Chapter 896 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 896: The Storm Buries Everything The clamorous gunfire roared like thunder, with tracers flashing through the streets like wild rain. Just like every showdown before, Morse stood at the forefront, accompanied by his men. Yet, unlike usual, he was gripping a "Ripper" light machine gun, its ammo belt gleaming wickedly. The menacing muzzle spewed ferocious firepower, the long bolts of flame like torches that blinded the enforcers of the Iron Hand Gang. He first showered the rooms on the casino’s rooftop in bullets, watching Tony flee from the window. Morse then pointed his gun at the casino’s front entrance, laughing maniacally as he pulled the trigger. "Die! Hahaha! You filthy Iron Hand scum!" The howling rain of bullets instantly shredded the tightly shut doors. The enforcers behind them had no chance to return fire, scrambling instead for safer cover amid the chaos. One unfortunate enforcer, clutching a pu-9 submachine gun, took a machine gun round to the shoulder, his entire arm ripped off, leaving only a bloody stump of bone. "Ahhhh!!!" Piercing screams like that of a slaughtered pig echoed at the casino’s entrance, soon drowning in the relentless cacophony of gunfire. Morse wasn't alone in this assault. Hundreds of Hyena Gang members armed with uniform assault rifles were also unleashing a torrent of bullets upon Tony's casino. This unexpected assault left the nearby civilians and gamblers petrified, fleeing desperately from the troubled "Last Game" neighborhood. In less than five minutes, the street was deserted, littered only with the remnants of the fighting gangs. The Iron Hand Gang, caught under the Hyena Gang's automatic onslaught, couldn't raise their heads. Though their pu-9 submachine guns were excellent in street fights, their 9mm rounds couldn't match the power or penetration of the Hyena Gang's 7mm rifles and machine gun rounds. Moreover, the Garrison had previously poured resources into the Wasp Plan—at least they used to. Given the firepower the Hyena Gang now wielded, they wouldn’t be out of place on the frontlines in Boro Province, let alone dealing with a street gang. Sustained fire tore down half a wall, and the street momentarily quieted. The Iron Hand Gang’s outer defenses collapsed, and all remaining members retreated inside the casino building. Eyeing the ten or so corpses strewn behind the concrete rubble, Morse grinned and gestured his men forward. York, biting a burning cigarette and clutching a "Blade" assault rifle, led a charge into the casino's entrance with a dozen subordinates. Gunshots exploded again; everyone quickly sought shelter, rifles poised to return fire towards the source of the opposition. Watching his men seize control of the entrance, Morse leisurely affixed a fresh ammo belt to his smoldering machine gun and chambered the next round. "Toooooonyyy! Your granddaddy Morse is here!! Hahaha!" Morse pressed the gunstock into the shoulder pad of his bulletproof vest, gripping a cigarette between his lips, striding forward and spraying bullets toward the glimmers of fire opposite the hall. His face, illuminated by gunfire, bore a ferocity akin to a demon crawling from the abyss. Wherever his machine gun swept through, it left a scene as if scoured by a typhoon—strewn with broken bodies and debris. Clinging to a marble column, the head of security for the "Last Game" was paralyzed by fear, his submachine gun trembling uselessly in his elbow, not daring to return fire. Watching more comrades fall, he bit his lip and frantically shouted into his shoulder-mounted radio. "Boss! That lunatic's firepower is overwhelming! We can't hold much longer—" Before he could finish, Tony's voice barked through the radio. "Then use your lives to hold them off! Reinforcements are almost here; just keep them outside at all costs!" Raging into the radio, Tony raced up to the second floor, his heart pounding in terror from the gunfire below. He didn’t understand where they got such heavy firepower, what this Enlight Society was, or why they were targeting him. He only knew one thing: if he couldn’t solve this problem, he was as good as dead! And utterly finished! If a single hair on the vip in the VIP room was harmed, every gang in Blackwater Alley would suffer! No one would be able to save him! As the gunshots grew nearer, Tony gritted his teeth, wishing to reason with those below, but unable to disclose the identity of his upstairs guest. He desperately shouted down. "Morse! What the hell do you want?! First, you blow up my factory, now you're causing trouble at my casino! I never provoked you!" Silence met his plea, so he swallowed his pride, his tone softening. "Is it money you want? I can give it to you! Name your price! I'll pay you right now!" Perhaps detecting the fear in his voice, mocking laughter echoed from below. "Money? Do you take me for a beggar? Tony, you underestimate me. I want everything you have!" Tony was stunned, then furious. "Don't push it! I'm trying to be polite!" Morse sneered from below, tauntingly. "Pushy? Don't kid