White light.
A gentle white light rose from beneath Deep Sea's feet, enveloping his entire body.
Within the light, his silhouette began to change.
His height dropped slightly. His shoulders narrowed. His stomach bulged—taking on the pudgy, middle-aged physique of Harman.
The changes to his face were the most drastic: bone structure shifted, skin texture altered, his hair faded from dark brown to a greying white, and a receding hairline appeared...
The white light dissipated.
There were now two Harman's in the hall.
Wearing the exact same dark blue uniform, with the exact same greying hair, and the exact same slightly bloated face...
Deep Sea cracked his neck. The cervical vertebrae of his new avatar let out a soft pop.
He looked down at his hands. They were the pampered hands of someone who never did manual labor, with thick knuckles and faint liver spots on the back.
"Not bad."
When he spoke, even his voice was a ninety-percent match for Harman's. It only lacked the arrogant, tyrannical edge born from years of unchecked power.
The real Harman's eyes went wide. His lips trembled, trying to say something.
Deep Sea ignored him.
He walked to the corner of the hall, where a heavy iron stool had been knocked over during the gunfight.
The stool legs were solid cast iron, and the seat was thick wood. It easily weighed over twenty kilograms.
Deep Sea bent down and picked the iron stool up with one hand.
The strength granted by the Type-III Physique Enhancement was still there. Even though his avatar now looked like a pampered middle-aged bureaucrat, the sheer power beneath the muscle remained completely unchanged.
Carrying the stool, he walked up to the real Harman.
Harman finally realized what was about to happen.
"N-No... you can't... I am appointed by the Aru Group..."
"Since you've already served your purpose, you can go straight to hell and pay for all the people you've killed!"
Deep Sea raised the iron stool high.
He brought it crashing down.
The first strike hit Harman directly on the shoulder.
The sound of his collarbone shattering was as crisp as snapping a dry twig.
Harman screamed in agony.
The second strike landed squarely on his chest.
His ribs caved in, bone fragments piercing his lungs. The scream degenerated into a gurgling, wheezing gasp.
Deep Sea didn't stop.
The third strike, the fourth, the fifth...
He struck with intense focus, making sure every blow landed on a different spot: arms, thighs, knees, stomach.
He wasn't swinging wildly in a fit of rage. He was swinging rhythmically, carefully controlling his force.
He wanted Harman to feel the pain. He wanted him to feel the creeping terror of death closing in step by step, without letting him die immediately.
Because Harman didn't deserve a quick death.
This piece of human garbage who sat at the head of a table feasting on his own kind. This bureaucrat who treated over three hundred human lives as mere statistics.
This scum who watched the residents of Red Town starve and freeze to death in the streets, yet only cared about collecting taxes.
Why should he get to die easily?
Deep Sea thought of the sights he had seen walking into town. The mutants in the corners, the frozen corpses, the gnawed bones.
He thought of the little girl shivering under the eaves, and the infant floating in the sewage ditch.
The iron stool in his hands grew heavier with every swing.
Harman's screams gradually faded to nothing.
His head and face were an unrecognizable bloody pulp. His nose bridge was entirely caved in, and shattered teeth mixed with bloody froth spilled from the corners of his mouth.
But Deep Sea kept smashing.
One hundred and three strikes.
The iron stool finally came down directly onto the top of Harman's head.
For this strike, Deep Sea used his full strength.
Harman's skull exploded like a watermelon hit by a sledgehammer, turning into a puddle of bloody paste mixed with bone fragments.
Deep Sea stopped.
He stood there, panting heavily.
He looked down at the iron stool in his hands, completely coated in red and white gore.
He loosened his grip.
The iron stool clattered into the pool of blood.
Deep Sea turned around and walked back toward Leon and Vanessa.
The two young adults were pale, but they stood perfectly steady. There was no fear in their eyes—only... absolute resolve.
"Scared?" Deep Sea asked.
Leon shook his head.
Vanessa took a deep breath. "He deserved it."
"Good."
Deep Sea wiped his face. The motion smeared blood and grime onto his cheek. Right now, he looked even more like a Harman who had just crawled his way out of hell.
"Remember this feeling."
He stared at the two young adults.
"Remember why we are doing this."
"It's not for revenge. It's to make absolutely sure that things like this never happen again."
Paul stood by the railing on the second floor of the hall, looking down at everything below.
He watched Deep Sea smash Harman to death. He watched Leon and Vanessa force down their discomfort and stand their ground.
He watched White Scars organizing his men outside, tying up the captured gang members string by string.
Reports continuously filtered through the regional channel:
"East sector cleared. Eighty-seven gang members captured. Twenty-two resisting hostiles neutralized."
"Underground casino discovered in the West sector. Over thirty captive civilians rescued. Assorted weapons seized."
"North sector..."
"South sector..."
Paul closed the channel, his gaze returning to the hall below.
Deep Sea had washed himself off using Harman's stored water supply. He changed into a set of Harman's clothes and began walking toward the exit with Leon and Vanessa.
When they reached the door, Deep Sea stopped, turned around, and nodded up at Paul on the second-floor balcony.
Leon and Vanessa turned around as well, bowing deeply in Paul's direction.
"Go."
Paul's voice rang clearly in all three of their ears.
"For faith and ideals."
The three stood up straight.
Leon took one last look at Paul, the fanaticism in his blue eyes hardening into a more solid, unshakeable resolve.
Vanessa took a deep breath, her ponytail swishing sharply as she spun on her heel.
Deep Sea walked at the front.
The dim, yellowish sunlight poured in from outside, outlining Deep Sea in a golden halo. The light washed over his face, granting him an eerie, almost holy aura.
The three figures disappeared out the door.
Paul stood by the railing, remaining perfectly still for a long time.
His gaze pierced through the shattered doorframe, looking out at Red Town, which was slowly being brought under complete control.
Looking further out toward the horizon of the wasteland. Looking up at the sky, dyed purple by the corruption of Chaos.
"This is only the first group..."
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