CHAPTER 40: CHAPTER 40: EVEN OLD DOGS HAVE A FEW TEETH

Lewis was also shocked by the thunderous gunfire.

He had initially suppressed Virel and the others single-handedly by the power of his true name, waiting for his men to arrive.

Seeing his men had gotten out of the car and started their offensive, he ignored Virel and turned to chase after Zola’s truck.

In his view, this motley crew couldn’t possibly withstand the elite force he’d handpicked from the Security Office’s special action division.

Even if the opponents were numerous, there was only one outcome—annihilation.

So he confidently and quickly jumped onto a truck.

Today he would catch both the criminals and the loot—everything.

However, the moment he stepped onto the roof, his ears were bombarded.

The gunfire sounded like thunder, or perhaps like a typewriter clattering away.

When he looked back, half of his men were already dead.

The rest were wounded, desperately seeking cover behind the truck.

The people of the Bolita Clan showed no sign of stopping; they tossed aside what looked like magazines from their guns and replaced them, starting another round of firing.

His men couldn’t even lift their heads.

What on earth were those weapons?

He had never seen such guns before.

Out of options, Lewis had to jump down from the truck and retreat.

If he didn’t return, all his men would be dead.

This was his first mission leading the team; if it ended in disaster, he wouldn’t know how to face Marvin.

Watching Lewis burst back through the rain, Zola was caught off guard.

"It was close to disaster..."

He wasn’t stupid and quickly realized that this was the master they were dealing with coming to confront them alone.

If it weren’t for Virel and their bullet storm...

What kind of guns were those? It was ridiculous.

"Look at them, these are real men," Zola pointed to Virel and the others.

He vowed that once he went back, he’d get a bunch of these guns too, so who would they fear in Itasca?

The rain continued.

Virel and the others kept firing.

Aside from a few whose guns jammed, most were firing so much their fingers were burning.

The Prohibition Agents were completely pinned down, unable to lift their heads, let alone the small pistols they wielded—they were insignificant.

Nevertheless, Lewis, who was striding forward, caught Virel’s full attention.

Lewis...

That guy was still alive.

Virel naturally recognized Lewis and knew how formidable he was.

There was no time to wonder why the Evans Clan hadn’t eliminated him.

With his Wenster typewriter aimed at Lewis, Virel led another barrage, storming towards Lewis.

Even though Lewis had the power of his true name, he was still afraid of bullets. After dodging some, he had no choice but to take cover behind a truck that Zola had left behind, yelling at Virel and the others, "Don’t shoot at me!"

It sounded absurd, given the antagonistic relationship.

But Virel and the other Bolita family gunslingers couldn’t help but lower their weapons.

An irresistible force was commanding them.

"Get in the car, move!"

With seasoned experience, Virel knew Lewis’s true name power was in play. He quickly opened the car door, ready to get in.

The others followed suit.

Lewis immediately noticed their actions and charged out heedlessly.

Virel had no choice but to fire again, yelling while shooting, "Go! Forget about me!"

He knew well how formidable Lewis was. Ignoring their current firepower advantage, once their magazines were empty or Lewis fully closed in, they would all be lambs to the slaughter.

The Bolita family couldn’t afford another core elite annihilation; these were the seeds he painstakingly trained for the young master; they couldn’t die here.

Even if it meant staying behind himself, for he was already an old dog.

Fortunately, his barrage suppressed Lewis again, giving his men a chance to get into the car and leave.

Then, just as Lewis shouted that command again, Virel took the opportunity to get in the car.

That’s the advantage of extensive combat experience; even as a mortal, true name holders weren’t invincible.

Seizing this brief moment, he quickly started the car, racing back along the road.

Lewis wasn’t in a hurry to pursue but instead looked intensely, raising his gun to aim at Virel’s car tires.

One shot.

Two shots.

Virel’s car tires blew out.

The vehicle staggered, crashing into a roadside tree with a "thump," deforming half its front.

Lewis no longer looked at the car disappearing into the rain; he was already beyond furious.

This day was supposed to be his grand debut, a perfect success.

Everything was proceeding according to his plan.

Until that damned gun showed up.

Damned, damned, damned!

Lewis furiously replaced the bullets, finally smashing the gun to the ground.

He couldn’t bear it.

This kind of failure...

"Virel, you old thing, you’re good!"

Lewis, of course, recognized Virel and had dealt with him before.

This old dog, who used to bow and scrape before him, wouldn’t dare charge at his bar either.

Now he suddenly bit back.

"Don’t fear, I won’t shoot you; that would be too easy for you."

Lewis walked on, continuously rubbing his newly replaced alchemical limb.

"I’ll beat you to death with my fists, then toss your body at that little bastard Ethan’s doorstep and let him admire my masterpiece."

"It’ll be a truly marvelous scene! Damned it!"

Lewis approached Virel’s car step by step.

Virel wasn’t knocked out by the crash. As Lewis rambled on, he broke open the bent car door and, upon landing, found his leg was broken.

He couldn’t walk anymore.

He couldn’t have walked from the beginning.

When he decided to stay behind.

Listening to Lewis’s approaching footsteps, he suddenly laughed.

"Lewis, you won’t catch me because you’re not worthy."

This statement made Lewis tense up at once, issuing another command, "No shooting! No suicide!"

No gunfire sounded.

Because Virel never intended to shoot, his gun was still in the car.

He just took out a pack of cigarettes from his trench coat lining and some matches.

Shielding from the wind, he lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and then began to whistle.

Fragmented and discontinuous, like some kind of folk song.

"Goodbye, darling, remember, even an old dog has a few teeth left!"

He tossed the still-burning match.

"Boom—"

A blaze and explosion engulfed everything in an instant.

The rain on Wenster continued.