Sherlock Holmes is not a warp god.

Self-healing experience +4

Flesh Manipulation Experience +2

Pushing the man aside, Furen swayed as he stood up again, his injuries healing at a visible pace.

The tentacles from his body continued to roam all over the pot-headed man's body after churning his brain.

The limbs, spine, waist and abdomen—every muscle was dissected very thoroughly.

Fren suddenly realized, "So that's how muscle strengthening works."

He naturally didn't know the methods of devouring and transplanting that were inherited by the flesh and blood lineage, but Furen could "learn" them.

Through the senses of his tentacles, he knew exactly what kind of structure the muscles that the guy with the bowl cut could mold like clay for boxing champion Mike Tyson were made of.

Living up to the name Holmes, his intelligence proved its worth at this moment, as Fren replicated this ability on himself in a 1:1 fashion.

Considering the principle of energy conservation, muscles do not appear out of thin air. The ends of the tentacles secrete corresponding enzymes that break down the muscles of the pot lid into basic amino acids, which are then reassembled into proteins on Fren's body.

It took less than ten seconds to kill the pot lid head.

However, replicating the muscle strengthening took two or three minutes.

Stanislav watched quietly throughout the entire process.

More accurately, it was ecstasy; the way he looked at Furen's tentacles was as if he were examining some rare treasure.

Furen's body swelled up like an inflated balloon, becoming somewhat bloated and giving off a very disproportionate feeling.

[Refined Level 2 (47/100)]

My experience points increased by more than 40, but I'm still only level 2.

The value of 47 is even fluctuating slightly, ready to drop back down at any moment.

Furen clenched his fist, feeling the powerful force, and then looked at the panel. He raised an eyebrow, realizing that his panel did not recognize such a crude replication.

More precisely, "essence" is not just about muscles; it is the comprehensive evolution of the five internal organs, nerve responses, and senses such as sight and hearing.

A comprehensive training method must be found to steadily improve one's [precision] experience.

Furen felt like a child wielding a sledgehammer; he had only clenched his fist and felt his forearm break.

Compared to the muscles we have now, our bones are somewhat too fragile.

The balance of the physical body is off on the muscle side, and the panel will naturally not acknowledge it.

However, it's not a big problem. At worst, we can break down these muscles later. The most important thing right now is to survive here.

There are two more people.

Fran stared at Stanislavsky and the other two unnamed cultists in front of him, feeling no sense of relief whatsoever.

The only one who truly made him feel threatened was Stanislavsky.

"Go try it," Stanislav said, pointing to another person, but that person refused to go up again.

"My lord..." The man swallowed hard. The death of the man in the suit could be attributed to carelessness, but the fact that the man with the bowl cut was dead meant that this offering was no ordinary food. He knew his own strength; with the bowl cut man and the man in the suit both dead, he figured he'd be in much worse shape if he went.

Before he could finish speaking, he turned and ran towards the entrance of the air-raid shelter.

The key was on him, so he could naturally open the door.

"Bang!"

Stanislav drew his pistol, raised his hand, and fired, hitting the man squarely in the back of the head.

"Bang!"

Before the other person could speak, he fired another shot with his backhand.

The gun was in the car; he used it to shoot Floren in the temple. Floren had level 4 healing and wasn't bothered by a mere fatal wound, but the two cultists were different; they died peacefully.

Furen glanced at them twice. Until their deaths, Furen still didn't know what their flesh-based abilities were.

"If I'm not mistaken, your ability is all-around manipulation of flesh and blood." Stanislav's attitude became even more amiable after killing the two men.

This is the joy of about to enjoy a feast.

"Even among all of the Father's believers, this is an extremely rare ability."

"Unfortunately, your control is too rough."

The ability to precisely create exoskeletons and tooth enamel on the body surface, and to replicate muscle reinforcements with tentacles, was described as "crude" by Stanislavski.

"But that doesn't change the fact that you're an excellent ingredient." Stanislav walked slowly toward Fren and said, "How could I bear to share someone as excellent as you with others?"

"You have no idea how much potential your ability has. After I transplant and absorb it, the ability will inevitably drop in rank, but I will develop it to a level you can't even imagine."

Fren frowned, watching the man who was about to approach him raise his hand and strike again, this time targeting the carotid artery in the neck.

With the added strength of the enhanced muscles, the bone blade made a whistling sound as it sliced ​​through the air, moving at an extremely high speed.

But Furen only felt a blur before his eyes, and the bone blade lost its target.

The man in front of her had somehow pulled out a small knife and was slashing at her chest, as if he wanted to have a heart-to-heart talk with her.

"Such speed!" Fren exclaimed in surprise, taking a step back abruptly.

But it still wasn't fast enough; a wound at least two centimeters deep, revealing bone, appeared from the right scapula to the left abdomen.

Not only was the wound deep enough to expose the bone, but the bones were also shattered. Neither the enhanced muscles nor the exoskeleton generated under Furen's control were of any use.

All they had on the other side was a small knife for peeling fruit.

Looking at the wounds that were beginning to heal from the food, Stanislav suddenly laughed. "If I eat a part of it and then let it heal and regenerate, wouldn't I have an endless supply of you?"

Suddenly, all of Fren's nerves went limp, and to Stanis it seemed as if he had given up the struggle.

That's understandable, since not everyone has the courage to resist death.

"My ability is sensory enhancement, but over the years, I've also transplanted a few muscle enhancement abilities. The one you just killed was also on my recipe." He didn't mind saying a few more words when it came to ingredients.

As for the other sacrifices, they would all die soon anyway, so hearing their conversation wouldn't matter to them.

This answered one of Fren's questions. Just now, when the five cultists, including Stanislav, were discussing how to divide him up, Fren was wondering how these people managed to refrain from killing each other.

Since they both possess flesh-based abilities, they are the best providers of food and organ transplants to each other.

Hearing Stanislavski's explanation now, Fren had a feeling of "I knew it".

"Why are you so late?"

Looking at the two people who had just appeared behind Stanislavsky, Furen said helplessly, his tone tinged with resentment.

"I need to call in reinforcements. You know I'm just a clerk," a young man with a receding hairline chuckled.

He was wearing a fitted gray suit and holding an umbrella. He held the umbrella up to the ground, one leg crossed over the other, his whole body rooted to the ground like a compass.

Looking at Fren's current small head, large body, and bulging muscles, the man covered his mouth and chuckled softly before saying, "Chief Wilke, thank you for your trouble."

"It's such a small matter..." said an elderly man, about 1.75 meters tall, dressed in casual clothes. "He just knows how to order around an old man like me."

The old man was holding a spine in his hand, as if it had just been pulled out.

On one end of the spine, on the head, was Stanislavski's gentle smile.

The old man glanced at Fren's astonished expression, then remembered that the unidentified object in his hand had just mentioned that his ability was sensory enhancement. So he handed the spine in his hand to Fren.

"Want some?"

Wyman Wilke, the head of the National Security Service, spoke in a flat tone as if he were handing over a box of freshly baked cookies.