Crossover Anime: I Became Invincible Starting as an Ajin

Chapter 146 Eyewitness Accounts – The Last Battalion & Vatican Agency

They didn't just pounce on us like the zombies in the movies.

They dispersed, forming a loose encirclement that cut off all my escape routes.

The "nurse" elegantly drew circles in the air with her scalpel, while the "man" rhythmically tapped the ground with his briefcase, as if keeping time.

They were enjoying the hunt.

Despair gripped me in an instant.

I leaned against the cold wall, clutching a rusty iron pipe I'd salvaged from the ruins, but I knew it was useless.

"Don't be afraid, little mouse!"

The nurse licked her lips. "Pain is a gift, death is an climax—let us help you unwrap this gift, shall we?"

They began to close the encirclement. The butcher raised his fire axe, and the hippies lit Molotov cocktails.

I closed my eyes, preparing to receive the final, twisted "pleasure".

However, the expected attack did not come.

Instead, a deep, rhythmic rumble came from afar. That wasn't a sound an infected person could make; it was—the sound of an engine?

I suddenly opened my eyes.

An armored personnel carrier painted in desert camouflage, with a rugged design and a heavy machine gun mounted on its roof, brute forcefully rammed through the abandoned vehicles blocking its path and came to a stop at the end of the street, like a steel behemoth.

On the vehicle was an emblem he had never seen before—it resembled some kind of twisted imperial eagle emblem.

The infected with the blood-dried word were also drawn to the sudden intruder, and the joy on their faces turned into curiosity and a hint of annoyance at being disturbed.

The armored vehicle's hatch opened, and a figure jumped out.

He was a short, stout man wearing round-framed glasses and a slightly bulky German military uniform.

His face was expressionless, devoid of the madness of the infected or the fear of the survivors, only an absolute, cold calm.

He straightened his collar, then slowly raised his head, his gaze sweeping over every infected person present, finally settling on me, who was surrounded in the middle, terrified.

His gaze, through his thick glasses, was as precise and cold as a scalpel.

Then, in English with a heavy German accent, he spoke clearly and steadily: "Gentlemen, I am deeply sorry to have disturbed your despicable pleasure."

The corners of his mouth seemed to twitch upwards very slightly, forming an arc that could hardly be called a smile.

"But this world, and you wretched plagues—"

He paused, as if carefully choosing his words, and then said, word by word, "—It has already become the last stepping stone for my final brigade to reach the final stage of the war."

At that moment, the air seemed to freeze.

The infected person's maniacal laughter froze on their face, and my mind went blank.

Having just escaped the clutches of the Blood Cross, they seem to have fallen into an even deeper and more unpredictable madness.

As soon as the major finished speaking, as if it were a silent command, the heavy machine gun on top of the armored personnel carrier emitted a muffled and terrifying roar.

"Thump thump thump thump—!!"

It wasn't a sweeping attack, but rather extremely precise bursts of fire.

Each large-caliber bullet seemed to have eyes, precisely piercing the skull or chest cavity of an infected person.

The "nurse" holding the scalpel, her head and the maniacal laugh on her face, exploded like a ripe watermelon in an instant;

The "man" carrying the briefcase was broken in half at the waist, and his fingers were still twitching nervously as his upper body flew out.

The butcher, wielding a fire axe, had a hole the size of a bowl ripped into his solid chest. He looked down, seemingly trying to express some kind of twisted surprise, before collapsing to the ground with a thud.

There were no screams, only the muffled thud of bullets tearing through flesh and the sound of bodies falling to the ground.

Highly efficient, deadly, and merciless.

The hippies with Molotov cocktails tried to fight back.

But just as they raised their arms, several sniper bullets from different directions pierced their wrists and knees almost simultaneously.

The Molotov cocktail fell to the ground, flames licking their own bodies, contorted in pain or perhaps pleasure, but they were already incapacitated.

The whole process took less than ten seconds.