me. We're all puppets for the big players. Do you think I'd spare you for a few dinars? Today, it's you or me!" He thought of soaring out of this pit like a winged maggot, becoming a true big shot. Not just Blackwater Alley. All of Evernight Harbor would bear witness to his legend! Tony's expression froze, then twisted with rage. "…This madman." His mind in turmoil, at first, he thought the threats were empty boasts. But hearing the conviction in Morse’s voice filled him with doubt. Why hadn’t the Garrison come? Any other time, a disturbance like this would’ve sent patrol cars racing long ago. Could the Enlight Society really have such powerful backing?! Too bad Peter hadn’t explained what was happening in the Northwest District. As an outsider, Tony had no interest in the nonsense broadcasted on the Weiland radio all day. The Northwest District had become a chaotic stew, drawing all the city’s soldiers and Garrison forces. Only the units stationed at the port yet to head to the frontlines were unaffected. At such a critical time, it was no surprise that nobody bothered with Blackwater Alley’s unrest. Never mind a gang war, even a nuclear bomb probably wouldn’t get attention now. While Tony wavered with confusion, Morse grew more certain of his assumptions. The power backing him had overshadowed Tony's, a victorious smile spreading across his face. That cowardly bookish figure hadn’t dared show his face, utterly crushed by Morse alone. The Garrison seemed blind to the disorder in Blackwater Alley, not reacting even as he placed a machine gun at their doorstep. What better testament to the Enlight Society's might? His confidence soaring, Morse aimed his gun at the ceiling where he could hear Tony's voice and let loose another burst of laughter and bullets. Though the shots couldn’t penetrate the floor’s concrete, they startled Tony above. Seeing more "Hyenas" flood the casino, the gunfire below intensified, and Tony could only desperately order his men to push forth. However, his enforcers were human too. They joined the gang for profit, seeking safety at most. None intended to risk their lives. Seeing no response for so long from the Garrison, and no sign of reinforcements, the enforcers soldiers holding the casino ground finally crumbled in spirit, abandoning positions and fleeing for their lives. The Iron Hand Gang was finished. Even Tony’s most loyal henchmen had no doubt that their end had come. Their factory in the outskirts was blown up, the "Skullcrusher"'s head cut off. Their leader didn’t dare make a peep, even warning them not to provoke their foes. Now, the enemy wasn’t even offering a chance for surrender, charging at them with a mounted machine gun to their very doorstep. Their boss had been abandoned by his backers. This seemed the only explanation… The smart ones scattered long ago, leaving behind only the foolish, the oblivious, or the overly aware. Watching the thugs on the first floor either dead or fled, Morse smirked. He didn’t bother to chase them, instead sweeping the area behind them with a burst of fire before stepping out from cover. Leading his men, they crossed the floor littered with corpses, heading towards the stairs. However, perhaps carried away by the thrill, or simply letting his guard down, Morse didn’t notice the breathing from behind a nearby cabinet until too late. A young guy suddenly emerged, clutching a pu-9 submachine gun. "Ahhh!!" He screamed to chase away his fear, pulling the trigger and firing wildly. Despite the lack of strategy, his shots found some success, a few bullets striking Morse’s chest, but the 9mm rounds couldn’t penetrate the military-grade body armor he wore. Morse merely staggered back a few steps, leaning against cover, unharmed. His men, quick to react, turned their guns on the defiant upstart, riddling him with bullets. York was the first to rush to Morse’s side, concern etched on his face. "Boss! Are you alright?" Morse grinned, grabbing York's arm to pull himself up from the ground. "I’m fine." As he spoke, he brushed his hand across his chest, and the flattened bullet fragments clattered to the ground. Seeing their leader unscathed, his men erupted into cheers and whistles. Morse, with a grin, shouted towards the empty stairwell. "Tony! Your men are all dead! How long do you plan to hide? Hahaha, don’t end it yourself, I still want to have a chat." No response from above. Unphased, Morse waved his hand, leading his men onwards. The young man who had opened fire lay on the ground, gasping for air like a beached fish. York, aiming to put him out of his misery, shot him with his pistol. As the light in the young man’s eyes dimmed, Morse frowned. He looked too familiar. That desperate look mirrored his own from the past, back when Morse, just a reckless youth with only ambition and grit to his name, was eager to prove himself to the boss by risking everything for a shot at recognition. The only difference was, this guy had closed his eyes while firing—a mistake you shouldn't make in a game of risk. So, the victor stood here, while he was destined to lie in the dirt. Along