Chapter 28
Chapter 28: Let’s Count Down
It was like hitting a hard steel plate. After a crisp sound, the bullet was deflected by the back of Weitz’s neck.
That was clearly no longer the hardness that normal human skin should possess.
Extraordinary characteristics.
Funis saw the black substance flowing and covering nearby, reflecting a dim luster, and couldn’t help but click her tongue in admiration. Although it was within expectations, she still hoped to resolve her opponent as quickly as possible.
The cylinder rotated again.
But this time Funis couldn’t immediately fire the second shot.
Because Weitz had already used the brief gap of localized hardening protecting his skull to pull his hands out of the floor. He swung the steel core in his hands upward with force, viciously smashing toward Funis’s jaw.
Light footsteps.
The snow-white dress spun out like a blooming flower as the girl gracefully retreated with nimble movements.
Again like this, again like this. Weitz once again inexplicably lunged at empty air. The excessively exaggerated range of motion almost made him fall backward, but clearly they had been so close—why did the attacks that should have hit according to intuition only graze past the girl’s face by a hair’s breadth?
But Funis didn’t give him time to be confused and conflicted. The second bullet had already been loaded during the previous rotation.
Weitz felt a tide-like killing intent.
He instinctively raised his right arm to block. Sparks flew as the bullet embedded shallowly in the gaps between the metal prosthetic’s bones, causing the transmission rod to twist and deform.
Slender fingers adorned with lace gloves lightly caressed the side of the golden cylinder.
Rotation.
The third bullet.
“As expected, hardening can’t be used continuously. This interval is your weakness.” Funis raised the revolver, the barrel pointing directly at Weitz’s forehead, at a distance of no more than three meters.
But soon, the black gelatinous substance that had previously covered his neck quickly flowed beneath the skin to the entire front of Weitz’s forehead.
Unsurprisingly, it was deflected again. The power of the small revolver wasn’t enough to penetrate a Guardian’s localized hardening defense. Funis hadn’t held much hope for this, so naturally she wasn’t too disappointed.
Although it couldn’t be used continuously, from actual experience, the gap between two hardenings wasn’t actually that long.
While Funis was silently analyzing, Weitz, who had been repeatedly frustrated and thwarted, was nearly driven mad with rage. He could allow a stronger, more brutal man to defeat him, but he couldn’t accept repeatedly losing face in front of a frail girl.
Caution toward an unknown enemy was instantly cast aside. Weitz roared and bellowed as he raised the steel core and lunged toward Funis, who stood not far away.
But the more one lost rational attacks, the easier they were to see through. He made a fatal mistake.
Continuous swings.
Continuous strikes.
He pressed forward step by step, each blow aimed at Funis’s vital points and death spots. His gray-brown pupils were surrounded by dense bloodshot veins, bloodlust and rage filling his mind instead of reason and calmness.
Yet as if toying with him, the girl’s dodges were always minutely small in amplitude. If only a small step was needed, then she truly took only that small step—no more, no less.
She stepped, she jumped, she hopped, her high heels nimbly tapping out a pleasing melody, neither panicked nor flustered.
Light as a butterfly, leaping like a deer, the soft ruffled hem of her skirt rose and fell with the girl’s steps, beautiful curves stirring infinite imagination.
She even had leisure to hold her hat in place, even had the mood to gather her long hair behind her. Under the lights, it sparkled like a galaxy, flowing brilliantly as she turned round and round, dazzling and magnificent.
So elegant.
So composed.
So much so that Weitz had the illusion that this wasn’t a battle at all, but that he was cooperating with this beautiful girl in a dance, performing a spectacular show on this broad stage.
Yet this long dance melody concealed deadly intent.
Each time Weitz swung and missed, the golden barrel under her puffy sleeves would flash with sparks, the hammer immediately adding strong beats to this light, quick melody.
This was Funis’s way of fighting.
This was the fighting method Cesya had taught Funis.
Like a true lady.
