55: Chapter 55 Welcome to the Slaughterhouse

The moment the iron door collapsed with a boom, the pouring rain and Chen Mo flooded into the warehouse.

Four MP5 submachine guns had long since locked onto the entrance, the tongues of fire spitting from their muzzles weaving a web of death.

By all logic, anyone attempting to breach this narrow entrance would be turned into a sieve within 0.5 seconds.

But Chen Mo defied logic.

The moment he crossed the threshold, his knees buckled without warning, and his whole body slid out like a puddle of molten mercury, hugging the slick concrete floor.

Those rows of 9mm bullets, capable of tearing through Kevlar fibers, whizzed past his scalp, striking the door frame and sending countless sparks flying.

The world changed in his eyes.

[Gun Kata] activated.

Those ballistic trajectories, impossible to capture with the naked eye, now dragged clear red lines across his retina.

It wasn't just seeing; it was calculating.

His brain, like a supercomputer running at full capacity, instantly parsed every gunman's firing rate, muzzle orientation, and even the muscle tremors of their fingers pulling the triggers.

Before the slide had even stopped, the M1911 in Chen Mo's hand rang out.

Bang. Bang.

The two gunshots overlapped, sounding like a single report.

The two gunmen on the left didn't even have time to adjust their aim before blood bloomed between their brows.

Their body armor was useless because Chen Mo had shot the two inches of exposed skin above their masks.

"Damn it! He's on the ground!"

The remaining two guards roared, attempting to lower their aim, but Chen Mo had already sprung up.

He didn't stand up; instead, he pushed off the ground with one hand, engaged his core, and spun half a circle like a top, using the momentum to crash into the gunman on the right.

This wasn't shooting; this was hand-to-hand combat.

The gun barrel slammed hard into the man's jaw, forcing his head back; one could even hear the crisp sound of bone shattering.

Bang.

The third corpse fell.

Using the falling corpse as cover, Chen Mo moved the pistol in his right hand under his armpit, fired blindly behind him, relying on that mysterious close-quarters fire control perception, and pulled the trigger backhanded.

The bullet precisely drilled into the gap in the last guard's body armor, tearing through the subclavian artery.

Everything happened too quickly.

George, who was following behind, had just raised his shotgun only to see corpses littering the floor.

His unlit cigar nearly fell to the ground, his old eyes widened, as if he had seen a ghost.

This wasn't any tactical protocol he had ever seen back in the CIA.

No cover, no suppression fire; the young man had danced a waltz belonging only to a madman amidst the hail of bullets, every step treading on the toes of Death itself.

"Eight more," Chen Mo's voice echoed in the spacious cold storage, cold as ice. "Don't just stand there, George."

"What the hell kind of kung fu is this..." George muttered, raising his gun and hurrying to keep up. "You're not a cop; you're the Terminator, aren't you?"

Heavy footsteps echoed from the depths of the cold storage.

The neatly arranged meat racks were roughly pushed over, the massive metallic clanging setting one's teeth on edge.

A giant of a man, his fat quivering all over, charged out from the white mist of the cold air.

He wore no body armor, only a butcher's apron stained black with filth. In his hand, he held not a butcher's knife, but a modified M249 light machine gun.

"Rats!!"

The Butcher roared, his voice thick as if his trachea were clogged with grease.

He didn't need to aim; he squeezed the trigger, and the hundred-round ammo belt whipped toward Chen Mo and George like a lash.

"Get down!" George roared, diving toward a nearby forklift.

The storm of bullets instantly peppered the forklift with sparks, spraying hydraulic fluid all over the ground.

Chen Mo did not dodge.

A second before the belt of bullets swept over, he stared at the flying frozen meat and iron shards, his pupils contracting to pinpoints.

[Dance of Death].

He violently kicked a guard's corpse beside his feet.

The corpse was shredded by the machine gun bullets in mid-air, becoming the perfect meat shield.

