A violent explosion once again engulfed the city of London. Furious flames, carried by shockwaves, stretched into a vast curtain of fire hundreds of meters above the ground. The blast was so intense that the heat signature appeared as a massive, alarming bright spot on the British military’s satellite surveillance.
The officers in the British command center broke out in cold sweats—the brightness of that spot was so over-the-top, it looked like a dozen fuel-air bombs had gone off at once. If that thing actually exploded inside London, two whole blocks would be wiped out, not a blade of grass left, and even Buckingham Palace, not far from ground zero, would be seriously affected.
“Quick, get the Queen out faster—she must be moved to an absolutely safe spot, now!” The British commander’s veins bulged as he glared at the satellite images, gritting his teeth. “It’s gotta be those maniacs—the only ones who could pull off something like this are those so-called Chosen Ones! Damn it, we should’ve wiped out every last one of those dangerous freaks!”
While the British commander was ranting, under the glow of the blazing fire curtain, the battered Mercedes was crawling forward, inch by inch. The Mercedes wasn’t moving fast, but the Iron Juggernaut behind it wasn’t catching up either—in fact, for a moment, it even slowed down a little, and the murderous, relentless chase vibe instantly faded.
The tattooed bald guy stared at the beat-up Mercedes ahead, then looked up at the sea of fire above, then back at the car, then back at the sky—he kept bobbing his head up and down like he’d just hit a mental speed bump and couldn’t process what was happening.
“What... what the hell just happened?” The bald guy, totally baffled, retreated into the cabin and threw a big question mark at the muscle mountain next to him: “I can sense that the stuff that just blew up was all my handiwork—the big one up top, those little fireworks, all my own artistic creations. But why did my bombs suddenly go off in midair? And where did that suicidal idiot vanish to?”
Muscle Mountain grinned cruelly: “That suicidal idiot? He’s already dead.”
"Dead?!"
“Check this out.” A display screen lit up, showing footage of the recent explosion. With the ultra-high-def camera zooming in and dimming the glare, the bald guy watched a familiar figure get torn apart by the shockwave and burned to ashes by the fireball. No sound, but he could practically hear the tragic wails of a gloomy middle-aged man echoing in his head.
“Explosion... is... art...” he muttered his catchphrase, grinning viciously but also sweating bullets. “Wait, doesn’t that mean there’s a real ace in that car up ahead? Someone strong enough to send that idiot and my artwork flying hundreds of meters in an instant? FUCK! Why didn’t anyone warn us we were up against a monster like that?!”
“An ace for sure. Anyone who can escape from ‘God’ isn’t just some random nobody. But don’t get scared yet—someone in that car once strutted around and said, ‘Just because something looks strong doesn’t mean it actually is.’ Well, I’m throwing that line right back at her.” Muscle Mountain’s face twisted into a mocking, vengeful grin. “A lot of so-called ‘unbelievable’ attacks are just cheap tricks or rare gear.”
The bald guy still looked confused: “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, I’ve always wanted to know how that person escaped from ‘God.’ I wanted to see just what trump cards she had. After all, ‘God’ is ranked second in the world—definitely no pushover. I’ve been dragging this out because I know: caution keeps you alive. But now I get it. Making explosions fizzle, teleporting the Earl into the sky, reflecting attacks, blowing up the Earl with a box that was supposed to be gone—there’s only one way to do all that: a spatial artifact from the Nature Pope.”
“Aha, so that’s it!” The bald guy’s eyes lit up. “Those things are super rare—practically priceless on the black market. Hey, you don’t think that chick’s got some connection to the Nature Pope, do you?”
“Whether she does or doesn’t, that’s not our problem. Even if there’s a connection, even if the Nature Pope’s upset, ‘God’ will handle it. The Nature Pope might be top eight on the Heavenly Ranking, but up against ‘God,’ the world’s number two, would he really dare make a move? Can he handle the fallout?” Muscle Mountain slowly stood, his eyes flashing with feral intent. “We’ve been tailing and testing long enough. Now it’s time to close the net for good!”
