53: Chapter 53 Only a madman would shoot like that.

The rain continued to fall; the night sky over Brooklyn Heights was like a sponge soaked with ink, pressing heavily down upon the city.

Chen Mo stood before the full-length mirror in the entryway, draped in his black trench coat.

The bandage on his left arm had been retied and was hidden beneath his sleeve, showing no trace of injury.

George was at the living room coffee table, checking the two silenced glock 17s. The sound of the magazines being pushed into the chambers was crisp, almost jarringly so, in the empty room.

"The car is downstairs." George didn't look up as he skillfully pulled back the slides to check the recoil springs.

"That viper's stronghold is in an underground cold storage warehouse in Queens; it's a transit point for Ouroboros in New York.

If you want to pry his mouth open, you'd better hurry. That person in charge has a schedule as regular as a vampire's."

"No rush." Chen Mo stared at his reflection in the mirror.

His current state was strange.

Having just finished fusing with the [Thousand-Faced Deceiver], the lingering sensation of his soul being reshaped had not yet faded, and another, more intense craving was burning in his veins.

It was a craving for violence.

He had felt sluggish during the fight at the museum.

It wasn't because he wasn't strong enough, but because it wasn't fluid enough.

Shooting was shooting, punching was punching; there was always a momentary pause between the two.

For an ordinary person, this fraction of a second in switching was negligible, but when facing those "Clean-up Workers" or higher-level threats, that instant was the distance between life and death.

The blue panel on his retina was still flickering, and the flames beneath the furnace icon seemed to be tempting him to add more fuel.

[Proceed with the second fusion?]

[Materials locked: Sharpshooter (Green) + Close Quarters Combat Mastery (Green)]

[Estimated success rate: 88%]

[Cost: 2000 Experience Points, 35 Mental Energy]

Two thousand experience points, plus the fifteen hundred from before—this wiped out the bulk of his gains from this operation.

Chen Mo's fingers rested lightly on the grip of the M1911 at his waist, the cold sensation traveling from his fingertips to his brain.

Was it worth it?

In this America where guns were everywhere, beyond seven paces, the gun was fast; within seven paces... being both fast and accurate was the truth.

He didn't need to be a boxing champion, nor did he need to be an Olympic shooting champion; what he needed was the efficiency of killing.

"System, fuse."

Chen Mo chanted silently in his heart, his consciousness acting like an invisible hand that shoved those two green orbs into the furnace.

Boom!

The commotion this time was even greater than before.

If fusing with the [Thousand-Faced Deceiver] had been like plastic surgery for his soul, then this was a recasting of his body.

Chen Mo let out a muffled grunt, his hands slamming against the mirror cabinet in front of him.

Pain.

It wasn't the sharp pain of skin being sliced open, but a throbbing, aching pain that reached the extreme.

It felt as if countless invisible ants had burrowed into his muscle fibers, crazily biting, pulling, and retying them. His wrists, elbows, shoulders, and even every bone in his spine were groaning under the unbearable burden.

Crack.

A crisp sound came from his right shoulder.

George heard the commotion and sprang up from the sofa, the glock in his hand instantly pointing at Chen Mo's back: "Chen? What's wrong with you?"

Chen Mo didn't answer; he couldn't speak at all.

A massive stream of data was washing over his cerebellum like a flood.

It was countless shooting postures, countless combat footwork.

They were no longer independent pieces of knowledge; they were being broken apart, stirred, and then poured into his instincts like cement.

So, a handgun wasn't just for firing bullets.

The grip could crush an Adam's apple, the slide could jam a dagger, and even the action of changing a magazine could be used to parry an enemy's straight punch.

So, combat wasn't just about fists and feet; the trajectory of a punch was a line of fire, and the footwork for dodging was cover for shooting.

Every joint in his body was a support structure, capable of building a stable shooting platform in any twisted posture.

Sweat dripped from Chen Mo's chin onto the floor.

