at his nerves.

Feng Mu stamped his foot, leaving a sunken footprint in the ground as his speed abruptly doubled.

Watching the blood-stained mask charge straight at him, the constable's heart hammered wildly. His index finger locked down on the trigger, firing a continuous volley.

In Feng Mu's crimson vision, he could faintly perceive the ghostly trajectories of the bullets. Launching into a sudden step-change, relying purely on the most rudimentary footwork backed by terrifying strength and surging speed, he dodged nine of the bullets.

Only a single one struck his chest, fortuitously slipping through the gaps between his ribs to pierce his right lung.

Breathing instantly became agonizing, his lungs feeling as though they were on fire, which in turn fueled an even more monstrous surge of strength and speed.

A gentle sweep of his finger sent a terrified head spinning into the air. The severed neck seemed not to realize what had happened yet, pausing for a fraction of a second before erupting in a vertical geyser of blood.

All of this took a long time to recount, but in reality, it happened in the blink of an eye—in less than half a minute, a dozen or so constables had been killed, injured, or crippled.

Meanwhile, Mu had already taken four bullets. [Frenzied Blood] was burning hot, and [Feast] craved satisfaction with an insatiable hunger.

Wang Yilin felt a chill of dread. He had left a total of thirty constables in ambush, but after suffering heavy losses from both the black-faced man and the masked man, barely half of them remained.

Yet, why did this masked man seem to grow stronger the more he was shot?

His strength and speed appeared to have multiplied manifold. Surely I must be too exhausted and hallucinating~

Wang Yilin rubbed his eyes fiercely and barked in rage, "Fire! All of you, open fire! He's been shot; he's just making a dying struggle! Take him down together, and I'll personally put in a joint commendation for all of you with the special envoy!"

Bang, bang, bang, bang—

Gunfire erupted furiously.

Feng Mu stood his ground and took a deep breath, inhaling the residual scent of blood lingering from over a thousand people in the air.

The icon of [Feast] throbbed violently in sync with his heartbeat, as if about to spring completely to life.

Normally, like a mouse that had sneaked into a granary, he could suppress his inner impulses; but now, wounded and bleeding out, the sensation of hunger was magnified a hundredfold. How could he possibly endure this any longer~

Feng Mu tipped off the ground, the very air sounding as though it had cracked with a sonic boom, and hurled himself straight at Wang Yilin.

A dense barrage of bullets slammed into his back, shredding his clothes to reveal a dense mass of pale, bony protuberances resembling a grotesque, bone-crafted armor rather than a human torso.

The thermos in his side bag was shot to pieces, blood soaking both the bag and his clothes.

"You forced this on me~" The sound of teeth grinding from beneath the mask sent a chill down the spine.

That was the last sentence Wang Yilin heard in this world. Filling his vision was a ghastly visage, thoroughly dyed in blood...