Infinity: Kill your way through the movie world.

Inside the command center, more than a dozen technicians turned around at the same time and began to execute a series of new instructions.

Renault put on his communication headset and called the commanders of the three divisions in succession.

The material dispatch list poured out of the printer, and the green dots on the map began to move.

Wu Heng turned off the microphone, stood up straight, and looked at the blinding crimson on the screen, and the still-flashing green dots representing the positions of the Witcher team.

Those green dots were few in number, scattered across the vast disaster area, like fireflies in the darkness.

But they are still moving, still fighting, and still lighting up new coordinates.

Hours later, on the outskirts of Boston.

Sam gripped his modified shotgun, leaning against an overturned truck, listening to the sporadic gunfire coming from the ruins ahead.

Dean, five meters to his right, used the cover of a half-concrete block to quickly change magazines.

"Team 3 reports: East side cleared, two killed." The team's voice came through the communicator.

"There is still resistance on the west side, suspected to be a squad leader. Requesting backup."

Sam took a deep breath and was about to get up—
The sky suddenly brightened.

A brilliant, all-encompassing blue-white light, as intense as sunlight, descended.

That was the radiant energy released when angels gathered in large numbers, like fallen stars rising again, carrying the pressure of judgment and destruction.

Dozens of blue streaks of light tore through the clouds above Boston, diving toward the city in a battle formation.

Barthez's main force has arrived!

Sam looked up at the blinding light, his throat tightening.

He felt no fear; his fear had been exhausted after witnessing the first city razed to the ground. He felt only a heavy, almost numb weariness.

But there was no retreat.

He pulled back the bolt, adjusted the scope's markings, and spoke into the communicator:

"Everyone, tighten the defensive line. Target directly in front, height 300, high density."

"beat!"

Gunshots rang out.

Behind him, in the basement of the Boston Public Library, more than 300 survivors huddled together, listening to the deafening explosions and screams outside.

An old man closed his eyes, his lips moved, and he prayed silently.

He didn't know who to pray to.

Heaven has closed, and angels have fallen.

In this hell on earth, the only ones still fighting are the mortals who bleed and die, yet never stop.

Wu Heng stood in front of the control panel, having not sat down for thirty-seven hours.

On the screen, the crimson blocks on the global disaster map continue to expand slowly but stubbornly.

The number of calls for help from various teams on the communication channel has decreased slightly compared to twelve hours ago. This is not because the situation has improved, but because fewer teams are able to send out distress signals.

Renault would hand over a new battle damage report every twenty minutes, the edges of the paper crumpled from his grip.

The third cup of coffee sat cold in the corner of the control panel, untouched by anyone.

Wu Heng's gaze swept across the densely marked area on the map, finally settling on a blank area—the dividing line he had just mentally drawn. It wasn't based on national borders or population density, but rather on the distribution density of fallen angels, terrain features, and the projection radius of the existing Witcher's power.

He raised his hand and drew the first line on the touchscreen.

“North American theater.” His voice was calm and devoid of any emotional fluctuation, as if he were simply stating tomorrow’s weather forecast. “North of 15 degrees north latitude and east of 20 degrees west longitude, encompassing the continental United States, Canada, and Greenland.”

Renault looked up, his pen hovering over a number in the casualty statistics table.

"The leader?"

"Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Joint Commander."

Renault did not respond immediately.

He recalled the battle report from Boston three days ago, in which Dean, under Sam's cover, shot down a high-ranking Bartholomew's angel with three chaff rounds, while Dean himself had his left ear cartilage sliced ​​off by the Holy Light Blade.

As Sam helped him away, their blood mingled, making it impossible to tell whose was whose.

“They’re still on the outskirts of Boston,” Reynolds said. “They just finished a defensive battle and their personnel need rest.”

"Four hours of rest." Wu Heng didn't look up. "After four hours, they need to return to the guild headquarters to collect their war zone equipment and combat orders. The frontline doesn't need to rest until they are fully recovered, just until they can still fire."

Renault paused for two seconds, wrote the appointment on his notebook, and handed it to the communications officer.

"European theater, north of 35 degrees north latitude and west of 60 degrees east longitude, under the command of Renault."

Renault's pen stopped.

"I?"

"You have commanded base defense battles in Purgatory and faced the vanguard of the Abyss Lord; there are currently twenty-seven Witcher squads in Europe that need unified command, and you are familiar with the combat styles of most of their captains."

Wu Heng finally raised his head and looked at him: "Position warfare is your specialty. The core cities of Europe are densely populated, and the main force of the Basemünster faction is gathering in three directions: Berlin, Paris, and London. You need to use rune cannons and defensive arrays to pin them down outside the city and prevent them from turning any more cities into ruins."

Renault stared at the area on the screen marked 'European Theater,' his fingers unconsciously tracing the worn marks on the pen barrel.

"I need at least twelve heavy rune cannons, thirty sets of supporting energy cores, and at least five site array experts. And—"

"The supplies list will be delivered to you within two hours," Wu Heng interrupted him. "Now, confirm the appointment."

Renault took a deep breath.

"Yes, confirmed!"

He lowered his head and continued writing the last set of numbers on the battle damage statistics table, his handwriting even steadyer than before.

"The Asian theater, north of 10 degrees north latitude and east of 30 degrees east longitude, is under the command of Liz."

The appointment silenced the command center for two seconds.

Someone looked up and exchanged a glance.

Liz, the woman who was trapped in purgatory three years ago and led six survivors in a month-long guerrilla war.

She was listed as a 'missing person' in the guild archives, and during the Purgatory Rescue Operation, she single-handedly covered the retreat of thirty lost Witchers back through the passage, with three deep, bone-revealing wounds torn open on her back by the claws of the Biter.

“She’s still clearing out the combined stronghold of moderates and werewolves in the mountains of Hokkaido,” Renault reminded him. “A battle report just came back yesterday, confirming the killing of two angels allied with the darkness and the seizure of a batch of supplies looted from human villages.”

"The clearing mission is handed over to the deputy. She needs to reach the southern foothills of the Himalayas within 24 hours to establish the Asian theater command." Wu Heng pulled up a high-precision topographic map, marking dozens of flashing dots. "The terrain in Asia is complex, and the angels' hiding places are scattered. She is good at small-scale, highly mobile guerrilla warfare; stealth runes, infernal bone blades, and a rotating hunting team system are her tactical style. We don't need to send her to defend cities; let her hunt."

Reno entered the appointment into the system and added a line to the remarks column: "Captain Liz is required to immediately hand over her current mission and go to the new war zone to take up her post."

"The African theater of operations, north of 35 degrees south latitude and east of 20 degrees west longitude, is under the command of Calderon." (End of Chapter)