Infinity: Kill your way through the movie world.

Seven days later, the Witcher Guild released its first interim battle report.

The data was projected onto emergency screens in all survivor settlements around the world, and simultaneously transmitted via encrypted channels to every Witcher terminal still in the fight.

Day 31 of the Angel's Fall Incident: Battle Statistics

Total number of Bartholomew's faction angels killed: 11437

Total number of moderate angels captured/surrendered: 2700

Total number of Berserker Angels eliminated: 4892

Total Witcher deaths: 1873

Total civilian deaths: 17386429;
Current estimated number of remaining angels:

The core Bartholomew's faction numbers approximately 18000, and has since migrated to Africa.
The remaining moderate angels who are still resisting: approximately 3200, scattered and in hiding.
The number of remaining Berserker Angels is approximately 1500, currently wandering around.
Current strategic adjustment: shrinking defenses, monitoring Africa, and waiting for the right opportunity.

When the news spread, Dean was squatting in a barn on an abandoned farm in Kansas, washing a newly added wound with half a bottle of his secret stash of whiskey.

Sam sat beside him, using the moonlight filtering through the awning to maintain the shotgun.

“More than 170 million.” Dean looked at the number on the terminal screen, his voice hoarse as if he had sand in his mouth. “170 million people died, and that’s just the published number. If you add the missing people who died without a complete body, the real number is even more despairing.”

Sam did not respond.

“One hundred and seventy million.” Dean threw the terminal on the haystack. “That’s too much. I can’t keep up with the numbers.”

"We have to calculate it even if we can't," Sam sighed.

Dean took a big gulp of whiskey and coughed a few times, choking on it.

"Where is Cassie?"

Sam's hand paused for a moment.

"……do not know."

“If he were also arrested as a moderate,” Dean said, looking at the rotten wooden beams on the ceiling, “would he be counted among the 2700?”

Sam did not answer.

Because he didn't know the answer.

A gas station next to an abandoned highway in Texas.

Castio was squatting in the shade of the gas station, chewing on an energy bar that he had dug out of the ruins of a convenience store and that was three months past its expiration date.

It tastes like chewing wax, but it'll get me through today.

His communicator had run out of power three days ago. He didn't know what was happening outside, what wanted notices or surrender orders the Witcher Guild had issued, or even what he was now: an angel, an ordinary person, or a fugitive?

Or is it just a worthless piece of trash that has nothing at all?
On the distant highway, a modified SUV kicked up dust as it drove in this direction, and Castio instinctively shrank into the shadows.

The SUV came closer and closer into his field of vision, finally stopping opposite the gas station.

Two people wearing tactical vests with the Witcher Guild emblem embroidered on their chests stepped out of the car.

One of them glanced in his direction.

Castio held his breath.

The man didn't linger; he merely glanced at it curiously before looking away. He and his companion went into the ruins of the gas station, looted the area, and quickly came out, got into their car, and drove away.

Castio watched the car disappear at the end of the road and slowly exhaled.

He didn't know if the two witchers had his wanted poster on them.

All he knew was that he had to keep going.

Africa, northern Congo Basin, on the edge of the Holy Light Barrier.

Bartholomew stood on the ruins of a village that had been razed to the ground, looking at the pale golden energy shield in the distance.

The shield shimmered slightly under the African sun, like a layer of morning mist that never dissipates.

His adjutant approached, his voice low: "My lord, the last batch of scouts has been withdrawn. The Witcher's pursuers have halted their advance thirty kilometers outside the shield and are establishing surveillance outposts."

Bartholomew did not turn around. "Casualty statistics."

"We lost about 4,200 brothers during the transfer. The Witcher's rapid response team ambushed us along the way, and we were caught off guard."

Bartholomew remained silent.

Four thousand two hundred.

Adding to the losses from his previous series of defeats, his once 100,000-strong army is now reduced to less than 20,000.

How many moderates are left willing to submit?

The adjutant hesitated for a second.

"Less than three hundred. The rest... some surrendered to the Witcher, some continued to hide, and some got separated during the transfer."

Bartholomew's lips twitched.

"Useless trash," he cursed.

Then look at the vast primeval forest inside the shield, where there are no humans, no witchers, and no demons.

There were only towering trees, creeping vines, lurking wild beasts, and enough secluded corners for them to hide in for months.

“Let them rest.” He frowned. “Gather all available energy sources: the beasts of the forest, the wandering mad angels, and the witchers who dare to step into the shield—all of them will be converted into supplies.”

"Lord, the beast's soul energy is too weak, and the Berserker's power is unstable, Demon Hunter..."

“I know,” Bartholomew interrupted him, “but we have no choice now.”

He turned his back to the shield and to the demon hunters who were watching him intently in the distance.

“Three months,” he said solemnly. “If we can hold out for three months, we can recover 30% of our strength, and then we’ll settle accounts with them.”

The adjutant lowered his head.

"As ordered."

Inside the shield, 18,000 angels dispersed and disappeared into the primeval forest. Their wings were already tattered and broken, their holy light was dim as a candle in the wind, and their eyes no longer held the pride and fervor of the past, only exhaustion, hunger and uncertainty about the future.

But they are still alive.

Outside the shield, Witcher surveillance outposts are being built one by one.

High-powered telescopes were aimed at the edge of the forest, energy detectors continuously scanned, and communication antennas transmitted data back to the seven theater command headquarters day and night.

They were also waiting, waiting for the shield to weaken, waiting for those hiding figures to show themselves.

We'll wait for that day to come!
The war between humans and angels has reached a stalemate.

The African sun rises as usual, shining on the golden dunes of the Sahara, on the dense canopy of trees in the Congo Basin, and on the pale golden shield that has trapped twenty thousand angels.

No one knows how long the stalemate will last, but everyone knows this is not the end.

It's just halftime.

*
The Witcher Guild Headquarters, Conference Hall.

This place was once an archive storing ancient documents, and was later converted into a wartime command center that could accommodate 300 people.

At this moment, all three hundred seats were occupied, and more than two hundred people were crammed into the corridors and aisles, standing, leaning against the walls, or simply sitting on the floor.

The air was filled with the smells of sweat, blood, disinfectant, and a restlessness that came from finally seeing a glimmer of light after being suppressed for too long.

On the main screen, the projection images of the seven war zones were lined up in a row.

Dean, who had arrived, leaned against the wall of an abandoned barn in Kansas, a half-smoked cigar dangling from his lips; Sam stood beside him, holding a freshly cleaned shotgun.

Renault's background is a temporary command post on the outskirts of Paris, with occasional flashes of blue light from rune cannons charging outside the window.

Liz sat in a tent at the foot of the Himalayas, the bandage on her left arm replaced with a new one. Calderón's background was the sand dunes on the edge of the Sahara, the wind and sand blurring half of his face.

The leaders of South America, Oceania, and Antarctica each occupied a separate screen, their expressions equally solemn. (End of Chapter)