The hunting ground, which was just moments ago filled with a playful and cruel atmosphere of entertainment, has been transformed into a slaughterhouse composed of broken corpses and spreading blood.

The smell of gunpowder in the air temporarily overpowered the stench of blood.

I stood frozen in place.

This is not salvation, this is—another form of destruction.

This chilling, ruthless destruction instills fear no less than the madness of the Blood Cross.

The major didn't even glance at the corpses.

He walked steadily across a pool of still-wet blood and stood before me. His boots were stained crimson, but he didn't seem to care.

"Stand up, soldiers."

His voice remained steady, without any sense of command, yet it carried an undeniable power.

I was trembling, and I managed to stand up straight by leaning against the wall.

His gaze, peering through his glasses, scrutinized me as if he were assessing an object.

"You are not infected. That's good."

He nodded, as if it were just a trivial observation. "You're lucky to have met us."

We were the last group.

We are committed to cleaning up everything on this planet—the impurities.

When he used the word "impurities," his gaze swept over the infected corpses on the ground, his tone carrying an extreme contempt.

At that moment, several soldiers, also dressed in German uniforms and well-equipped, appeared like ghosts from the surrounding ruins.

They moved swiftly and silently, skillfully examining the bodies to confirm they were truly dead, and then firing finishing shots at those still twitching.

Their eyes, like the major's, were cold and focused, as if they were dealing with industrial waste, not the humans they once were.

A soldier walked up to the burning hippie, who was still groaning and laughing eerily in the flames.

The soldier raised his gun expressionlessly and aimed it at the man's forehead.

"Wait!" I couldn't help but exclaim, a ridiculous sense of sympathy making me blurt out, "He—he might—"

The soldiers did not pause in their movements at all.

"Bang!"

The gunshot rang out crisply.

The sounds of pain abruptly ceased.

The major looked at me, and the faint smile at the corner of his mouth seemed to become a little more pronounced.

"Compassion, sir, is a luxury of the old humanity, and also the poison that has led them to their current depravity."

He pointed to the corpse on the ground.

"Look at them. Are they even human? No. They are viruses, plagues, errors that need to be thoroughly disinfected. Our final task force's job is to correct these errors."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice low, yet filled with a fervent conviction: "What we believe in is the pure human will, the iron order, and the technological power that transcends the mundane!"

Not this kind of monster—surviving on filthy viruses and twisted desires!

Anything inhuman, anything that defiles the purity of humanity, must be purified by absolute force!

"Of course, in the end we will be buried with them; perhaps this is the price of wanting to accomplish something great!"

I understand now. They are not just survivors; they are a group of fanatics with powerful weapons and an extreme "human supremacy" ideology.

In their eyes, the Blood Cross Infected are no longer human.

No matter what kind of people they were before they were infected, after they were infected they were just monsters spreading the plague!

The major straightened up, regaining his cold composure.

"Take him with you; we need to gather intelligence on this area."

He gave instructions to the soldier beside him, then turned and walked toward the armored vehicle.

Two soldiers stepped forward, one on the left and one on the right, to "escort" me.

Their hands were as strong as iron clamps.

I glanced back at the ruins and corpses, then looked at the short, stout figure in front of me, whose back exuded a heavy, oppressive aura like a mountain.

I escaped the hell of the Blood Cross by sheer luck, but it seemed I had stepped into a world constructed of steel, gunpowder, and cold convictions.

An even more despairing cage.

My name is Ian, and I used to be an ordinary postman in London.

Until that nightmare known as the "Blood Cross" swept through everything.

I remember it clearly; that afternoon, I was delivering the last few mail items near Victoria Street.

Suddenly, a scream that didn't sound human came from across the street, followed by shattering glass and screams from the crowd.

-

I saw a man in a suit frantically stabbing an old woman who had already fallen to the ground with the sharp end of an umbrella, his face bearing the most—joyful smile I had ever seen in my life.

On his forehead, a fresh, cross-shaped wound, like one branded with a hot iron, was oozing scarlet blood.

