Infinity: Kill your way through the movie world.

All Isaac found was half a charred family photo.

The edges of the photo are still smoking, only half of the wife's face remains, and the half of the two children's smiling face is also missing a piece.

He kept the photo in his breast pocket, close to his heart.

I haven't taken it out for three days.

In the "Reason for Registration" section, he ultimately wrote only four words:
"Kill them all!"

He pressed the submit button.

A message popped up on the screen saying 'Application submitted'.

Isaac turned off the terminal, leaned against the damp wall, and closed his eyes.

He didn't know if he would pass the screening, nor did he know if he would be among the ten people selected from the twelve million applicants.

All he knew was that from this moment on, his sole purpose in life was to become strong enough to personally break through that barrier of holy light.

European theater, ruins of London, south bank of the Thames.

Sixty-two-year-old Elena stood at the doorway of her former home, where the door, walls, and roof were gone.

All that remained was a blackened foundation and a few chalk marks on it, blurred by the rain – marks left by the rescue team when they counted the bodies.

Her family has been witchers for three generations.

My grandfather, John, died in the Devil Infiltration incident in 1943.

During the Blitz of London, the devil opened seven rifts in the chaos. My grandfather and twelve others blocked one of them. When he died, his body was charred by hellfire, and he was still clutching the silver sword engraved with runes in his hand.

His father, Thomas, died in the Vampire Wars in 1987.

That year, the vampire families of Eastern Europe launched a united counterattack. My father was besieged by thirty-seven high-ranking vampires in the old town of Bucharest. In the end, he detonated the three holy light grenades he was carrying, perishing together with the enemy. His body was never fully recovered.

She herself is 62 years old and has been fighting for 40 years.

There is a scar of holy light on my left shoulder, left ten years ago when I was besieging a fallen angel in Prague. It still aches faintly on rainy days.

He has had two artificial joint replacements in his right knee because he chased a werewolf tribe for three days and three nights when he was young.

She retired a long time ago.

Five years ago, after her last mission, she put the silver sword passed down from her grandfather into a camphor wood box and locked it in the deepest part of the basement, thinking she would never take it out again in her life.

Then the angel fell down.

Her home in London's 37th district was transformed into the foundation of this place by that holy fireball that descended from the sky.

Her neighbors, friends, the vegetable vendor she often bought groceries from, and the mailman who greeted her every morning were all gone.

Elena took the silver sword from the basement.

The sword hilt was engraved with her grandfather's name, her father's name, and her own name.

Her son's name should have been listed below, but he rejected the path of a witcher and became an accountant, living in Manchester and still out of contact. This was her tacit acceptance of her son's choice; she felt that three generations of witchers had been enough, and since her son didn't like it, there was no need to make him take on this dangerous profession.

But now she regrets it; the world has become too dangerous.

What should her son, and ordinary people like her, do when faced with such danger?
She sat by the ruins, slowly wiping the blade of her sword with a rag. The silver sword gleamed coldly in the moonlight, reflecting her wrinkled and scarred face.

She spent a long time writing in the 'Past Combat Records' section of the application.

Forty years of combat records is simply too long.

She selected some entries to write: Demon invasion incident, seventeen demons killed; Vampire war, participated in thirty-nine battles of varying sizes, killed two hundred and seven vampires; Encirclement and suppression of rogue angels, killed two and captured one.

After she finished writing it, she glanced at it and even felt like she was making up a story.

But all of this is true.

She wrote three names in the 'Referrer' column.

One of them had been dead for twenty years; the other two were still alive, but one was on the Paris front and the other in the ruins of New York. Even she didn't know if they would receive a confirmation notification. She then pressed the submit button.

A message popped up on the phone screen saying "Application submitted".

Elena put her phone in her pocket and continued polishing the silver sword.

After wiping for ten minutes, she stood up, sheathed the sword, and slung it over her shoulder.

“After you’ve finished your selection,” she whispered to the night sky, “reserve a spot for me.”

A temporary camp in the Asian theater, on the southern slopes of the Himalayas.

Nineteen-year-old Kyle squatted outside the tent, filling out an application form by the light of the campfire. His fingers were frozen stiff, and he had to stop and breathe on them after each word.

He was rescued two weeks ago.

On the third day after the angel fell, he awoke in a hotel in Kathmandu to find the entire city transformed into purgatory.

The screaming crowd, the burning buildings, and those humanoid creatures with tattered wings falling from the sky—he later learned they were angels. Angels? How ridiculous!

He hid in the ruins for three days.

He had no food or water for three days, surviving only on a half-empty bottle of mineral water, until on the third night, an angel found him.

That angel had no wings; to be precise, his wings had been burned away, leaving only two charred scars on his back.

The other party's holy light was very weak, so weak that it could only illuminate a small area in the darkness. His face also looked very young, like a human in his twenties.

He looked at Kyle for a long time.

Then he said, "Come with me."

Kyle followed him and hid underground for half a month.

That angel never said his name.

Kyle only knew that he could sense the energy fluctuations of other angels and knew how to avoid those crazed fellow angels. He led Kyle from one ruin to another, from a basement to an abandoned subway tunnel.

On the fifteenth day, the Witcher's search and rescue team found them.

When Kyle was rescued, he looked back and saw the angel standing there, neither running nor hiding, just watching him.

The search and rescue team leader was silent for a few seconds, then said, "Are you a surrenderist?"

The angel nodded.

"Come with us, accept supervision, cooperate with the investigation. Those who have killed people will be dealt with according to the rules, and those who haven't will be dealt with later."

The angel was taken away.

Kyle still doesn't know whether he's dead or alive.

He spent a long time writing in the 'Reason for Application' section of the application form, writing a lot, then deleting it. In the end, only one line remained:

"He saved me, but I can't save him. I don't want to owe him anything anymore."

He pressed the submit button.

Inside the tent, the campfire crackled.

Kyle stared blankly at the 'Application submitted' message on the screen for a while.

Then he put his phone away, stood up, and walked towards the training field. He still wanted to practice, regardless of whether he would be selected in the end.

North American theater, Montana, a remote farm.

Seventy-year-old Marcus sat at the entrance of the barn, wiping his old hunting rifle, which he had had forty years, with an oilcloth.

The stock of the gun is engraved with twenty-seven marks, each representing the disappearance of a demon.

He was a legend among the previous generation. (End of Chapter)