Infinity: Kill your way through the movie world.

On the distant highway, the headlights of a car approached.

Castio instinctively shrank further into the shadows.

He didn't know who it was.

But he knew that from now on, any stranger could be a hunter.

And he was the prey.

Chicago ruins, day seven.

The once bustling Michigan Avenue now resembles a toy street trampled by a giant beast. The cross-sections of collapsed skyscrapers reveal layers upon layers of office cubicles, with documents and papers being swept into the air by the wind like pale snow.

The overturned vehicle was burned into a charred shell, the tires melted into a viscous, asphalt-like substance, and the air was forever filled with the unique smell of ozone after burning and the cloying sweetness of decaying corpses.

Dean crouched behind a half-collapsed van, chewing on a cold energy bar.

A thin scab had formed on the wound on his left ear. Every time he frowned, it would pull at the crack, causing pale yellow tissue fluid to seep out. He ignored it, staring at the building that used to be a high-end hotel three hundred meters ahead.

Eleventh floor.

Holy light flickered in the windows on the third, fifth, and seventh floors, the unstable blue-white light resembling malfunctioning neon lights.

A medium-sized stronghold of the Barthimus faction, intelligence indicates there are between fifty and seventy angels, including at least three high-ranking ones.

“A frontal assault would result in too many casualties.” Sam lay on his left, making a final confirmation through his binoculars.

His voice was low and hoarse from continuous combat: "The fire escape on the east side has been blown up, and there's a glass curtain wall on the west side. They must be on guard."

“Then let’s go underground.” Dean swallowed the last of his energy bar, unscrewed the water bottle and took a sip. “There’s a parking lot in the hotel’s basement. Seven years ago, when we were chasing a Black-Eyed Demon, we went along that route. There’s an inspection door on the second floor of the parking lot that leads to the logistics elevator shaft.”

"Seven years ago?" Sam frowned. "How can you be sure it still works now?"

“Not sure.” Dean stood up and dusted off his knees. “But they won’t surrender on their own if we just squat here until dark.”

He turned his head and looked at the fifteen team members who were scattered and hidden behind him.

This is the core squad of the North American theater clearing operation. It has grown from the initial 57 men to the current 23 men. Eight of them are responsible for providing fire support and evacuating the wounded on the perimeter. At this moment, only these 15 men are following the assault.

"Listen carefully." Dean lowered his voice, but every word was like a nail being hammered into wood. "The target building has eleven floors. There are sentries on the third floor, the dormitory area on the fifth floor, and the command center on the seventh floor. We will sneak down to the basement level from the underground freight elevator shaft, climb the stairs to the seventh floor, and kill the commander first. Once chaos breaks out in the building, gunfire will start from the outside, and then we will attack from both sides."

“Um… Commander of the theater command,” a young team member raised his hand, his face showing barely suppressed tension, “What if they seal off the freight elevator shaft?”

“Then let’s find another way.” Dean looked at him. “We’ll find a way eventually. If we can’t, we’ll blast one out.”

"Let's go," Sam whispered the order.

Like an undercurrent, the fifteen people moved silently along the shadows of the dilapidated street toward the flank of the target building.

Ten minutes later, on the seventh floor of the hotel, in the former presidential suite.

Two high-ranking angels stood back to back in front of the French windows, their tattered wings fluttering slightly behind them, like dying butterflies making their final flapping.

Outside the window, Chicago's night was devoid of lights, save for a few scattered fires in the distance and an ominous blue halo on the horizon.

One of them suddenly turned his head to the side.

There's some noise.

Before the other person could respond, the floor beneath their feet suddenly cracked!

Seven figures leaped out from beneath the shattered floorboards, Dean firing his shotgun almost touching the first angel's chest. The specially made borax armor-piercing rounds exploded at close range, creating a pale jet of metal. The angel's breastplate was as flimsy as paper, and the impact sent him flying, crashing through the partition wall behind him.

The second angel reacted even faster, forming a holy light blade in his palm and slashing back at Dean's neck.

The blade stopped three centimeters from the skin. Sam cut in from the side and parried the attack with a demon hunter's knife engraved with runes that countered holy light. The shrill sound of metal scraping against metal almost pierced eardrums.

"Witcher!" the angel roared, unleashing the remaining power of holy light, and a blue-white shockwave exploded outwards from him.

Sam was knocked back three steps, and Dean rolled on the spot to avoid the impact core, but his goggles were still scratched by the energy ripples.

More figures poured in through the breach.

Ten, twenty, fifty witchers rushed toward the target in the center of the room from all directions.

In the confined space, the sparks from the collision of the Holy Light Blade and the Rune Blade were like dense fireworks. Gunshots, the clanging of metal, the roars of angels, and the muffled groans of humans intertwined into a chaotic symphony of battle.

The seven gunshots were the signal.

On the perimeter, eight snipers who were already in position simultaneously pulled their triggers, and the modified anti-materiel rifles spewed out muzzle flashes that were half a meter long.

Specially designed armor-piercing rounds pierced through the hotel's exterior walls, exploding into pale flowers on the holy light shields of the three layers of sentries.

The battle lasted eleven minutes.

As the last angel fell into a pool of blood, his chest ripped open by three interference blasts, Dean slid down against the crumbling wall.

Three shallow burn marks appeared on his tactical vest, just one centimeter away from being ripped open by the Holy Light Blade. The wound on his left ear reopened, and blood dripped down his jawline onto his epaulettes.

Sam crouched beside the corpse of the high angel and used a specially made dagger to cut open the remaining nodes of angelic grace.

A dull, blue-gold crystal core, about the size of a thumb, was removed and placed into a lead-lined sealed bag.

“The twenty-seventh.” He handed the crystal core to the team member in charge of recording the spoils. “High-ranking member of the Basemünster faction, kill confirmed.”

“The seventh Chicago outpost.” Dean wiped the blood from his face, his mouth twitching—not a smile, but a twitch of muscles from utter exhaustion. “Six left.”

"We can still fight," a young player said weakly.

Dean looked at him without saying anything.

He looked toward the doorway, where three team members lay. Two of them were motionless, while the third was nestled in his companion's arms. His chest armor had been completely pierced by the Holy Light Blade, and the tourniquet had dug into his flesh, but blood was still seeping out.

"Fall back." Dean stood up, his legs a little weak. "The wounded should be evacuated first, and Grace and the prisoners should be brought back."

No one refuted.

The survivors helped up the seriously wounded, removed the name tags of the fallen from their collars, and silently disappeared into the night.

Behind him, in the ruins of the eleventh floor, the remnants of holy light, not yet completely extinguished, still flickered faintly, like an eternal lamp at a funeral.

On the edge of the Fontainebleau Forest, outside Paris.

The seven heavy rune cannons are arranged in an arc, with barrels as thick as an adult's waist, and the runes covering their surfaces emit a dark golden pulse when charged.

Behind each gun is a six-person operating team: a gunner, a loader, a cooler, an energy monitor, and two combat personnel responsible for close cover.

Renault stood on the makeshift command platform, his old injury on his left shoulder throbbing faintly in the damp night air.

He ignored the slight discomfort and focused his telescope on the cluster of blue lights gathering ten kilometers away; the scout's report was accurate. (End of Chapter)