with Tony upstairs. Morse’s brow twitched with irritation, but he pushed it aside, striding upstairs. To his surprise, Tony wasn’t hiding. He stood there in the second-floor hall, despair etched on his face. "You're insane… Morse, do you even know what you're doing? We're both doomed." Morse raised an eyebrow, letting out a cold laugh. "You're the one who's doomed... After tonight, I will rule Blackwater Alley." Tony laughed, a hollow sound drowning in his panic. "I can’t believe I lost to a madman... hahaha... ahhh!!" His laughter cut short, he clutched his bleeding leg, collapsing to the floor. York blew the smoke from his pistol, spat at the floor, and glared at Tony’s writhing form. "Quit pretending, I've always wanted to teach you a lesson." Curled on the ground like a dog, Tony said nothing, his pale lips trembling, unable to speak, with only sporadic twitches showing he was still alive. The bullet had severed an artery; within breaths, his pant leg was soaked in blood. "Tie him up. I still need to ask him some questions. Remember, I want him breathing." Morse tossed the instruction to his men as he continued up the stairs. The battle unfolded effortlessly, like a textbook example. He crushed the Iron Hand Gang with ease and scarcely lost any of his own. After tonight, he would become a legend in Blackwater Alley, a name remembered by all, known for whom he served. Whoever was backing Tony no longer mattered to Morse. The unseen hand supporting him had guided him here and would deal with the aftermath. Yet, a persistent question lingered in Morse's mind: why hadn’t Tony fled instead of waiting to die? It was hard to believe such a cunning man had left no escape plan—there must have been more than one escape route in the casino. Unless— Tony never entertained the possibility of losing, or perhaps, some reason bound him here. Driven by curiosity, Morse hefted his machine gun and proceeded upstairs, checking each room until he found a locked door. He knocked politely, though no sound came from inside. Yet, the distinctive waft of nicotine drifting through the gap gave away the presence of someone within. York and the others shared puzzled glances. Whoever was in there had the leisure to smoke. It was as if they didn't regard Morse's gang as a threat at all. "VIP suite." Morse grinned at his men, then kicked open the locked door. With a loud crash, the door fell inward. Stepping over it, Morse entered, spotting a man with a cigarette perched on the sofa. He was a Weiland man. The man appeared surprised, but hardly afraid, even tipping ash from his cigarette calmly. The intruder’s composure evoked a flicker of trepidation in Morse, but it quickly ignited into an irritable rage. Why wasn’t this man afraid in the least? Why was he looking at Morse as if he were a mere dog? "Nice work." Brushing ash from his cigarette, Peter's gaze showed a touch of admiration. "I find myself impressed with you." Morse narrowed his eyes slightly, his lips twitching upward in a tense smile, moving the smoking gun barrel aside. He tilted his head briefly, mimicking a genteel gesture. "…And you are?" Peter chuckled softly, replying in an indifferent tone. "Tony never asked such foolish questions. He did what was required, knew what we told him, and took his share." Morse clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Tsk, tsk, tsk, what a mess. He's writhing like a maggot on the floor below." Peter, unfazed by Tony's plight, even chuckled lightly. "Is that so? I'm surprised he lasted this long. Loyalty, despite being a useless fool." Morse’s eyes narrowed to slits, his gaze venomous as a snake’s tongue. "…A fool?" "Indeed." Peter shrugged matter-of-factly. "Failed at the simplest task, his neck snapped by the Garrison's dogs, just like plaster that won't stick to walls. My patience had run thin." He paused, eyeing Morse with interest. "I see potential in you, more than in Tony, though intelligence isn't your strong suit. Would you consider working for us?" "Work for… you?" Morse froze, then burst into laughter. "And end up a dead dog like him? Don’t make me laugh, buddy. I’m with the Enlight Society. Who the hell are you anyway?" Peter narrowed his eyes, a lethal gleam flashing through them. Nobody spoke to him this way—except Dickens, the Garrison chief. "Enlight Society... never heard of it." Morse snorted. "Your rank is too low to know of us... You think the Garrison’s ignoring the ruckus outside for nothing?" Peter looked bewildered. Morse, without waiting for a reply, continued leisurely. "An invisible hand is orchestrating all this. You're too limited to see it... even I glimpse only a fraction, but even that fraction is enough to crush you." Peter stared at him, torn between amusement and exasperation. "What are you talking about? Are you out of your mind—" His words abruptly ceased as the unexpected muzzle flash filled the room. Peter, utterly unprepared for the attack, stumbled back, bullets tearing through him along with the sofa, reducing it to a tattered mess of fragments. As the muzzle rose with the recoil, the bullets ricocheted