Chapter 105: Operation Success

A towering figure sprinted from afar, catching the peripheral glances of the sentries stationed along the city wall, all of whom wore expressions of stunned disbelief.

This was just too cool.

Iron Fist carried a massive iron box on his back, wielding mini Gatling guns in both hands. Coupled with his giant-like frame, he embodied the very essence of overwhelming firepower aesthetic.

Reaching the city gate, where arrows were lodged everywhere, below were armored soldiers attempting to leap across the broken bridge.

“Grandsons, taste the mercy and salvation of your grandpa’s Gatling guns!”

The dark gun barrels were aimed downward. The Gatlings slowly spun up, then a dazzling spray of sparks erupted.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat!

A relentless, dense barrage sounded; shards of arrow shafts cracked as they fell to the ground.

As the sweep ended, the leather-armored soldiers below toppled like wheat swayed by the wind—one wave after another collapsing.

This sudden, fierce firepower and the rapid surge in casualties caused the troops below to falter, showing signs of breaking ranks.

Knights at the rear immediately surged forward, rallying the civilian army to prevent a full-scale rout.

No matter how elite the knights were, they could not fully influence the civilian forces. Facing such a bizarre mode of death, if not for the knights pushing from behind, this army would have collapsed long ago.

Behind the lines, a blond man clad in leather armor held a silver longbow. An arrow was nocked, and as he slowly drew the string, wisps of azure wind swirled around him.

His bright blue eyes sparkled with keen focus as the scene before him zoomed in, revealing the individual humanoid monsters.

Whoosh!

The arrow shot forth, whipping up a fierce gust, tracing a perfect arc toward the largest creature perched on the city wall.

Atop the wall, Iron Hammer’s head suddenly tilted as the giant arrow whizzed past, nearly grazing his face.

“Damn, these archers are sneaky,” Iron Fist muttered, relieved yet alarmed. “If I hadn’t reacted fast, my head would’ve been blown off.”

No sooner had he spoken, a loud crash came from behind. The arrow had pierced the ammunition box on his back.

“Shit!” Iron Fist cursed, then grabbed his radio. “Falcon, take out that archer opposite us, or we’re done for.”

This strange tactic clearly belonged to a supernatural hunter, and not an ordinary one. To wield a bow and arrow like a homing missile, he must be at least third-tier.

Above, aboard a helicopter, Falcon gripped a heavy sniper rifle fixed to the aircraft, scanning the dense crowd below for the hidden hunter.

Suddenly, a cold gleam shot from the mass of people, revealing the opponent’s position.

Arrows imbued with supernatural power inevitably caused subtle fluctuations imperceptible to ordinary people.

The rifle’s muzzle aligned; the trigger was pulled.

Bang!

A bullet streaked toward the supernatural hunter in the crowd. Sensing danger, the hunter flipped aside just in time to evade the fatal shot.

As the hunter landed, a chilling sensation overtook him as if falling into an icy abyss.

Three bullets followed in rapid succession, aimed at his head, leg, and chest.

At the last moment, the hunter snapped back to awareness, uttering a low shout as a fierce wind rose.

He tried to disrupt the enemy’s arrows, hoping to cause their attacks to veer off course as before.

Crack!

His head exploded, blood and brain matter splattered mercilessly.

Despite the sudden gale causing a slight deflection, it was barely noticeable.

“Target eliminated.”

...

The bridge, battered by successive rocket strikes, was severed over a two-meter stretch; ordinary soldiers could no longer cross.

Moreover, reinforcements arriving nearby had exponentially bolstered the defensive firepower on this side of the wall. The previously aggressive assault had lost all momentum and began to retreat.

The special forces on the wall finally caught a brief respite, taking the chance to tend wounds, reorganize gear, and prepare for the enemy’s next wave.

This was likely the first true military clash between the Xuanlü army and the New World forces—a genuine confrontation.

The reality proved that the New World was not defenseless against modern weaponry. Instead, they fought on nearly equal footing, with full-body bulletproof shields, extraordinary physical capabilities, and unpredictable powers.

Especially the supernatural hunters, whose arrows defied physics by curving mid-flight, making defense nearly impossible. As the expert panel predicted, these hunters were the most threatening group; most casualties were inflicted by them, while the knights remained untouched.