That intense pain came quickly and left just as quickly.

A few seconds later, the heat faded, replaced by an unprecedented sense of clarity.

Chen Mo slowly straightened his back.

He felt his body was as light as a sheet of paper, but with just a little effort, it could erupt with the hardness of a steel plate.

[Ding! Fusion successful!]

[Congratulations on obtaining the Blue Rare combat trait—Gun Kata]

[Gun Kata (Blue): This is the illegitimate child of geometry and the aesthetics of violence.]

[Effect 1 · Absolute Dominion: Firearms are no longer tools, but an extension of your limbs. You can maintain 100% shooting accuracy in any posture and at any angle; the impact of recoil is reduced by 80%.]

[Effect 2 · Close-Quarters Fire Control: In close-quarters combat, your draw speed is increased by 200%, and your shooting actions will be integrated into your combat moves. You can predict the enemy's ballistic trajectory and use minimal movements to evade.]

[Effect 3 · Reaper's Dance: When facing multiple enemies, you will automatically construct the optimal kill path in your brain, achieving a screen-clearing multi-kill effect.]

A Blue trait.

Chen Mo looked at the icon on the panel emitting a faint blue light; the icon depicted a humanoid silhouette performing an impossibly twisted shot.

"Whew..."

He let out a long breath and turned around.

George remained in a shooting stance, his face full of vigilance: "You looked like you were having a seizure just now. I suggest you go lie down right now and not go throw your life away."

"A seizure?" Chen Mo chuckled softly. He took off his non-prescription glasses and tossed them onto the shoe cabinet, "No, George, this is called evolution."

He walked toward George.

"Do you want to try it?" Chen Mo asked.

"Try what?" George frowned.

"Shoot at me."

George froze for a moment, then looked at him as if he were a madman: "Has your brain fried? These are live rounds."

"I know." Chen Mo's tone was as flat as if he were talking about the weather, "You have three seconds. If you don't shoot, I'm taking your gun."

Before the words had even faded, Chen Mo moved.

Without any warning or any buildup of force.

He rushed forward straight-on, his speed so fast that he left a blur in the air.

George was a veteran, a top-tier Cleaner for the CIA.

His muscle memory was faster than his brain's reaction, and his finger subconsciously pulled the trigger.

Bang!

The muzzle spat fire, and the bullet left the chamber.

But in the instant before George fired, Chen Mo's body made an eerie side-tilt.

His upper body folded thirty degrees to the left as if he had no bones; the bullet flew past, grazing the collar of his trench coat and shattering the vase behind him.

Immediately after, Chen Mo was already right in front of George.

He didn't punch; instead, with a flick of his right hand, the heavy M1911 appeared in his palm, though no one knew when.

But he didn't aim the muzzle at George; instead, he slammed the grip hard into the wrist George was holding his gun with.

This movement was too fast and too strange.

It didn't conform to any police academy textbook, nor did it fit any school of combat.

It was like a viper, striking from an angle that completely defied ergonomics.

George only felt his wrist go numb, and the glock in his hand flew out of his grip.

Before he could react, Chen Mo's left hand had already caught the glock in mid-air, while the M1911 in his right hand spun in a dizzying flourish at his fingertips, the muzzle pressed directly against George's chin.

And Chen Mo's left hand was holding George's gun, backhanded behind his back, the muzzle aimed at the door behind him—the opposite direction from where the bullet had just come. If there had been a second enemy there, they would be a dead man by now.

The whole process took less than two seconds.

George froze in place, his Adam's apple bobbing as he felt the cold temperature of the gun barrel pressed against his chin.

"This..." Old George's voice was a bit dry, "What the hell is this?"

He had seen CQB (Close Quarters Battle) from special forces, Israeli combat techniques from the Mossad, and even Sambo from Russian agents. But he had never seen this style of fighting.

This wasn't fighting at all; this was doing math.