Then, chaos erupted like a virus.

The people around him—the familiar shop owner, the hurried white-collar worker, even a little girl holding her mother's hand—all had that damned cross appear on their foreheads, and their eyes were instantly replaced by pure malice and madness.

The streets have become slaughterhouses, and the prey are those of us who haven't had time to "change."

I hid in the storage room of a convenience store on the street corner, and survived the first and most chaotic three days with a few boxes of mineral water and expired canned food.

Outside, there was a constant stream of screams, laughter, and explosions, along with a nauseating smell of flesh being torn apart and burning.

I tried to rescue them.

On the fourth day, I saw a young woman cornered by two infected people.

I mustered my courage and used an iron pipe I found to ambush one of them.

He fell, but another infected person, a girl who might have been a ballet dancer before, turned around and gave me a sweet yet cruel smile.

Instead of attacking me immediately, she began to slowly break off the fingers of her first prey with extremely precise and elegant movements, one by one, accompanied by the groans of pain and ecstasy emanating from her.

She was enjoying it, enjoying the process, enjoying my fear.

I ran away, like a coward.

A few days later, my hiding place was discovered.

It wasn't me who made the noise; it was them, these "Bloody Crosses," who began an organized purge.

This made me realize something terrifying: they are crazy, they are bloodthirsty, but they are also intelligent. They search buildings like hunters, using traps and teamwork.

I was forced to begin my escape through the ruins.

The darkest day was when I and two other survivors—an elderly couple—temporarily allied ourselves and tried to cross a subway tunnel to reach the rumored safe zone.

We were cornered. Not by aimless madmen, but by three infected individuals with calm eyes and coordinated movements. They surrounded us like cats hunting mice, armed with homemade knives and axes.

"Kneel down," one of the leaders said, his voice calm, even slightly magnetic. "Give up resistance, and we'll spare you, letting you find a place to hide and rest. But if you resist—"

The three of us hesitated. Reason told us that our experiences along the way proved that these people's words were not very credible.

But the cold, hunger, and fear made us subconsciously want to believe what they said.

But when we believed them and relaxed our guard, they made their move.

The old man tried to block his wife with his body.

The infected leader laughed and began to make long, painful wounds on them with a blade.

The old woman's screams echoed through the tunnel, while the two perpetrators wore expressions of satisfaction.

I watched all of this, feeling a chill run through my body.

I know I should do something, but I can't move.

Extreme fear and a strange—understanding—froze me.

In the end, I made a decision that still haunts me to this day—I turned around and ran with all my might into the dark depths of the other end of the tunnel.

Behind them, there were the old man's desperate curses, the old woman's gradually weakening wails, and the excited laughter of the infected as they discovered their new "toys".

I survived, at the cost of two lives.

I wandered through the ruins like a ghost for a week, surviving on scavenging and rainwater.

I thought I would either go crazy or be assimilated sooner or later.

Until that day, in the ruins of a bombed church, I was surrounded by a group of people dressed in black robes, their eyes colder than steel.

They moved swiftly, were taciturn, and the weapons in their hands gleamed with silver and the luster of ancient scriptures.

I thought I was finished.

They assumed they were also among those terrifying infected, but—

The leader, a priest with a scar on his face and eyes like burning flames, did not have a bloody cross scar on his face.

He simply glanced me up and down, then asked in a low voice with a heavy accent, "Can you still pray, child?"

I froze, shook my head, and couldn't utter a single word from my chapped lips.

He snorted, it was impossible to tell whether it was disappointment or something else.

"Then pick this up," he said, tossing me a short stick that looked heavy and had a silver cross at the top.

"Stay close. If you fall behind, or if that damn mark appears on your forehead, I'll personally send you to hell so you can find true peace."

Later, I learned that they were people who belonged to God.

Vatican City, Lesson Thirteen.

I picked up the weapon they handed me; perhaps this time, I could face those demonic infected.

I will no longer let nightmares and guilt wake me from my dreams.