CHAPTER 480: CHAPTER 478 I ONLY WANT THE ELITE, NOT THE MEDIOCRITY_1

New York, Brooklyn.

Inside the grand hall of a two-story redbrick mansion, Marcelo was examining the M4A1+ carbine in his hands.

There were still fifteen minutes left until the agreed time for action. Having already completed his preparations and with nothing else to do, he could only carefully inspect the weapon in his hands. Whether the upcoming operation would be successful depended on whether this M4A1+ carbine was as powerful as the boss had claimed.

Apart from him, six other assassins from various gangs participated in this operation, some tall, some short.

The most conspicuous among them was an African American man sitting idly on a single-seater sofa. He was over two meters tall, with arms that hung below his knees, and appeared to exhibit traits of atavism.

Marcelo had heard of this behemoth’s reputation: a trump card of the Five K Gang, known as the Beast.

Due to the prevailing culture within the Five K Gang, anyone not white was considered inferior. That’s why they hadn’t given Beast a proper name; they simply called him that.

The man wasn’t bright, but he possessed terrifying physical abilities. He had once climbed the Empire State Building barehanded to assassinate a media mogul on the fortieth floor who had offended the Five K Gang, thereby gaining significant notoriety.

By bringing out the Beast, the Five K Gang evidently aimed to thoroughly extinguish David’s flame of life.

Under the new policies enacted by the mayor, all major gangs in New York had suffered heavy blows—a comprehensive strike targeting everything from theft and robbery to drug and firearms trafficking. It was as if a knife had been taken to their main artery, with no exceptions.

The gangs were left with two choices: either leave New York and establish themselves elsewhere or stay and eliminate David.

Between the two, the gangs naturally chose the latter. Running off to someone else’s territory would mean fighting bloody battles to claim new ground anyway. Staying meant they only had to kill one man: David.

As for whether David had God on his side, this wasn’t a particularly troubling issue for the gang bosses.

Marcelo was a prime example. When he first attempted to assassinate David, he was panic-stricken, fearing divine punishment. But after hiding at home for a couple of days, he realized he had overthought it. God hadn’t meted out any punishment, which gradually emboldened him.

It was like his first kill; Marcelo had felt some trepidation. But by the second and third times, all that remained was excitement. After killing so many, only numbness lingered in his heart.

If God only healed David and didn’t punish them, then they just had to injure David so severely that not even God could save him.

Six M4A1+ carbines, twenty-three grenades, two flashbangs, along with Beast, who could tear a man apart with his bare hands. The seven of them could reduce David to an unrecognizable pulp.

For peace of mind, Marcelo and his companions had tattooed Satan on their bodies. Not all gang members believed that abandoning evil for good would earn God’s forgiveness. They preferred to ink themselves with Satan, the King of Hell, letting Hell’s overlord watch over them. That way, if they ended up in Hell, they could continue to serve Satan like beasts of burden.

To hell with truth, goodness, and beauty! Marcelo just wanted to commit evil—murder, robbery, fucking girls!

"Come on, God, show yourself! See if I don’t fuck you up!"

This phrase had recently become the gangsters’ favorite taunt during their "recreation." It gave them the greatest satisfaction when abusing women, as if God Himself feared their audacity and dared not appear.

Marcelo paused his weapon cleaning, looking disdainfully as one of his companions pressed a fair-skinned woman beneath him. Women held no interest for him. He had preferred the man of the house; unfortunately, he’d played too rough and killed him too soon.

"Haha!" The tall, burly African American man let out a triumphant laugh. Upon reaching his climax, he viciously tightened the wire in his hands.

The barbed wire wrapped around the woman’s neck dug into her flesh, piercing her carotid artery. Blood spurted out instantly, staining the brown sofa. Her tear-filled eyes lost their luster as her body convulsed, turning into the vacant eyes of the dead.

"Huh, that was so good."

"Sack, don’t get weak in the knees now," another jeered.

"Haha, Marcelo, I could go another three hundred rounds, no problem!"

Sack released the wire, letting the woman slump onto the sofa to face her dead husband. His principle was to revel with abandon, never thinking of the future or dwelling on the past, only immersing himself in the pleasure of the moment.

Randomly selecting a wealthy person’s home before the operation had been Sack’s idea. He liked to indulge himself before the main operation. Power and status meant nothing in the face of firearms. Fervent faith couldn’t save them either; it only gave Sack profound satisfaction. This feeling of trampling order, of desecrating gods—it was wonderful.

"Is it almost time?"

"Yeah, David is going to inspect the Brooklyn Labor Evening Celebration at seven tonight."

"The nerve of him, doing something like that and still wandering around all day instead of staying cooped up in City Hall. He’s practically looking down on us."

"The noble Noble Son probably thinks he can solve anything just by saying the word."

"Haha."

