Thud-thud-thud! The air was split by heavy, thunderous blasts, like cannonballs firing from a warship. Oversized bullets tore through the sky at breakneck speed, smashing into their targets. Hit the rooftop fuse box—boom, an explosion of sparks, sending SWAT officers flying. Hit the helicopter—clanging impacts, gashes blooming across the body, spinning out of control, sometimes erupting into a fireball midair. Hit a person? Well, blink and they’re meat confetti, splattered everywhere like a bad stew.
The Old Veteran’s custom gun was a beast, blasting the enemy so hard they’d be calling for mommy and daddy, running for their lives. “And you!” Jill Young yelled at the noisy red chopper buzzing nearby, opening fire without hesitation. The recoil shook the vault beneath her, but Jill clung to the steel cable, steady as a rock. The red helicopter dodged and weaved, but still took a few hits. Flames burst from its hull as it spun wildly out of control.
“Ha! That’s it—go to hell!” Xiao Di shouted, grinning ear to ear, only for her joy to flip to terror as the red helicopter barreled straight at them and slammed into the heavy cargo bay overhead.
Boom! Xiao Di’s face twitched as the red helicopter exploded. Their own chopper didn’t fare much better—the giant rotor twisted into a pretzel of steel, totally useless now. With a howl, the helicopter and vault crashed toward the Morningstar Building, smacking into the wall with a massive thud, then bursting into a flaming fireball that rained down on the street below. It was the perfect symbol: the once-mighty Gunfire Angels had officially hit rock bottom.
But Xiao Di wasn’t dead.
Morningstar Building, rooftop. A hand gripped the edge. “Heave-ho!” Jill Young flipped herself up, grabbing Xiao Di and hauling her over too. The two survivors looked up—only to see dozens of SWAT officers, guns aimed in a tight formation just three meters away. The crowd parted, and there was Derek Cheng, giving them a sheepish grin.
“Sorry, I got caught.”
Jill Young and Xiao Di both groaned, sighing in perfect sync: "F-U-C-K..."
So, the Gunfire Angels’ boss, the second-in-command, and some random guy—just like that, all arrested.
Steelbullet City Detention Center. The three were marched to a cell. The cops shoved them in and slammed the door. “You jerks!” Xiao Di shouted, fuming. “We already paid you off!” The officer just shrugged. “Someone else paid more.” And with that, he walked off, clearly not interested in chatting with Xiao Di.
Xiao Di slammed her fist against the iron bars, grumbling, “So what now? Wait for them to charge us, then ride the express train to the gallows or the electric chair?”
"We wait," Jill Young said, plopping down on the prison bunk. Derek Cheng just smiled and sat too—he got the idea.
“Wait?” Xiao Di looked confused. “Wait for what? For death?”
“Chill out, babe.” Jill Young sprawled on the bed, hands behind her head. “They went through all this trouble, so many people dead, but still made sure to catch us alive. Clearly, they want something. Until they get it, we’re safe.”
“You’ve got a point.” Someone agreed with Jill Young—but it wasn’t Derek Cheng or Xiao Di. The voice came from outside, soft and sweet, the kind that could set any guy’s heart on fire. The trio looked to the door as it opened. In walked a squad of sharply dressed, stone-faced men in matching suits, lining up on either side. And in the middle, like stars escorting the moon, came two women who looked exactly alike.
“If you would, please come with us. Our boss wants to meet you.”
..................................................
Under the heavy night sky, above the clouds, bathed in icy moonlight, a massive aircraft sliced through the air. This plane was nearly three times the size of a normal airliner—probably only possible in a world with air this thick, lumbering along below the speed of sound.
Up front, near the cockpit, was a lavishly decorated hall. Jill Young, Xiao Di, and Derek Cheng sat in the middle, their chairs bolted to the floor, each one handcuffed in place. Derek Cheng on the left, Xiao Di on the right, and Jill—who honestly didn’t matter much—planted right in the center, like some kind of VIP.
Across from Jill Young sat three people.
Two of them were the twin sisters who’d fetched the crew from jail. Honestly? These twins were something else—one in pale yellow, the other in light green, their outfits a wild mashup of Greek goddess robes and wuxia heroine sleeves. Big eyes, sharp chins, lips painted red with a sly smile—pure Eastern beauty. And their bodies? Jade-white legs, tiny waists, and chests about to burst out of their tops—putting Western supermodels to shame.
Bottom line: these two were the kind of fox spirits that could steal a man’s soul, oozing with charm. In modern China, just a glimpse on the catwalk and every other car model would be out of a job—onstage or off. One wink and she’s crowned queen of the nerds.
But this wasn’t Earth, and none of the three in the audience were your average fanboys, so nobody paid much attention to the professional bombshells. They were all staring at the third person in the room—a figure lurking in the corner.
Long black hair, almond-shaped face, arched brows, dainty nose, all dressed in black, pale thighs out, arms bare, eyes cold as steel. Sound familiar? Tifa, maybe? Sorry, not even close. Not cute, not petite—actually, I forgot to mention the six-foot-three height and Schwarzenegger-level muscles.
Yep, this one had a baby face and a bear’s body. And under that pointy chin? An Adam’s apple the size of a walnut. The sheer weirdness and presence had Jill Young staring, totally ignoring the beauties, just eyeballing the muscle monster. "You know," Jill whispered to Xiao Di, not too quietly, "if we swapped your head onto Derek Cheng’s body, we’d get pretty much the same effect. Wanna try? It’d be a real fashion statement."
"You," the muscle monster pointed at Jill Young, voice somehow both male and female, like a duet. "You’ve got taste. I respect that. But—" Suddenly, rage exploded: "I HATE BEAUTIFUL WOMEN! Any woman prettier than me must DIE!"
Jill Young squinted at him, then turned to Xiao Di: "Relax, girl. You’ll live to a hundred."
"What’s that supposed to mean, jerk?!" Xiao Di was about to blow a fuse—if her hands weren’t cuffed, she’d have slugged him. "Are you saying I’m not even in his league?!"
"Just stating facts. He’s got a face, way better than your powder-covered mug."
"Ohohoho!" The guy—who looked like Nezha from a meme comic—laughed like a rich lady, covering his face with a giant hand that dwarfed his little cheeks. "You’ve got real taste, I like you more and more." Then he roared again: "But I STILL want to kill you! Anyone prettier than me must DIE!" (Keep going! I’m on fire!)