Infinity: Kill your way through the movie world.

The second shot, the third shot.
The other four bull-horned demons had bloody holes blown out of their chests, but they were too thick-skinned and tough; such injuries only enraged them.

The fifth horned demon's bone club swept across, and Dean ducked and rolled, the axe blade grazing his scalp and shaving off a tuft of hair. He rolled on the ground, and as he half-knelt to his feet, he raised his gun and fired, almost touching the horned demon's chin.

"boom!"

The bull-horned demon's jaws exploded, spraying black blood and bone fragments, and it fell backward.

The last horned demon had already charged at him, its burning bone club raised high above its head. Dean had no time to reload or dodge.
"Get down!" Sam roared.

Dean fell forward.

Almost simultaneously, the sound of rifle bursts rang out. All three shots hit the same spot in the bull-horned demon's eye socket. The first shot bounced off the eyelid, the second shot shattered the eyeball, and the third shot penetrated the cranial cavity.

The bull-horned demon froze, the bone club slipped from its hand, and its massive body crashed to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Dean got up, panting heavily.

The wound under his ribs reopened from the movement, and warm blood soaked the lining of his combat uniform. He looked in Sam's direction and gave him a thumbs up.

Sam nodded, but his eyes were serious. His rifle bolt had already popped out, indicating that he had run out of bullets.

And more demons are crossing the broken barbed wire.

"Retreat!" Dean roared. "To the third line of defense!"

With the order given, the remaining witchers began to retreat.

It was called a retreat, but it was actually a rout while fighting. The defensive line had been torn open in several places, and demons poured in through the gaps, like black pus seeping into wounds.

A young demon hunter, Dean remembered his name was Jack, only nineteen years old, and had just been injected with a demon potion to enhance his powers three days ago. At this moment, he was being pounced on by two hound demons.

He struggled to fire the pistol at one of its heads, emptying the magazine, but the other bit his throat, blood spurting out, and the struggle stopped.

Dean tried to rush over, but the distance was too far, and three horned demons blocked his way.

"Go!" Sam grabbed his arm. "There's no way to save him!"

They retreated into a half-collapsed warehouse.

There were seventeen or eighteen witchers inside, all wounded. Some of them used planks and sandbags to block the doorway, but everyone knew that this wouldn't last long.

“There are at least two thousand more outside in this direction.” A female witcher, her face covered in blood, sat down against the wall, tore open a first-aid kit, and poured hemostatic powder into the wound on her thigh. “The defenses… can’t hold.”

"Where's Lor?" someone asked. "Didn't the guild leader come back?"

“He’s maintaining a large-scale equilibrium force field,” Sam replied breathlessly. He checked the bolt of his rifle, which was indeed jammed. Frustrated, he tossed the gun aside and drew his spare pistol.

“Suppressing the demonic power across the entire battlefield is very taxing; he can’t maintain it indefinitely.”

As if to confirm his words, the invisible oppressive force outside suddenly weakened, the demon's roar instantly rose, and the attack clearly intensified.

The warehouse door was hit hard, the wooden planks cracked, and the sandbags shifted.

"Prepare for melee!" Dean roared, throwing away his empty shotgun and pulling out his last Angel Blade from his boot.

The door was kicked open, and demons poured in.

At the same time, on the seventh basement level of the Witcher Guild, in the restricted area.

The silence here contrasts eerily with the devastation on the ground. The flowing balance runes on the walls emit a soft, grayish-white glow, and the only sound in the air is the low-frequency hum of energy flowing through the pipes.

Wu Heng stood in front of the holographic control panel in the center of the room, looking at the scrolling battlefield data on it:
The defenses were collapsing at a rate of 27%, with a casualty rate of 41%. The demonic invasion had breached the second layer of defense. His expression remained calm, but the rhythm of his right hand tapping lightly on the edge of the control panel was slightly faster than usual. Then he stopped tapping.

"Come out now that you're here," he said to the empty room, while simultaneously activating the area seal, otherwise the other party would not be able to escape no matter how hard they tried.

The air distorted for a moment.

With a surge of teleportation, a figure emerged from the distortion, as if stepping out from behind a thin sheet of paper. First came black leather shoes, then crisply pressed trousers.

His slightly plump waist, his impeccably tailored suit, and finally, his pale face with its usual fake smile.

It was Crowley.

He stopped, straightened his tie, and moved with the elegance of someone attending a banquet. But upon closer inspection, one could see scorch marks on the cuffs of his suit and a thin, scabbed wound on his left cheek. More importantly, his overall presence, or rather, his aura, was much weaker than before, like a lamp with insufficient voltage, its light dim.

“President Morrick,” Crowley bowed slightly, “I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

Wu Heng turned to look at him, without surprise, hostility, or even questions, simply watching calmly, as if Crowley's appearance was entirely expected.

The door to the restricted area on the 7th underground level slid open at that moment; only a handful of people had the authority to access it.

Dean and Sam burst in.

They had just withdrawn from the front lines, covered in blood and dust, weapons in their hands, their faces still bearing the lingering killing intent and exhaustion.

They came to find Wu Heng; the defense line was on the verge of collapse, and they needed new instructions and a way to break the deadlock.

Then they saw Crowley.

Time seemed to freeze for half a second.

Dean's eyes widened instantly, and his pupils contracted.

He almost instinctively raised his pistol, and although there were only two bullets left in the gun, he still pointed the muzzle at Crowley's forehead. Sam was a beat slower, but he immediately stepped to the side and blocked Wu Heng's path, holding the dagger in reverse, with drops of blood still wet on the blade falling to the ground.

"Crowley?!" Dean's voice trembled with shock and anger. "What the hell are you doing here?!"

So shocked was Dean that he even swore. Countless thoughts flashed through his mind in that instant: A trap? An illusion? Was Lor controlled? Or something worse?
Sam's expression changed as well.

He looked at Wu Heng, a hint of doubt and despair in his eyes. If Lor had sided with Hell, if the chairman himself was part of the trap, then everything was over.

All the sacrifices, all the efforts, have become a joke.

Crowley raised his hands slowly to show he was harmless.

His fake smile became more obvious, but this time there was something else in it—weariness, or perhaps helplessness.

“Relax, Winchester brothers.” His voice was as slick as ever, but less assertive. “I’m not here to fight.”

"Then what are you doing here?" Dean's gun remained unmoved. "Scouting for Lucifer, or are you here to recruit us?"

“Dean,” Wu Heng finally spoke, his voice as calm as if he were stating the weather, “put the gun down.”

Dean didn't move, and neither did Sam.

Wu Heng sighed softly, but it was clearly audible in the tense space: "Of course I have not sided with Hell, and Crowley is not here to declare war."

"Then what's he doing here?" Dean repeated, his eyes fixed on Crowley. "Coming to his death?" (End of Chapter)