I searched and fought in America.

Chapter 47 Blood Sacrifice

High up in the underground transfer station, on a suspended platform.

The ghoul priest looked down at the chaos below, his robe, sewn from human skin, gleaming eerily in the dim light. The seams where his hair was sewn together rose and fell slightly with his breath, as if the dead were still breathing.

He had already placed his finger on the detonator, waiting for the elite squad to enter the core area before sending them all to meet Ketchna.

But just now—

"Beep beep beep! Beep beep beep!"

The alarm from the life detection radar came from below.

Immediately afterwards, the priest squinted as gunfire erupted from the flank.

He leaned out and saw a new team. The men were wearing work clothes, and although their tactics were not as professional as the elite squad, their fearless spirit was even stronger.

"Another flock of lost sheep has wandered in..."

A sickly smile appeared on the priest's face, which slowly spread from the corners of his mouth until his entire face was distorted.

"That's great, that's great!"

He withdrew his hand from the detonator and stroked the red button as if caressing a lover.

"The more sacrifices, the happier Ketchna is. Let them kill each other first... let the stench of blood grow stronger... and when they're tired of killing, I'll harvest them all at once."

The priest turned around and looked at the two fanatical suicide bombers standing ramrod straight behind him.

These two people could no longer be called "human." Their eyes were bloodshot from the injection of a special drug, and their pupils were almost the size of pinpoints. Their muscles were abnormally swollen, and veins crawled like earthworms all over their necks and arms. Saliva dripped from the corners of their mouths and onto the ground, making a "sizzling" corrosive sound.

"Go," the priest said gently, as if coaxing a child, "let those rats out of their cages. Let this feast be even more lively."

The two assassins didn't speak—they had long since lost the ability to speak—they simply nodded stiffly, turned, and rushed off the platform.

---

Central Hall.

The Viper Squad is now caught in a two-front war.

Captain "Viper" crouched behind an abandoned oil drum, his tactical helmet's scanning interface constantly updating battlefield data. His gaze darted rapidly between the three o'clock position (the lone gunman) and the flank (the ragtag army that had suddenly appeared).

"Team A, suppress the flank." His voice was as calm as reporting the weather. "Team B, continue to surround and eliminate the lone target. I need to finish the battle in three minutes."

"receive!"

The eight-person team quickly split into two groups, and the firepower was instantly redistributed.

However, just as they had regained their footing—

"Clang!"

A loud bang came from the direction of the cell.

Immediately following were the sounds of hurried footsteps and shouts as if driving livestock.

"Get out of here, all of you!"

"Go! Go quickly!"

"The priest said you are welcome to join this grand feast!"

Two fanatical assassins brandished knives and herded the survivors out of the cell like sheep.

Dozens of emaciated figures stumbled out of the narrow doorway and were driven to the edge of the central hall. They huddled together like a herd of frightened livestock, their eyes vacant and numb.

Someone was pushed down, and the people behind couldn't stop themselves and stepped on him. The person just curled up and didn't even scream.

A mother holds her baby in her arms. The baby is crying, the cry so faint yet so piercing in this space filled with gunshots and screams.

The mother looked down at her child, her eyes devoid of any emotion.

She reached out and covered the baby's mouth.

The more you cover it up, the tighter it gets.

The baby's cries turned into whimpers, and then disappeared.

The mother released her grip, looked at the now motionless baby in her arms, and a relieved smile appeared on her face.

She held the corpse, slowly curled up in the corner, and closed her eyes.

---

The elderly man, wearing only one pair of glasses, staggered and grabbed the wall for support, his breathing labored like a broken bellows. Through the shattered half of the lens, he looked at everything before him—

Those heavily armed and well-trained special forces soldiers.

Those cultists dressed in tattered robes, their faces smeared with blood-stained runes.

Those companions who, like myself, were chewed up and spat out by fate.

He smiled.

It was a bitter laugh born from seeing through everything.

"Look..." His voice was hoarse, as if he were talking to himself, or as if he were delivering a final judgment on the world, "This is our end. To die under the guns of two kinds of madmen."

No one responded to him.

A young girl huddled in a corner, her face covered in knife-carved runes, the wounds festering and emitting a foul stench. But she seemed oblivious to the pain, mechanically repeating a single action—

He counted the pebbles on the ground one by one with his fingers.

"One, two, three, four..."

When she reached seventeen, she forgot where she had been, so she started over.

"One, two, three, four..."

Several children huddled together, squeezed into a crevice in the wall. They dared not cry, dared not move, dared not even breathe. They simply stared at this mad world with their eyes that had lost their light.