Those present erupted in raucous laughter; only Beast sat silently. Without a command, his eyes were dull, betraying no hint of threat.

Suddenly, Beast sensed an abnormal danger. "ROAR!" He let out a low growl before Marcelo could even ask what was wrong.

Darkness enshrouded their vision. It was as if they had suddenly stepped into a lightless bedroom at three o’clock on a winter morning.

...

The abrupt darkness left Marcelo nearly blind, plunging him into a temporary state of sightlessness.

After a moment, he began to make out vague shapes: a flat floor, a majestic dome, and enormous pillars that seemed to support the dome. Lanterns hung from the pillars, and within each lantern, a dense black flame, distinct from the surrounding lighter darkness, seemed to flicker.

"What is this?" Marcelo cried out in bewildered alarm, his gaze sweeping his surroundings before settling on a throne atop nine steps. "Who are you?" he bellowed, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

If there was one silver lining, it was that this figure didn’t look like God.

A pitch-black Crown rested on its head, and flowing black garments enveloped its body. Its eyes, a pair of crimson orbs, gazed down upon them imperiously.

"Are you Satan?" Sack blurted out, his voice a mixture of terror and a sliver of joy. He was eager to become Satan’s servant and wreak havoc on earth.

Aozawa lifted his index finger. Seven globules of liquid-like darkness detached from the dome, descended, and landed on the ground, swiftly coalescing into humanoid forms. They materialized with heads, limbs, and full sets of armor. Seven Shadow Soldiers stood before them.

"Defeat them, and you can live," Aozawa stated. He hadn’t summoned an army of a hundred thousand to crush their spirits instantly. Instead, he intended to offer them a sliver of hope, to make them fight desperately. Only then could he enjoy a good show.

Marcelo glanced at the armored shadow figures. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger of his M4A1+ carbine.

A torrent of bullets erupted with flashes of gunfire, aimed at the seemingly sturdy armor of a Shadow Soldier.

The bullets passed harmlessly through the Shadow Soldier, inflicting no damage. The creature itself showed no intention of attacking.

Only when the thought to eliminate the enemy flashed through Aozawa’s mind did that particular Shadow Soldier lunge forward.

"Die!" Marcelo screamed, rapidly backing away while continuously firing. The whistling bullets failed to impede the Shadow Soldier’s advance.

Its hands, like the claws of a wild beast, swiped forward. Flesh, bone, and even the firearm seemed to turn into soft tofu at that instant, effortlessly torn apart by the Shadow Soldier.

Gore and organs splattered onto the ground. Under Aozawa’s control, the floor itself transformed into a gaping maw, a Taotie, swallowing the corpse and the weapon.

Witnessing this, the others’ faces contorted in terror. What kind of joke was this? Guns were completely useless! How were they supposed to fight?

Sack and the others quickly looked towards Beast, then shook their heads. If bullets passed right through the Shadow Soldiers, what good would fists be?

In this life-or-death crisis, Sack’s mind raced. Suddenly, he had a realization and exclaimed with elation, "Don’t we have flashbangs?"

"That’s right! Sack, you were supposed to be carrying them!"

"FARK!" Sack’s elation turned to despair. He remembered that he was indeed responsible for the two flashbangs and had them on his person earlier. However, during his "interaction" with the lady of the house, he had tossed them onto a nearby table. Now, he stood there, stark naked.

"I’m such an idiot!" He couldn’t stop himself from slapping his own face, regretting not having grabbed the flashbangs when he had the chance.

Aozawa overheard their conversation. Despite the distance, within the Shadow World, it was as if his Catalyst sensing ability was constantly active, allowing him to perceive their every movement and sound. However, this omniscient perspective was limited to the Shadow World.

"I’ll give you one chance." Aozawa raised his head. His Catalyst Induction ability activated, allowing him to peer into the world beyond the shadows. He manipulated the shadow of the sofa, causing it to slither like a living python across the table, engulfing the flashbangs and grenades in its shadowy maw.

The items landed in front of Sack.

Overjoyed, Sack quickly grabbed a flashbang, pulled the pin, and hurled it forward. Then, he clapped his hands over his eyes. An intense, blinding white light flared violently. The flash was so strong it felt as if it could pierce his palms, turning his vision blood-red.

Under this intense light, Aozawa observed the Shadow Soldiers being swiftly annihilated. Not only that, but even the shadows on the floor and walls began to dissipate in the glare.

However, the Shadow World was as vast as the real world. The intense light from a single flashbang was but a drop in the ocean; the area it could affect was minuscule.

Physical attacks were almost ineffective against the Shadow Soldiers, Aozawa concluded, or perhaps the bullets simply lacked power. Intense light, however, could disperse the shadows.

Having understood this, he waved his hand. Globs of shadow fell from the dome. He had no intention of honoring his promise to let them live and become his subordinates.