Dance.
Every step should fall on the correct beat, every movement should maintain elegance and tranquility. She had to observe, she had to predict, she had to judge, she did everything possible to make herself nimble and agile.
The fourth bullet.
The fifth bullet.
Continuous firing.
Weitz was already sluggish and confused. He used hardening to block one bullet, but his left shoulder took the other squarely—this was still the result of Weitz trying his best to dodge. Funis always aimed for the throat, head, or heart.
This iron-fingered client from the Black Water District finally recognized Funis’s terrifying nature.
The secret to the girl dodging attacks lay in speed.
Her petite frame became an advantage, the secret to her ghostly nimble movements. Like a cunning fox, just when you thought you could catch its tail, it would slip away.
Weitz didn’t know how Funis could make such flexible and swift movements while wearing such cumbersome high heels, nor did he know where Funis had learned such beautiful yet nearly eerie footwork.
The sixth bullet.
Funis lightly danced her steps, loading the last bullet from the chamber into the gun.
It failed to penetrate his forehead.
The next localized hardening was ready. Funis hadn’t caused any damage, and Weitz was waiting for this moment. With the six-round chamber emptied, the long reloading period would be enough for him to tear Funis to shreds thousands of times over.
But Weitz was wrong again. He had made another fatal mistake, and this mistake had begun the moment he stepped into this theater.
Funis unhurriedly revealed the leather ammunition pouch bound to her forearm. She pulled open the zipper and took out bullets one by one, as if deliberately exposing her weakness to Weitz.
Provocation.
Complete contempt.
Weitz was ignited with rage again. He gripped the steel core in his hand, ready to charge forward.
But his hands and feet couldn’t move.
Something invisible tightly bound his joints and limbs. Under the light, Weitz finally saw those threads so fine they nearly disappeared, taut and densely distributed throughout the surrounding space.
Like a spider web.
Only now did Weitz understand why Funis had retreated bit by bit earlier, luring him to attack deeper. He was like a pathetic mosquito that had lost its judgment, crashing around everywhere, falling into the trap carefully woven by the predator.
The girl had never intended to provoke him.
The slow, deliberate loading of bullets was only due to her confidence in the threads she had laid beforehand. She had predicted every node perfectly.
But why was it such a young girl? Why could a girl pose such a deep threat to his life? Why was a girl so obsessed with the Blood Wine Society’s warehouse?
Weitz couldn’t figure out Funis’s origins and purpose. He was completely confused.
He couldn’t break free.
These threads that looked like they would snap at the slightest tension were actually as tough as steel. Even with a Guardian’s monstrous strength, it was difficult to escape. Weitz could only watch helplessly as the silver-haired girl loaded the six bullets into the chamber one by one.
“Let’s count down,” she suddenly said.
Weitz still didn’t understand the situation.
The cylinder clicked back into place, precise and accurate. Funis rotated it again, then pointed the barrel at Weitz’s head.
“Bang!”
Crisp.
The bullet was deflected.
Weitz had no choice but to activate hardening. He still didn’t understand what Funis wanted to do.
“Five,” she suddenly said.
A number.
“Four.”
Minus one.
Weitz’s pupils instantly contracted because Funis had already rotated the cylinder to the next bullet. He seemed to realize the meaning of these numbers.
“Three.”
Minus one again.
Countdown.
It was the maximum time Weitz’s localized hardening could maintain.
After shooting again and again until emptying the first round of chambers, Funis had already figured out the precise number of seconds.
“Two.”
At this moment, Funis’s words seemed more like a countdown to approaching death.
“One.”
Yet the girl’s expression remained as gloomy and cold as before. She couldn’t muster any energy—everything was just a predetermined hunt in her plan.
Long before Weitz entered this theater, Funis had already prescribed the script for this performance called slaughter. He thought himself free, but was actually just a pitiful marionette manipulated by strings.
Her fingertip lightly tapped.
“Zero.”
She said coldly.