Courtyard House: I fish in the heavens, a professional bird abuser.

The gun shop's door is gone.

To be precise, it was knocked open from the outside by something. Several broken metal hinges were still hanging on the thick wooden door frame, and a large piece of plaster had been shaken off the wall next to it.

He Yuanchao sidestepped and slipped into the door frame.

The lighting inside was very poor.

The shop wasn't big, only about 60 or 70 square meters. On the left wall was a row of display shelves that were mostly empty. They should have been displaying all sorts of firearms—shotguns, rifles, pistols—but now only a few lonely display stands and empty ammunition boxes remained.

On the right is a counter; the glass case is broken, and it used to contain pistols and knives, but now they've all been stolen.

The ground was littered with broken glass, bullet casings, and several lifeless zombie corpses—their heads riddled with holes and covered in black blood.

And at the very back of the shop.

Leaning against the iron gate leading to the backyard.

The two people were standing back to back.

One male and one female.

He Yuanchao knew the woman.

It was the one he had looked at countless times in the system's database—Jill Valentine.

Former member of STARS Special Tactical Rescue Unit. The toughest woman in the Raccoon City Police Department.

At this moment, she didn't have the posed ease she displayed in the movie posters.

His short brown hair was soaked with sweat and stuck to his forehead and neck.

The blue tactical vest was covered in dust and bloodstains—judging by the color, it was probably the black blood of zombies.

He was holding a Beretta 92F pistol in his right hand, the barrel still smoking.

A strip of cloth was wrapped around the wrist of the left hand, and blood could be vaguely seen seeping from abrasions underneath.

Her face was full of the fatigue and tension that comes from a long battle—her eyes were sunken and her lips were chapped, but her gray-blue eyes remained alert.

He Yuanchao knew that look in his eyes all too well.

That's the look in a veteran's eyes.

Even when I'm exhausted to the limit, I absolutely refuse to relax even a little bit.

The man standing back-to-back with her was larger, dressed in a black Raccoon City Police Department uniform with a badge on his chest. His right leg was clearly injured—his calf was wrapped in layers of bandages, and he walked with a limp. He was also carrying a gun, an old-fashioned revolver.

Payton.

Jill's partner.

A hapless character who didn't even survive two episodes in the original story.

At that moment, the two were being forced into a corner by seven or eight zombies from the front of the shop.

The zombies climbed in through the broken shop window. Although their movements were clumsy, there were enough of them to surge in one after another, as if someone outside was driving them in with a bulldozer.

"How many magazines are left?" Jill's voice was low, but the urgency was palpable.

"Just one left." Payton's voice trembled, whether from pain or fear, it was hard to tell. "And there are only three revolvers left."

"Three shots to take down eight." Jill bit her lip. "That's going to be tough."

"What should we do then?"

"Think of a way."

Jill's answer was extremely straightforward.

Then she raised her pistol and aimed it at the zombie in the lead, dressed in a food delivery rider uniform—the guy still had his delivery box hanging on his back, but it no longer contained pizza.

"Bang!"

A bullet struck him squarely between the eyebrows.

The zombie's head exploded as if it had been kicked from the inside, and it fell backward onto the body behind it.

But the one behind it stepped directly on its companion's corpse and continued crawling forward.

"Bang!"

Another shot.

This one fell over too.

But Jill's magazine was also empty.

"Click."

Empty position, idle trading.

Jill swore.

"Payton, give me your gun."

"Three shots..." Payton's hand trembled as he handed over the revolver.

"Three shots are enough. I'll use the knife for the rest."

Jill took the revolver and simultaneously drew a tactical folding knife from the outside of her thigh.

Dual-wielding.

A pistol in the left hand and a knife in the right.

The posture wasn't exactly graceful, but it exuded a fierce, relentless energy.

He Yuanchao watched this scene from the doorway.

almost.

If they wait any longer, these two will be cornered. Although Jill's marksmanship is indeed good, it seems unlikely that three bullets and a folding knife can defeat six zombies.

He took the shotgun off his shoulder.

We didn't go in through the main entrance.

That would be too stupid. Charging straight in would not only get you blocked by the horde of zombies, but you might also get accidentally injured by the two tense police officers inside.

