Dragon Raja: Lu Mingfei finds a Freylian

“If someone commits a crime and goes unpunished,” Caesar continued, crossing his arms and placing his two pistols on his shoulders in a standard ready position, “then no one will believe in the glory of God.”

He looked at the biker gang ahead.

The monkey-faced man led his men in retreat. Their steps were hurried, and several men tripped over puddles, only to scramble to their feet. Their concern wasn't whether Caesar was within their firing range, but rather, that they absolutely mustn't remain within the Desert Eagle's range.

These heavy pistols exuded the intimidating power of war machines. The massive grips were engraved with a winged angel, the Gattuso family crest, symbolizing "death and redemption." In the moonlight and the glow of flares, the emblem seemed to come alive, its wings trembling slightly in the shadows.

"Bird's Nest, Bird's Nest, the cargo has been delivered. Should Bird Flower return to port? Please advise."

The B-1B bomber pilot's voice echoed through the central control room of Kassel College via an encrypted channel. The U.S. military pilot had always believed he was receiving orders from headquarters in Okinawa, but the channel he was connected to was actually to Eva, a supercomputer located in the United States.

"Quehua, Quehua, the nest has been received. It is approved to return. Good luck on your journey," Eva commanded in a simulated, steady male voice.

In the central control room, Professor Schneider stared intently at the large screen. The images displayed the streets of Chizuru Town from multiple angles: satellite images, drone aerial photography, and real-time video recordings from ground cameras.

"Isn't it too early to send the bombers back?" Schneider asked worriedly. "What if Caesar and the others still need support—"

“Using the U.S. military in a bombing raid would trigger an internal investigation by the U.S. Department of Defense, and it should only be used as a last resort,” Eva replied. “Our presence might be discovered. This is a last resort.”

“But now it’s unnecessary. Considering Caesar’s Word of Power Weasel and the three hundred bullets in the equipment box, we can call the fully armed Caesar Gattuso the King of the Battlefield.”

On the street, the monkey-faced man stopped backing away.

He realized that if he retreated any further, morale would completely collapse. He had to do something; he had to regain control of the situation.

He raised his hand, as if to order his men to fire, even if it was just random shooting, to rain down bullets on Caesar who had retrieved the box.

But he had just raised his arm—

"Bang!" The gunshot rang out in the rainy night, like a thunderous roar.

Chapter 551 King of the Battlefield (Part 1)

The monkey-faced man screamed shrilly. His arm was still raised in the air, but the part below the wrist was gone. A .0.44-inch Magnum bullet struck his wrist bone at a distance of fifty meters, the enormous kinetic energy tearing and pulverizing bone, muscle, and skin. Blood mist exploded in the rain, mixing with bone fragments and flesh, splattering him all over.

He froze for a second before realizing what had happened. A wave of excruciating pain washed over him, and he clutched his mangled arm, collapsing to his knees in the floodwater, letting out a scream that sounded inhuman.

But it's not over yet.

Caesar's gun barrel moved slightly.

"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Five shots were fired in quick succession, each aimed at the calf of a biker. The bullets tore through muscle, broke bones, and splashed blood into the puddles.

The bikers stumbled and fell into the puddles. They clutched their calves and groaned, their shotguns thrown into the water, splashing even more violently. The bullets had pierced their calf muscles, and even with treatment, many of them would suffer lifelong disabilities.

These people underestimated Caesar's modified Desert Eagles. Even without the added long barrels, they had an effective range of over 100 meters. At that distance, their accuracy was sufficient to hit a vital organ.

A lion is still a lion, as long as it finds its teeth.

Caesar emptied his Desert Eagle magazine. Without pausing, he threw both pistols directly towards Lu Mingfei.

"Come on, load!" Caesar roared.

Lu Mingfei clumsily caught the two heavy pistols. His fingers were still trembling; the recent battle and zero consecutive use had pushed him to his physical limits. But he forced himself to concentrate, grabbed a handful of brass-tipped Magnum rounds from the equipment case, and began loading them into the magazine.

One, two, three...

His movements were slow, his fingers stiff with cold and tension. But he knew Caesar was waiting for him. Every second could be a matter of life and death.

