A figure shot out from the thick dust filling the corridor.
In an instant, it crossed dozens of paces to appear before the two smugglers like a terrifying, ethereal specter. The dagger in its hand reflected a cold, steely glint. Like a nimble butterfly among flowers, it danced lightly across their necks.
A torrent of blood gushed from their severed necks, dyeing the surrounding floor and walls red.
The two smugglers clutched their necks and collapsed to the ground. Their hands were quickly soaked crimson by the gushing blood. Within moments, they were dead.
Zhou Chen picked up a rifle from one of the men—its magazine had yet to be reloaded. With a few practiced motions, he slapped in a new one, spun around, and opened fire at the end of the corridor dozens of meters away.
RAT-TAT-TAT...
