Infinity: Kill your way through the movie world.

The two squads combined, a group of about thirty people, and guarded behind a low wall. In the distance, the berserk angels were gathering, and more and more of them were coming together.

To the west, the 52nd Squad was surrounded.

The squad leader's name is Marcus, the same as the Demon Hunter Knight, but they are not the same person.

He was an ordinary witcher, so ordinary that he couldn't be more so. His marksmanship was average, his knife skills were average, but he was incredibly lucky.

He fought the Witcher for half a year, and with seventeen scars on his body, he didn't die.

"Captain, there are five to the east!" a team member shouted urgently.

"There are some in the west too!"

"There are even more in the south!"

Marcus crouched behind cover, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, his hands moving swiftly: "Don't panic, concentrate your ammunition."

The team members piled up the remaining ammunition. They had more than thirty armor-piercing rounds, more than one hundred ordinary rounds, two hand grenades, and eleven men, four of whom were wounded.

The Witcher had no shortage of supplies, but each person could only carry a limited amount. The supply lines were constantly being disrupted by the falling angels, which was the unexpected problem.

This is why there is a shortage of supplies.

Marcus took the cigarette out of his mouth, looked around, and saw the berserk angels approaching at a leisurely pace, as if they were taking a stroll.

They weren't in a hurry because they knew these people couldn't escape.

"Captain, what should we do?" one of the team members asked.

Marcus put his cigarette back in his mouth: "Fire, fire until you run out of bullets."

"Out of bullets?"

Marcus drew his sword: "Use swords. We've all been enhanced; we're the vanguard. Back when we were lone wolf demon hunters, we still went out and fought demons and evil spirits on our own."

He finished speaking and took a sip.

The team members looked at him without saying a word. They knew what using a knife meant. Those berserk angels were three meters tall. If you couldn't kill them with a single slash, they could smash a person into a meat patty with a single slap.

The first berserker angel charged forward, fifty meters away, but no one fired a shot.

Forty meters away, no one fired a shot.

At thirty meters, Marcus finally shouted, "Fire!"

More than thirty bullets were fired at the same time. The berserk angel at the front was riddled with bullets and fell to the ground. The others rushed over its corpse.

"Grenade!"

Two grenades were thrown, knocking down two people.

But more kept coming. The team members kept firing, changing magazines one after another. When they ran out of armor-piercing rounds, they used regular enchanted bullets, and when they ran out of regular bullets, they used knives.

A berserker angel rushed to the front of the cover and slapped a teammate away. The teammate flew five meters and crashed into the wall, where he lay motionless.

Marcus rushed forward and plunged a knife into the back of the creature's leg, causing it to kneel down. Another member then plunged a knife into its throat.

It fell down.

“How much is left?” Marcus shouted.

"Out of bullets!"

"I'm gone too!"

Marcus glanced at the knife in his hand, then at the seven or eight berserker angels still charging forward.

He gripped his knife tightly: "Go, I'll hold them off from the front."

Ten people rushed out from behind the cover and pounced on the berserk angels. They knew they couldn't win, but they had no way out.

Behind that is the main battlefield, and behind the main battlefield is the human world.

One teammate was sent flying, then another. Marcus pierced the stomach of a berserker angel, was hit in the back by another, and crashed to the ground.

He got up, his mouth full of blood.

"Stand up!" he shouted.

The remaining team members stood beside him, five against seven three-meter-tall monsters. They gripped their knives, preparing for one last charge. Gunshots rang out in the distance.

The dense gunfire was like a torrential rain hitting a tin roof. One after another, the berserk angels fell. Marcus looked up and saw a group of about thirty men coming from the east, carrying guns and firing as they ran.

They are Anna and Karl's people.

They repelled a wave of berserker angels on the main battlefield, gaining a brief respite before coming to provide support.

This was also to clear a space so that the continuously falling angels could concentrate in one place, thus allowing the Witcher army to unleash its full combat power.

Marcus plopped down on the ground, the cigarette falling out of his mouth. He picked it up and put it back in his mouth.

"They're fucking slow," he laughed.

Anna ran over to him and looked at him: "Still alive?"

Marcus spat out a mouthful of blood.

"Can't die."

Anna glanced at the fallen teammates behind him, then at the five still standing: "You held on."

Marcus didn't say anything; he lit his cigarette and took a puff.

The situation on the battlefield is changing.

Ordinary witchers were initially chased and attacked, but they gradually gained a foothold and are now starting to push back.

It's not because they've become stronger, it's because there are fewer berserk angels, and nothing is falling from the sky anymore. Metatron's armory, that Garden of Eden that was transformed into an armory, has nothing left to lose.

Hawke and his squad pushed in from the east, Anna and Carl from the south, and Marcus rose up from the west, leading the rest north.

The three groups of people were like three knives, stabbing at the middle from three directions. The berserk angels were trapped in the middle and their numbers dwindled.

But Metatron didn't care.

He didn't care how many of those berserk angels died; he only cared about the blood and souls on the ground. The blood was still flowing, and the souls were still drifting.

His knife is almost finished.

Black mist continuously emanated from Wu Heng's palm. The root-like patterns within the mist had spread over a large area, binding the blood and souls and preventing them from heading towards Metatron.

But Metatron was fighting him for it, using that knife, the cracks on the knife were almost gone, only a few remained.

Isaac stood atop the pile of corpses, gazing at the distant barrier, which glowed like a sun about to explode.

He knew what that meant; the knife was about to be made.

"Hurry up," he said into the communicator, though it was unclear who he was talking to.

Thomas stood beside him, his left arm still hanging down, his right hand gripping the hunting blade: "The president is racing against time."

Isaac nodded: "Then let's see who's faster."

Karim crouched behind, his seven broken scorpion tails dangling on the ground. To buy time, he fought against a large number of high-ranking berserker angels who were over seven meters tall: "The vanguard demon hunter team has gained the upper hand. Give them another half hour, and those berserker angels will be wiped out."

“Half an hour,” Thomas repeated. “Can the president hold out for half an hour?”

The three people looked at the barrier in the distance, and at the person in front of the barrier. His back was straight and his hands were steady, but no one knew how much longer he could hold on.

On the battlefield, the sound of gunfire grew increasingly faint.

Berserker Angels are becoming increasingly rare.

The Witchers pushed towards the center from all directions, like pulling in a net. Hawke's team had already reached within 200 meters of the barrier, while Anna and Karl's men flanked them from the other side.

Marcus, an ordinary witcher, led his five remaining men through the middle.

"We're almost there," Hawke said.

"Soon," Anna nodded.

“One hundred meters to go.” Marcus gasped for breath, his lungs feeling like they were about to explode.

The barrier glowed, and Metatron's blade vibrated. Only one crack remained on the blade. (End of Chapter)