Caesar didn't wait; he took an Uzi submachine gun from his equipment case. It was a 9mm caliber weapon with a high rate of fire and low recoil, suitable for close-range suppression. He cocked the bolt and chambered a round.

Then he opened fire.

"Da da da da da!"

Uzi's gunfire echoed through the rainy night like a rapid drumbeat. Bullets sprayed in a fan shape, covering an area thirty meters ahead. Those bikers still struggling to get up were hit again. This time, not in the calves, but in the thighs, arms, and shoulders. Caesar deliberately avoided vital organs, but each shot was enough to incapacitate someone.

The biker gang members completely lost their fighting spirit.

Abandoning their comrades, their weapons, everything, they howled and leaped onto the three vans, trying to escape this hell. Some managed to get on, while others collapsed in the rain before even reaching the cargo area; Caesar's bullets pierced their calves, incapacitating them.

If they are lucky enough to be hit by a 9mm bullet from an Uzi, they can be treated and will be able to ride motorcycles in the future. If they are torn in the muscle by a .0.44-inch bullet from a Desert Eagle, they will be unable to obtain a driver's license for life due to disability.

They have been lawless thugs since joining the Red Guard. They race cars, sell drugs, rob people, and assault others. The police dare not shoot them, and society is lenient with them because they are young.

But this time, they experienced the fear of violence for themselves.

Absolute, overwhelming, and merciless violence.

The van skidded to a stop in the rain. The driver floored the accelerator, the wheels spinning in the puddles, splashing up muddy water. The three vehicles, carrying the remaining few dozen motorcyclists, fled towards the end of the long street.

Caesar emptied the Uzi's magazine. Without changing it, he tossed the submachine gun to Lu Mingfei.

Lu Mingfei had just finished loading a magazine into a Desert Eagle. He took the Uzi and continued loading another magazine into a Desert Eagle, while also changing the magazine in the Uzi. He was in a flurry of activity, but he gritted his teeth and persevered.

Caesar took the fully loaded Desert Eagle.

He raised his hand and aimed. Not at a person, but at the car.

"Bang! Bang!"

Two loud bangs rang out almost simultaneously. The right rear tire of the first van burst, tearing the rubber and deforming the rim. The vehicle lost its balance, skidded in the water, and crashed into the roadside guardrail.

"Bang! Bang!"

The rear tires of the second and third trucks also burst one after another. All three vehicles were paralyzed on the street, their wheels emitting white smoke and their bodies tilted to one side.

The driver was still frantically pressing the accelerator, hoping the car with the flat tire could manage to travel a few more kilometers and shake off the murderous man behind him. But the monkey-faced man suddenly pulled out the car keys.

“We can’t retreat,” the monkey-faced man said, sitting in the passenger seat, his face contorted in pain from his severed arm. “Today, either we kill him, or he kills us.”

He grabbed his underling by the collar, his voice hoarse: "Go, kill him for me! If you can do it, you can have anything! Money, women, the best medicine! I'll take you to Shinjuku, and you'll have a different woman every day! Anything you want, I can give you! Kill him!"

The younger brother's face was deathly pale, his lips trembled, but a greedy glint flashed in his eyes.

The warehouse was wide open.

Countless beams of light simultaneously illuminated the motorcycle headlights. Dozens of heavy motorcycles burst forth from the cargo hold, their engines roaring in unison like wild beasts unleashed. Each motorcycle carried a member of a biker gang, their eyes bloodshot from drugs and LSD, their faces displaying a crazed, reckless expression.

The Red Guards launched their final, fierce attack.

Everyone injected themselves with excessive amounts of drugs and LSD, the surge of adrenaline suppressing their fear. They mounted their motorcycles and blasted the most ear-piercing heavy metal music. Death metal, black metal, industrial metal—all sorts of violent rhythms exploded in the rainy night.

Then they launched an attack.

Like an ancient cavalry charge, but more frenzied, more chaotic, and more desperate.

Caesar closed his eyes.

Kamaitachi releases.

The domain of the Word of Power expanded from him, and expanded again! A radius of fifty meters, one hundred meters, one hundred and fifty meters. Every sound was captured, analyzed, and fed back. The roar of engines, the screeching of tires against the ground, the frenzied shouts of the bikers, the rhythm of heavy metal music, even the frequency of everyone's heartbeat.