off the ceiling before Morse released the trigger. He walked over to the lifeless body beside him, bent down, and picked up the blood-smeared cigarette, placing it between his lips. "Sorry, accidental discharge," he sneered. York followed Morse inside, spitting on the bloodstained figure on the floor. "You reckless bastard, who gave you permission to speak to my boss like that?" Peter lay there, staring blankly upward, his chest a grotesque mess of blood and flesh. Even in death, disbelief filled his eyes—how could these thugs dare lay a hand on him, especially on Weiland territory? Disregarding the body, Morse rifled through Peter’s belongings but found nothing of note or clues to his identity. With a disinterested shrug, he left the corpse where it lay. From this day forth, "The Last Game" was Morse's domain. The gamblers of Evernight Harbor wouldn’t care what chaos had occurred or how much blood had been spilled on those pristine tiles. Once cleaned up, gamblers would return, wave after wave. It wasn’t just about the casino. Morse planned to absorb all of Tony’s operations, using the gold they amassed to transform Blackwater Alley into the most vibrant nightlife hub in the vast desert wasteland. And he, Morse— Would redefine this haven’s order, becoming the uncrowned king of this sleepless city! Although not the dream he once envisioned, this path would undoubtedly lead to realizing his ambitions indirectly. Standing by the shattered window, Morse squinted, savoring the cool evening breeze, basking in the aftermath of the frenzy. York joined him, his face a tapestry of admiration and excitement. "Boss… What’s next?” "Hmm… Let me think," Morse mused, turning back to glance at the lifeless body. "Drag this guy down. Our associates might find him of interest." His task was complete. Tarland and Cond might pay him a visit… or perhaps the Enlight Society would send someone else. Morse wasn’t in a hurry. He’d already won this gamble. Yet suddenly, an instinctual alarm surged through him, enough to prickle cold sweat down his back. What was happening? Something had gone wrong? Thoughts raced through his mind, but in that instant, a brief buzz sounded outside, and York’s head exploded like a watermelon, collapsing with a dull thud. "York!!! No! Damn it, a sniper!" Morse’s eyes blazed red with fury, screaming at the top of his lungs before hastily retreating from the room. Simultaneously, after a few succinct "pew pew pew," gunshots, the entire second floor of the casino became a sea of blood. A squad of soldiers, armed to the teeth, filed in through the entrance. Their bodies were encased in sleek exoskeleton suits, equipment that even frontline cannon fodder would envy. The Clearing Squad! As one of the legion’s tactical trump cards, the Southern Legion's approach to armament sharply contrasted with that of the Eastern Legion. The latter favored large, populous force tactics, while the former aligned more with the corporate methodology of the East Coast. Laying in a pool of his own blood, Tony clung to the last threads of life. Barely conscious, he lifted his heavy eyelids to glance at the boots that stopped before him. He mustered all his remaining strength to leave a blood-red handprint on the boot, as if trying to grasp some semblance of control. And with feeble, broken breaths, he begged. "…I tried my best." "I did everything you asked… Please, I beg you… spare my family… they know nothing…" The soldier muttered not a single unnecessary word. The silenced muzzle pressed to Tony's temple, and with a swift, precise shot, he was laid back into the blood. Touching the side of his helmet with his index finger, the soldier exhaled cold air, reporting succinctly. "Second floor, clear." A response came over the communications line moments later. "The armed individuals are moving from the fifth to the fourth floor, near the emergency exit… No hostages found." "Roger." He responded crisply, gesturing towards the stairs before heading for the emergency exit. The soldiers who took the second floor split into two groups, advancing towards Morse's last known position. Seeing these uninvited guests, the Hyenas, who had been busy counting loot, quickly grabbed their weapons and opened fire on the heavily armed soldiers. Yet against such highly trained adversaries, they couldn't even delay them. Their skulls were effortlessly pierced, doomed in a lopsided massacre. Having retreated to the fourth floor, Morse’s face twisted with terror. The gunfire echoing from below warned him that the ground floor was no longer safe, and trapped as he was, escape felt impossible. Backing out of the emergency exit, he leaned against the stairwell's wall, shouting desperately downwards. "Damn it! Who the hell are you people?!" The attackers gave no response. They were like cold, unfeeling machines, systematically extinguishing lives one by one. As Morse witnessed more of his comrades fall, a profound helplessness washed over him. He couldn’t die here. Especially not in obscurity like this! His usual reckless madness surged; cursing under his breath, he tossed