Watching the enemy retreat across the moat, many special forces exhaled in relief.

“Medic!!”

A shout drew everyone’s attention. Looking up, they saw a young man supporting a burly soldier.

The soldier knelt halfway, an enormous arrow protruding through his abdomen—two fingers thick—with blood soaking his tactical uniform.

Battle-hardened sentries glanced briefly and grimly assessed his chances: slim to none. Such a grievous wound demanded immediate major surgery, impossible under current conditions.

“Come quick! There’s a casualty here—captain’s barely hanging on!” Zhang Sheng’s voice trembled with panic, his demeanor more childlike than soldierly.

Some nearby wore worry on their faces, though many remained focused on their tasks: catching breath, treating wounds, maintaining vigilance. These sentries were as cold as machines.

They had long grown accustomed to comrades falling—people they lived with yesterday, now corpses today.

Wartime brooked no emotions; no one could abandon their post for grief. They weren’t medics, and the captain was already under care. Gathering to weep would only endanger everyone.

The contrast between unseasoned special forces and battle-hardened sentries was stark.

The rookies couldn’t ignore the deaths, shedding silent tears for arrow-pierced bodies. Yet, this battle would soon harden them into real soldiers.

To disregard the lives of enemies, comrades, and oneself—this was war, a madness that drove men to the brink.

Several medics bent low, hurrying toward the wounded man.

“Roll him onto his side. Be careful not to move the arrow—secondary injury could be fatal.”

The medics moved swiftly and steadily, laying the soldier down, administering transfusions, and slicing open his clothing with knives.

The gruesome wound revealed itself, blood pouring along the arrow as if it wore a groove designed for bleeding.

Applying a styptic powder, white foam bubbled up, yet the bleeding did not slow as usual—instead, it continued unabated.

“This bleeding’s abnormal. The arrow’s got something wrong. We have to pull it out immediately,” one medic warned.

But another objected, “No! Pulling it out will only worsen the bleeding.”

“If we leave it, he’ll still die. We have to risk it—remove the arrow, then apply hemostatic herbs.”

“That’s the only way.”

Within moments, the medics reached consensus. Time was critical; every second could cost the soldier’s life.

“The arrowhead has barbs—pull forward.”

One medic stabilized the body, while two others gripped the arrow from front and back. With a push and pull, the arrow slid free.

Blood gushed onto the ground in heavy droplets.

They performed a crude internal suture with a scalpel, unable to worry about infection amid the urgency.

Because the arrow was so strange, causing massive blood loss, they had to stitch the wound as fast as possible, foregoing anesthesia—there was no time to wait for it to take effect.

After internal repair, a medic fetched a bottle of black powder from the kit and poured it onto the wound. White smoke rose as flesh seemed to vaporize with crackling sounds.

The captain, silent until now, groaned deeply, sweat pouring down his forehead.

A minute later, the two horrible wounds miraculously sealed, leaving distorted, burnt-looking flesh masses.

...

At the central castle, shadowy figures moved like ghosts among rows of unconscious supernatural knights sprawled on the floor.

The hypnotic gas saturated the castle’s core; even these elite knights could not endure long.

“Commander, what shall we do with these?” a sentry asked, gesturing toward the fallen supernatural knights.

“Kill them,” Yan Hua said coldly.

They numbered only four hundred—no way to control these supernatural beings. They could not predict when they might awaken; leaving them alive posed a grave risk.

Especially since they had parachuted in by helicopter, carrying limited heavy weaponry. Defense was already challenging, let alone taking prisoners. If any broke free and coordinated with outside enemies, their mission would likely fail, and all prior efforts would be in vain.

Soft gunfire echoed as the defenseless knights were executed one by one.

The sentries moved silently, sweeping the entire castle, killing every unconscious person.

On the second floor, outside a door, five sentries leaned against the frame, each gripping a powerful close-range shotgun.

One made hand signals to prepare, then slowly opened the door and entered first.

Shining their flashlights, the beam illuminated a large bed where a man and woman slept soundly.

“Target confirmed—Viscount Number Four.”

Without hesitation, the sentry fired three quick shots to ensure a kill.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Lifting the blanket to confirm the kill, the sentry radioed in.

“Target eliminated. Mission accomplished.”

The operation to seize Satellite Castle Number Four was complete; defense preparations began.