In this realm, Caesar is God.

He heard it.

I heard the engine of the first motorcycle revving, 7000 RPM, and still climbing. I heard the rider's breathing, rapid, with the euphoria of drugs. I heard the sound of wheels rolling over puddles, the spray leaving trails of water.

Caesar opened his eyes.

The Desert Eagle roared, its sound like thunder.

He held the gun with both hands, firing in both directions, bullets flying like a torrent. The modified Desert Eagle had an extremely high rate of fire, almost reaching the limit of a semi-automatic pistol. The muzzle flash flickered in the rainy night, like the blink of death's eye.

Once these biker gang members entered the Kamaitachi's territory, they entered Caesar's exclusive battlefield.

Chapter 552 King of the Battlefield (Part 2)

The traffic jam and the hail of bullets collided head-on.

The bullet pierced the fuel tank, causing gasoline to leak and ignite upon contact with fire. Flames exploded in the rain, and an orange-red fireball illuminated the night sky.

The bullet broke the axle, causing the motorcycle to lose its balance, tumble to the ground, and throw the rider off, crashing into a vehicle on the side of the road. The sound of bones cracking could be clearly heard.

The bullet tore through the wheel hub, scattering metal fragments like deadly shrapnel.

Sparks flew everywhere, and explosions followed one after another.

One motorcycle after another overturned, caught fire, and exploded in the floodwaters. Boys tumbled to the ground, screaming and howling. Some tried to get up, but were hit by subsequent bullets and fell again.

Caesar fired mechanically, his face expressionless. Neither joy nor anger, as if he were completing a task. A task of cleaning up trash.

The Red Guards intended to force Caesar to abandon his position with a mass charge. They had always been so unruly and invincible. Arriving to the accompaniment of heavy metal music, with blades mounted on the back seats, fueled by their surging hormones, they felt that everything in their path would be crushed by their wheels.

The police didn't dare shoot them. They hid behind the police car door and shouted at them because they were young people, and young people should be forgiven by society for doing small bad things.

The guards laughed wildly, jumped onto the roof of the police car on their motorcycles, spun around, and sped away.

But today, they are met with absolute violence.

The Desert Eagle coldly spat fire, and the Red Guards dismounted in rhythm. Caesar didn't retreat even half a step; he stood in the middle of the street, beside the silver equipment case, like an insurmountable statue.

Caesar took the reloaded Uzi from Lu Mingfei and continued firing.

The 9mm bullet has a higher rate of fire and a wider coverage area. Although it is not as powerful as the Desert Eagle, at this distance, it is enough to penetrate the motorcycle's shell and injure the rider.

The Kamaitachi brought back the sound of the Red Guard boys' hearts pounding with fear.

Thump thump thump thump thump...

It's getting faster and faster, and more and more chaotic.

At the start of the charge, their hearts raced due to the drugs and euphoria, but it was still within manageable limits. Now, however, fear overwhelmed the effects of the drugs. They watched their comrades fall one by one, saw motorcycles explode one after another, and saw the blond man stand tall like a war god.

Courage is fading.

The courage of Bushido, when faced with the cold, indifferent pressure of industrial machinery, is like a tiger with its spine broken.

"Charge! Run them over! Crush them to death! Charge!"

The monkey-faced man roared like a madman. Despite having only one hand, he charged out on a Ducati heavy motorcycle. The emperor of the track, a top-of-the-line motorcycle worth over $100,000. He twisted the throttle to the floor, and the engine roared deafeningly.

Without his supervision, no one would dare to charge forward at a time like this.

But the only way to survive is to charge forward and crush Caesar under their wheels.

The boys mustered their last bit of courage and twirled their long knives above their heads. Some brandished short-barreled shotguns and fired wildly, buckshot exploding in the air and lead pellets scattering everywhere, but most of them missed, and a few hit the puddles around Caesar, splashing up muddy water.

Caesar fired with a steady rhythm. A Desert Eagle in his left hand, an Uzi in his right, he alternated fire. The bullets hit their targets with pinpoint accuracy, never missing.

Half the street was flooded with the wreckage of motorcycles. Burning motorcycles, broken parts, and the wailing of bikers. Rainwater mixed with gasoline, blood, and mud flowed down the street, forming a filthy river.