Taking advantage of this momentary blind spot, Chen Mo darted out like a cheetah.

He wove between the shelves, his speed so fast it left afterimages.

The Butcher frantically swiveled his gun, trying to catch the black shadow, but was always a beat too slow.

The bullets chased at Chen Mo's heels, pockmarking the concrete floor.

The distance closed to five meters.

Chen Mo suddenly stopped, his leather shoes grinding a scorched mark into the floor.

He didn't fire; instead, he ejected the empty magazine, fluidly swapped in a new one with his left hand, and reset the slide.

Click.

Amidst the noisy gunfire, the crisp sound of the chambering round was exceptionally piercing.

The Butcher grinned maliciously, shoving the muzzle into Chen Mo's face: "Die!"

Chen Mo dodged to the side; the string of bullets flew past, grazing the tip of his nose, the searing wave of heat singeing a few strands of his hair.

He stepped into the Butcher's inner circle, the grip of his M1911 smashing hard into the Butcher's gun-wielding wrist.

Crack.

This time, it was the sound of actual bone breaking.

The Butcher screamed, and the machine gun flew from his hand.

But his reaction was lightning-fast; that fan-sized hand reached directly for Chen Mo's throat, with terrifying strength—clearly not the physical capability of a normal human.

"Performance-enhancing drugs?" Chen Mo sneered.

He didn't retreat but advanced; his left foot planted like a nail, and his right leg swung down like a battle-axe, striking the side of the Butcher's knee.

That tooth-aching sound of bone cracking rang out again, and the two-hundred-pound mountain of flesh crashed to its knees.

Chen Mo didn't even let his knees touch the ground; he jammed the muzzle of his pistol straight into the Butcher's still-howling mouth.

"Shut up."

He pulled the trigger.

Bang!

The back of his head exploded, red and white matter splattering onto the frozen pork behind him, steaming in the cold.

The entire cold storage instantly fell silent, leaving only the dull thud of raindrops hitting the tin roof.

Chen Mo withdrew his gun and wiped the blood from the barrel onto the Butcher's apron.

His breathing was terrifyingly steady, his heart rate even maintaining around seventy beats per minute.

George poked his head out from behind the forklift, watching Chen Mo standing in a pool of blood, his Adam's apple bobbing with difficulty.

As a former CIA Cleaner, he had killed enough people to fill a swimming pool, but he had never seen slaughter be so... precise.

This was no longer violence; it was an unsolvable math problem.

"Is... is it over?" George glanced at the watch on his wrist.

"Forty-five seconds. If you hadn't said that was the foreplay, I would've thought you were in a rush to reincarnate."

Chen Mo ignored the old man's teasing.

He crouched down and reached out toward the massive, still-twitching corpse.

"Time for the Corpse Collector."

The system interface popped up on his retina.

[Extraction successful]

[Obtained Skill: Pain Tolerance (Green) — The processing of pain signals by your nerve endings will be delayed; resistance to physical trauma increased by 30%.]

[Obtained Memory Fragment: Cargo Manifest B-7]

A chaotic, bloody scene flooded his mind.

It wasn't frozen meat, not drugs, not even arms.

It was several people locked in cages, wearing tattered hospital gowns, their skin festering with black sores, wailing as they clawed at the iron bars.

Chen Mo snapped his eyes open, a flash of ferocity in his gaze.

"George, blow that door open." He pointed to the heavy iron door at the end of the cold storage, disguised as a power distribution room.

"Looks like we aren't just here to kill tonight; we have to be a real Corpse Collector for once."

George looked at Chen Mo's face, which was so grim it seemed water could drip from it, spat his cigar on the ground, and pulled a block of C4 from his bag.

"You're the boss. But I hope it's filled with gold bars, not some other mess."

Chen Mo didn't speak. He stared at the door; the scene he had seen in the Butcher's memories made his stomach churn.

That was the true secret of Ouroboros.

And it was the most disgusting "trash" he had ever seen as a Corpse Collector in his life.