He went around to the side of the shop.

There was a window there that led to the back alley.

He Yuanchao tapped the rifle with the butt of his gun.

The window was already loose, and with that impact, it fell off completely, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

Jill inside immediately turned her head and pointed her gun at the window.

"Don't shoot."

He Yuanchao's voice came in through the window.

Very peaceful.

It was so calm that it felt almost unreal in an environment filled with screams and gunfire.

"Friendly troops. Just passing by. Seen you guys fighting so fiercely, wanted to lend a hand. Mind?

Jill did not move her gun away.

But her finger loosened its grip on the trigger just a tiny bit.

In the dim light, she could only see a tall figure at the window, wearing an ill-fitting bulletproof vest and carrying a shotgun.

"Who are you?" Jill's voice was wary.

"He Yuanchao. You can call me He."

He Yuanchao climbed in through the window with swift movements, his feet barely making a sound when they landed.

"Those who used to work under the hive, the ones who provided the protection—don't worry, it's the ex. They've already resigned."

When Jill heard the words "protective umbrella," her pupils contracted slightly, and she raised the muzzle of her gun an inch higher.

"The protectors?"

"My ex," He Yuanchao emphasized, "My relationship with them now... well, it's not very friendly. They tried to turn me into a guinea pig by injecting me with the virus three times, so I smashed the glass in their lab. That evens things out."

Payton, listening from behind, looked completely bewildered.

But the zombies outside don't care what you're talking about.

Two more climbed in through the shop window.

"We can talk about chatting later."

He Yuanchao raised his shotgun.

The movement was very casual, like picking out a watermelon at a market.

"You guys take two steps back. This stuff splashes a bit at close range."

Jill hesitated for less than a second.

Then she pulled Payton back three steps.

It's not because of trust.

It was because she was truly running out of ammunition, and any further pretense would be suicidal.

He Yuanchao stood in front of the zombie horde.

Six.

In this narrow space of less than ten meters, six zombies are already considered a high density.

They smelled the scent of living people and were so excited that their saliva almost dripped onto the ground.

The one at the front was a fat man wearing a floral shirt that was stretched too tight. There was a hole in his stomach, and his intestines were sticking out, dragging on the ground like a purplish-black rope.

"With a figure like yours, you probably didn't pay much attention to your diet when you were alive."

He Yuanchao muttered something to himself.

Then he pulled the trigger.

"Bang--!"

The destructive power of a No. 12 shotgun shell at a distance of three meters is catastrophic.

Dozens of steel balls were scattered in a fan shape, and the fat zombie's entire head, along with part of its shoulder, instantly disappeared from its body.

It's as clean as if it had been erased with an eraser.

The headless body took two more steps forward due to inertia before collapsing to the ground with a thud.

He Yuanchao pulled the pump handle with his right hand.

"Click."

The empty shell casing flew out, did a somersault in the air, and rolled twice on the ground.

A new round is loaded.

The second shot.

"Bang--!"

Another head is gone.

The third shot.

"Bang--!"

This shot hit two zombies that were lunging at the side. The 12-gauge shotgun, fired at this distance, had a dispersion surface that could just cover the two targets side by side.

Both heads shattered simultaneously.

Efficiency at its maximum.

The fourth shot. The fifth shot.

Gunshots bounced back and forth in the small shop, making people's eardrums buzz.

The smell of gunpowder was so strong that I couldn't open my eyes.

The ground was covered with bits of flesh, black blood, and bullet casings.

Fifteen seconds.

Six zombies.

All resolved.

He Yuanchao put down his gun.

He stretched his right wrist, which was holding the gun. The recoil of the shotgun wasn't much to him, but it was still a little sore after firing so many shots.

He turned around.

I saw Jill and Payton's expressions.

Payton's mouth was agape, his jaw almost dropping to the ground.

Jill was slightly better off; at least her mouth was still closed, but in her grey-blue eyes, two words were clearly written—

Shock.

"Your gun shop is good."

He Yuanchao patted the shotgun in his hand, as if praising a newly purchased item.

"The only problem is that we're a little short on inventory."