Vroom! The Iron Juggernaut’s engine roared, suddenly accelerating to chase them down. In the Mercedes up ahead, Orlando kept glancing nervously back and slapped the seat: “Looks like they’re not giving up—they’re gaining on us! Look, those weirdos are popping up again!”
Jonathan couldn’t help but look back too. The roof of the Iron Juggernaut had flipped open, and the burly guys they’d seen before were spilling out. After a quick breather, most of their wounds had already healed. These freaks were way tougher than those blood-crazed thralls from before, panting like wild beasts as they sprinted down the street on all fours.
Their eyes glowed red, fangs jutting out, throats howling, black fur sprouting all over—Orlando was pretty sure these guys were the legendary werewolves. They chased at crazy speed, but didn’t attack right away, circling the car like a real wolf pack, feinting now and then to test the three inside.
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After that wild scene, Orlando was way calmer now—at least he wasn’t screaming his head off. Still, he kept wiping cold sweat from his brow. Those so-called werewolf feints were still way too much pressure for an ordinary old guy like him.
Orlando instinctively glanced back and saw Jonathan looking cool as ever, even cracking a joke: “So, you’re one of those legendary Chosen Ones?”
Jonathan’s answer caught the old man off guard: “Nope.”
“You’re just a regular Earthling? Aren’t you scared?”
“I’m an Earthling, but not a regular one,” Jonathan said, looking perfectly still but clearly ready to act. He didn’t look at Orlando, just kept his eyes on the werewolves, like a master sailor watching shark fins on the water. What freaked others out, to him, seemed like something you could just grab for a snack: “—I’m the strongest there is.”
That overflowing confidence, that quiet pride, made Orlando space out for a second. He thought he saw a shadow of someone else in Jonathan—the kind of person who made everyone kneel just by walking into the room.
Yang Qi’s voice snapped Orlando out of his memories: “Comrade Jeston, you seem pretty confident. So, how do you plan to deal with the guy blocking the road up ahead?”
“Up ahead?”
Jonathan whipped his head forward. Before Yang Qi spoke, he hadn’t noticed anyone up ahead—which already said a lot.
The fire curtain quickly dimmed. In the last glimmer, Jonathan saw a skinny figure standing smack in the middle of the street, right at London Bridge. The guy’s face was covered, only a pair of cold, sinister eyes showing. Black shadows ringed his eyes, giving off a weird vibe.
Just standing there, this guy gave off more pressure than a dozen werewolves tied together—then doubled.
Facing the speeding car, the skinny man pulled out a bizarre-looking handgun from his hip, just like an old-school cowboy. The gun was huge—the barrel so wide you could fit three fingers in it. The whole thing looked like it belonged in a museum. But when he pointed that weird handgun their way, Jonathan’s hair stood on end and his pupils shrank to pinpoints.
“That gun looks familiar,” Yang Qi tilted her head, tapping her chin. Then she snapped her fingers: “Oh! I saw it on the Heavenly Ranking charts—a cartoon icon, drawn just like that gun. That guy’s called ‘Morpheus the Gunslinger,’ famous for dueling Black Gun Gaia. These days, he’s ranked... let me check...” Yang Qi pulled out her phone: “Top three hundred.”
“Top three hundred!”
Top three hundred on the Heavenly Ranking—now that’s a big deal!
Jonathan didn’t even have time to finish sizing up Morpheus the Gunslinger before Morpheus fired.
He squeezed the trigger, not fast or slow—Jonathan, as a top-tier fighter, thought it almost looked lazy. With that pace, even a Chosen One, even a war-hardened old soldier, could’ve dodged in time. But the instant the trigger hit bottom, Jonathan was blasted with a sense of danger so strong his scalp tingled and every hair stood on end.
And it wasn’t just Jonathan’s hair that stood up—lots of other things did, too.
From Jonathan’s point of view, starting at Morpheus the Gunslinger’s muzzle, the whole world suddenly shook and twisted. The air warped, scenery blurred and got weird. The road warped, smooth asphalt twisting into a tangled mess. Cars blocking the Mercedes up ahead twisted, too—those luxury rides, abandoned by their owners, instantly crumbled into scattered bits, even their frames couldn’t hold together.
This distortion hit the Mercedes like a cannonball in the blink of an eye.