As soon as the other shadow warriors saw their comrade go down, they dove behind whatever cover they could find—wreckage, broken pillars, chunks of the villa wall—alert and cautious. At the same time, they raised their weapons, unleashing suppressing fire toward the direction of the sniper shots.
Moments later, one of them peeked out to assess the situation—Bang!—a clean headshot ended him instantly.
Gunfire echoed across the battlefield. Despite using cover and moving fast, the shadow warriors were still picked off, one after another, by precision headshots.
"A thinking opponent?" Vega muttered. Several of his black-clad warriors nearby retreated into their ghost-like masks, disappearing into cooldown.
Back within the smoldering ruins of the Shelby villa, another shadow warrior dropped dead—but no heavy firefight followed.
Vega's instincts flared. Something felt off. He raised his binoculars and scanned the battlefield.
In the middle of the destruction, a dozen shadow warriors were carefully encircling a single target, ducked behind cover and laying down fire toward one location. But even under that hailstorm of bullets, a man in his thirties—thin, dust-covered, with a goatee—was calmly picking them off, one bullet at a time, each shot a kill.
Vega's brows furrowed. His warriors were skilled in evasive tactics, moving fast and unpredictably, but the revolver-wielding man fired with unnatural precision. Every round struck the head. There were no wasted bullets.
"Kill aura? Extreme marksmanship? Nen technique?"
He kept watching.
But after a few more shots, Vega began to suspect otherwise. The man seemed to pause after every round—just a moment, but noticeable. He was aiming, not using any supernatural targeting skill.
And the toll was showing. The shooter was panting, sweating heavily, drained both physically and mentally. Not someone casually spamming a nen ability.
Vega sneered. "So it's not some unbeatable power. You're just skilled—and almost spent. Let's see if your body gives out first… or if my shadows swarm you."
He raised a hand and gave the order. Thirty to forty shadow warriors surged forward like a black tide.
Meanwhile, Michelle crouched behind a crumbled stone bunker, hands trembling slightly as he swapped magazines.
"Damn it… He actually blew the entire villa to hell. If I hadn't been on the outer edge and wrapped myself in nen, I'd be a corpse right now."
His vision blurred slightly. The revolver he now wielded was heavier and hit harder than his regular sidearm—but using it drained his nen rapidly. Faster than he'd predicted.
"These black shadow freaks… Their armor's too good. Helmets too. Ordinary bullets just tickle them."
He grimaced. The high-caliber rounds from his revolver did the trick—but at a cost. His nen reserves were dwindling fast.
He glanced up toward the enemy position.
"I can take out a dozen more, sure. But if Vega keeps summoning them like this... I'm toast."
He made his decision.
"I'm pulling out."
There was no point holding this position. It was smarter to retreat, recover, and strike when Vega let his guard down—maybe even steal the artifact Vega had been so protective of.
Michelle trusted his instincts. Tactics, adaptability, decision-making—these were the real weapons he relied on. And against ordinary fighters, that alone made him lethal.
He scanned the surroundings for an escape route, mapping bunkers and blind spots to cover his retreat.
Suddenly, a clattering sound came from the villa's far right.
A pile of broken bricks collapsed outward, and two pale, dusty men crawled out.
"Don't shoot! We're not with the Shelbys!" one cried. "We're from the Ten Elders' faction!"
One of the shadow warriors didn't care. He opened fire without hesitation.
Rat-tat-tat!
One man was cut down instantly, collapsing in a bloody heap. The other screamed and dove back into the debris.
In the pit nearby, Daniel was curled up in pajamas, clutching his phone with shaking hands. His eyes widened in horror as he saw his bodyguard die.
"No, no no no—!"
He frantically called his cousin. When the call connected, Daniel burst into sobs.
"Cousin, help me! They're going to kill me!"
Murphy's brows creased as he heard the terror in Daniel's voice. His tone stayed calm.
"What's happening? Is the Shelby family hunting you? Isn't Michelle with you?"
Nearby, another man poked his head from cover and shouted, "I'm from the Monroe family—a direct subordinate of Lord Monroe, one of the Ten Elders! The young master is here—Lord Monroe's nephew!"
"If you dare harm the Monroes, we won't let it go!"
In response—another burst of gunfire. A bullet whizzed past, striking just above the pit's entrance.
Daniel stared at the bullet hole and realized—these people didn't care who he was. They were going to kill him.
Fear swallowed him whole.
"Cousin! Save me! I don't want to die!"
Then—Clink.A grenade landed at the edge of the pit.
Boom.
Silence.
Murphy, still on the line, heard a muffled cry—and then nothing.
He stared at his phone for a moment before his face twisted with rage. With a snap of his wrist, he hurled it across the room.
"Get in here."
A black-suited figure stepped into the office, bowing his head in silence.
Murphy's voice was low, but lethal.
"I want intel from Nacro City. I want to know who just killed someone from the Monroe family."