away the machine gun slung over his shoulder and heaved himself at a window, leaping from the fourth floor. The height was enough to cripple, if not kill a man. But perhaps fate had different plans. His shoulder struck a rain awning first, followed by a haphazard tumble into a restaurant’s waste bin. The restaurant’s door remained tightly shut, the street eerily silent, as if Morse were the last soul alive. From somewhere, the dense clouds finally began to drizzle, their pattering drops threatening to drown him. Morse had never been so wretched. Not even at his lowest. Like a cornered beast, he stumbled away, blind to where he was going. Who were those people? Why were they out to kill him? And… Where were the Enlight Society members? Hallucinations blurred his vision. The road beneath him seemed to dissolve into nothingness, like slipping back into an unreal dream. In that dream, he was a surgeon, running a mundane clinic. Blackwater Alley remained peacefully untouched by relentless gang wars for decades. He had a thoughtful son, an adorable daughter, and though not an exemplary father, he fared much better than his own father had—never bringing home a bottle. "Ahhhh!!!" A guttural roar erupted from his throat, an attempt to scatter the chaotic visages out of his mind. Those were not the things he desired! He had never sought to possess weaknesses like those. Yet he couldn’t fathom why those cursed visions emerged from the dream, or why he felt a fleeting urge to revisit them for just a moment more. Just then, a figure appeared in the distance. Clad in a raincoat, underneath which gleamed a polished black exoskeleton and an expertly compact assault rifle. Despair carved Morse’s expression, though as he saw no immediate threat, a flicker of hope ignited within him again. The figure gently raised the raincoat’s hood, seemingly to get a clearer view of Morse’s face. He heard a soft sigh, slowing his steps involuntarily. "Sigh... I shouldn't sympathize with someone like you, but what can I say... I hold no grudge against you." Pausing, the figure placed a reassuring hand on Morse’s shoulder. "Keep running, leave this to me." Morse stared blankly at him, doubt flickering in his clarity-filled eyes, but his voice trembled as he spoke. "…Are you from the Enlight Society?" "Yes." The jester gave Morse’s shoulder a light pat, speaking succinctly. "You know where to go." Though not entirely sure, given that [Desert Sculptor] wasn’t the reliable sort he’d thought… and neither was Morse himself. Regardless, the fellow based his analysis on intelligence scraped together from the desert legion, untangled the threads, and deduced that Morse might, indeed, know something about the Enlight Society. Otherwise, why else would he gamble everything, betting all he had, dedicating himself wholly to this illusory bait? Though it would have been better to ask questions face-to-face, there simply wasn’t enough time. It had only been about two and a half hours since the bomb exploded at the radio station. Hearing the stranger's words, hope rekindled in Morse's eyes. The Enlight Society hadn’t abandoned him after all! As his chaotic memories sharpened, he recalled the dark alleyway. "...I'll leave it to you." Casting a grateful glance at the rain-coated stranger, he turned and dashed into the gently falling rain. Simultaneously, a group of exoskeleton-clad soldiers emerged from the "Last Game" casino, pursuing him. The communication channel buzzed with frantic exchanges. "Damn... Peter is dead!" "The mission is a bust." "Someone jumped from the fourth floor and ran." "That guy's lucky he didn't smash to bits." "I got this. You guys recover the bodies." The sniper on the rooftop exhaled deeply, replying coolly. The rain was still light, hardly compromising visibility. With the streets deserted, his scope quickly focused on the figure sprinting along. However, just as he was about to pull the trigger, someone tapped his shoulder. "Hey, what’s so interesting?" The sniper flinched, whipping around, only to be grabbed by the collar. His helmet mic was ripped off before he was tossed off the six-story building. Hearing the dull thud below, Sand Sculptor craned his neck to peek down. Seeing the sprawled figure unmoving, he murmured a casual remorse. He felt no real remorse as he settled behind the sniper rifle. With his eye near the scope, Sand Sculptor pressed something by his ear, clearing his throat before speaking. "Sniper is in place, but no backup... Wrapping things up is on you. I need to keep an eye on the 'bait'." Meanwhile, on the street far away, Jester, waiting quietly, estimated that the pursuers were close. He detached a time bomb from his exoskeleton. This was for wrapping things up. Since the Alliance and the Legion hadn’t officially declared war, getting caught as an illegal intruder could be problematic. Setting the timer, he expertly attached the bomb to the tactical harness at his back. Hearing the chatter over the channel, he responded nonchalantly before cutting communications. "Got it, guess I’m playing dead once more." To be continued...