Their eyes were exactly the same as those of the dead fish.

---

The cultists appeared from various parts of the pipes.

They wore tattered robes, their faces smeared with blood-drawn runes, and some held half-eaten meat in their hands—the source of which was self-evident.

While chewing, it made "giggle" sounds.

They didn't rush to attack, but instead gathered around as if watching a good show, muttering to themselves:

"Zamekchina..."

"More offerings..."

"More meat..."

Two fanatical assassins stood at the front, their eyes bloodshot, their muscles bulging as if they were about to burst. Saliva dripped from the corners of their mouths onto the ground; they were like two mad dogs walking upright, ready to pounce and tear at any moment.

---

The Viper Squad naturally noticed these newly appeared "spectators".

The vice-captain frowned, glancing at the huddled survivors and then at the cultists watching. He whispered into the communication channel, "Captain, there are at least fifty civilians here. If the fighting spills over..."

"Our mission is to retrieve data," Viper's voice was cold and unwavering. "Not humanitarian aid."

He glanced at the survivors, his gaze no different from that of someone looking at a pile of garbage.

"Civilians pose zero threat. Ignore them."

The vice-captain opened his mouth as if to say something, but ultimately said nothing.

Yes, black money capital won't pay this money.

Viper's command came through the communication channel: "Attention everyone, avoid civilian areas and continue the mission. Their lives or deaths are none of our concern."

The team members' guns were never pointed at the survivors.

But I never thought about protecting them.

In their eyes, those people are no different from rats in the sewers—they are all just background figures, negligible "environmental factors."

---

"The priest said so!"

A cult member ran across the hall, laughing maniacally and shouting in a shrill, piercing voice:

"Once you're done fighting, I'll send you all to meet Ketchum! The gas cylinders down there are enough to blow this place to the sky! Hahahaha!"

The viper's pupils suddenly contracted.

"Scouts!" he growled. "Scan the ground!"

The scout quickly activated the detection equipment, and a few seconds later, his face turned deathly pale.

"Captain... there's a lot of explosives underground!" His voice trembled. "The ground beneath us... is full of gas cylinders! The entire area beneath this hall is!"

The viper did not hesitate at all.

"Mission aborted! All personnel retreat! Immediately!"

"But Captain, the data isn't ready yet..."

"Shut up!" Viper grabbed the team member by the collar. "What's the use of data if you're dead! Let's get out of here!"

The eight-person squad quickly tightened their formation, unleashing full firepower, suppressing Cade and his men on the flanks while moving towards the nearest exit.

Before retreating, Viper glanced back at the direction where Rosen was hiding.

The lone gunman is still there.

He didn't know who the other person was, why they were there, or whether they were friend or foe.

But at this moment, none of that matters anymore.

He pressed the communication channel and spoke in a deep voice towards that unknown direction:

"Hey you, whoever you are, if you want to live, you'd better run. In three minutes, this place will be hell."

After saying that, the last member of the Viper Squad disappeared into the dark pipes.

---

The cultists discovered that the Viper Squad had retreated.

But they did not pursue.

Instead, they became even more insane.

The priest's voice came from above, echoing throughout the hall through a dilapidated loudspeaker that seemed to have been acquired from nowhere:

"They ran away—"

The voice was distorted and shrill, like the howl of a demon crawling out of the depths of hell.

"But it's okay!"

"Kochia has no need for cowardly sacrifices!"

"The rest—"

He pointed to the survivors huddled in the corner, his fingers stained with someone's blood.

"—That's the real gift!"

The fanatical assassins made their move.

They rushed towards the survivors, but this time, they did not kill them.

They pulled a few children out of the crowd like livestock.

"No! Don't!"

A mother finally let out a heart-wrenching scream. The sound pierced through the gunshots, through the maniacal laughter, through all the noise in this hellish place.

She held her child tightly, her fingernails digging into the child's flesh.

The fanatic kicked her in the face.

She flew out like a rag doll, crashing into the wall and sliding to the ground, blood gushing from her mouth, but she was still crawling, still reaching out her hand—

"My child...my..."

The fanatics grabbed the child and lifted him high in the air.

The child's legs were kicking wildly in the air, and his cries were sharp and piercing.

"Bravo, Mamikochina!"

The fanatic's face contorted into a maniacal grin.

The cries of children, the screams of mothers, and the maniacal laughter of cultists intertwined, setting the stage for this blood sacrifice.

And those survivors who were not chosen—

They remained huddled in the same spot.

His eyes were vacant.

It was as if all of this had nothing to do with them.

---

From the high platform, the ghoul priest looked down at everything and nodded in satisfaction.