Every move Chen Mo made just now, even the direction of his toes, seemed to have been precisely calculated.

While dodging the bullet, he had completed disarming, subduing, and securing the area, his movements as fluid as a choreographed dance.

"Gun Kata." Chen Mo retracted his gun, the M1911 sliding smoothly back into its holster in his hand, like magic.

"Or you could call it... a more efficient form of killing mathematics."

He tossed the glock in his left hand back to George.

"Your reaction was 0.4 seconds too slow. If you had aimed that shot just two inches lower, you might have hit one of my buttons."

Chen Mo straightened his collar, as if the heart-pounding confrontation just now had been nothing more than adjusting his tie.

George scrambled to catch the gun, looking at the young man before him, the shock in his eyes gradually turning into a deep wariness.

"You are becoming a monster, kid."

George tucked the gun back into his waist and clamped the cigar back in his mouth, but forgot to light it, "If you went to the Olympics, the judges would slice you up for study."

"Only a monster can survive in this cesspool."

Chen Mo walked over to the sofa, picked up the card reader filled with dirt, and shoved it into the inner pocket of his trench coat.

He grabbed a handful of spare magazines from the table and pressed the bullets into the slots one by one.

Click, click.

The sound of pressing bullets echoed in the quiet room, each click sounding like the countdown of death.

"How many people are at that stronghold?" Chen Mo asked.

"Eight regular guards, plus about fifteen technical personnel."

George finally lit the cigar and took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, "But if Ouroboros sends reinforcements, the number could double. And it's a cold storage facility; the terrain is complex with many blind spots."

"Blind spots?"

Chen Mo smiled.

In the vision of [Gun Kata], there were no blind spots in this world, only trajectories where the shooting angle wasn't tricky enough.

He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the dense curtain of rain outside.

Rainwater hit the glass, refracting the blurry lights and shadows of the Brooklyn Bridge.

In the past, this was just rain.

But now, he could clearly calculate the landing point of every drop of rain, and could even predict how slight a deflection would occur if he fired a gun in the rain as the bullet passed through the curtain of rain.

This was a sense of control.

A sense of control where holding a gun meant holding the rules of the entire world.

"Let's go." Chen Mo turned around, his leather shoes making a dull sound on the floor.

"Since it's a transit point, there must be a lot of good stuff inside, and..."

He paused, a faint, cold blue light flashing in his eyes.

"I haven't tried it yet—if I don't leave any survivors, will my gun be a little faster?"

George watched his back and couldn't help but shiver.

That back didn't look broad, it was even somewhat thin, but in this moment, the old agent felt as if he were seeing a tyrannosaurus wearing human skin, preparing to step out of its cage.

"Remind me next time not to stand in your line of fire." George muttered, grabbed the car keys from the table, and hurried to follow.

Underground garage.

The black Chevrolet Suburban had already started, the engine emitting a low roar.

Chen Mo sat in the passenger seat, eyes closed, fingers tapping lightly on his knees as he rehearsed the upcoming battle in his mind.

Narrow corridors, cold storage filled with cargo, intricate pipes.

Every scene was broken down into geometric shapes in his mind.

Where the enemies would come from, how to draw the line of fire, how to use ricochets to clear blind spots.

This was no longer a fight; it was a set of steps to solve a problem.

"Right." George drove the car out of the garage, the windshield wipers swinging wildly against the windshield.

"That person in charge is called Butcher; I heard he used to work in Eastern Europe and likes using a chainsaw."

"Butcher?"

Chen Mo opened his eyes, watching the streetlights flying backward outside the window.

"What a coincidence."

He fished out the 25-cent coin that Ava had given him from his pocket and flipped it between his fingertips.

The coin glinted with silver light in the dim car cabin.

"I'm also a Cleaner of corpses; when colleagues meet, we should have a lot of common language."

The coin was tossed high into the air and then caught steadily by a hand wearing a black leather glove.

"Drive, George."

"The show is about to begin."