PFC Chapter 4552 The Day of Brightest Day (1)
Chapter 4552 The Day of Brightest Day (1)
Chapter 4552 The Day of Brightest Light (Part 11)
Schiller and Deathstroke still managed some effort as they climbed aboard the massive cargo ship. They did it themselves because the people on board were clearly not very friendly. The cargo in the containers could fill a comprehensive catalog of contraband for any country in the world.
“It seems you have some unrealistic expectations of this place,” Deathstroke said, weaving between the containers. “Outsiders don’t have a single ship here. Good news is bad news.”
Schiller wrung out the edges of his shirt as much as possible. This was clearly bad news for him, because he didn't have waterproof armor and wasn't even wearing quick-drying clothing, which meant that every time he changed boats, jumped into the sea, and climbed back up, his body temperature would fluctuate.
"Are there any more anti-inflammatory drugs?" Schiller asked.
“Clearly you don’t have a clear understanding of the efficacy of the drug I used. It should work for at least 16 hours.” Deathstroke didn’t turn around; he was examining the markings on the container, seemingly trying to find something familiar, or perhaps simply looking for something extremely dangerous to cause trouble.
“This isn’t good,” Schiller said. He could feel his body temperature rising again, and such drastic fluctuations in temperature within a short period were not a good sign. It meant that some regulatory mechanisms were malfunctioning.
But actually, that's not a big deal. The fact that he can perform better when he's not in good condition can be considered a valuable skill in some dangerous situations. But it all depends on how you play your cards. The biggest problem now is that if the high fever affects his already poorly recovered hearing system, he won't be able to hear anyone—meaning no one can call out to him.
In fact, for Schiller, any sense that could access the outside world was a disturbance, a brake or brake, that allowed him to gradually return to reason, free from his instincts.
The language we can hear, especially the logic it contains, is a crucial marker distinguishing the mental world from the real world. Once a person begins to understand the logic in language, it signifies a return to reason. Schiller was no exception.
The negative impact of that broken gun wasn't even as simple as removing a brake pad; it was more like completely pulling out the handbrake. Stepping on the gas in this situation—life doesn't spare many people this once—you can only leave it to fate.
Relatively speaking, the agent is more stable. With inflammation, a low-grade fever, and hearing loss, if it were the hunter, he'd probably be writing a thesis in the Death Note by now. But similarly, the higher the line of deterioration, the more difficult it is to reverse. From now on, he must concentrate and ensure his physical condition remains above average.
Hearing Schiller's ambiguous answer, Deathstroke turned to look at him. Even through his mask, Schiller could sense the doubt in Deathstroke's eyes. It was basically as if he were saying, "How did you even become an agent?"
“I am a civilian employee,” Schiller answered very decisively.
"Ha. Even if you're a civilian employee, you're definitely not the kind of person who'd be sent to this place to die. I understand everyone has secrets, but in this situation, if we can't exchange information honestly..."
Well, this cunning mercenary. Supplies for intelligence, that's fair. Schiller thought for a moment and said, "I'm going to Cairo, Egypt. We're not far from there."
Deathstroke hadn't paid much attention to it, but then he seemed to suddenly remember something and glanced at the revolver that Schiller had been holding.
“I’m quite interested in your gun,” he said directly. “Could you give me the manufacturer’s information if possible?”
“I’ll tell you when I get to Cairo,” Schiller said. “I mean, I’ll give you this broken gun when I get to Cairo.”
Deathstroke raised an eyebrow: "I don't understand why you dislike this gun so much. It has a large caliber, great power, and the bullets seem to be able to automatically return to their source; it's a pretty violent and good weapon."
"It's still too advanced for humankind," Schiller commented.
Death Knell remained noncommittal. They quickly found a familiar container among the many. It belonged to a grain merchant from Asia and contained flour.
And there just so happened to be a blower for cooling and ventilation nearby. Deathstroke created the perfect setting for a dust explosion with little effort. And to make an even bigger commotion and attract attention, he fired a shot from Schiller's revolver.
boom! ! ! ! ! !
A few dozen seconds later, Deathstroke, who had just walked over, looked utterly dejected. He even had to remove most of his mask to treat his bleeding ear. Schiller gave a genuine smile and even complained less about Diana.
This revolver is like equipment in some games, with high stats in all aspects. The only problem is that there's a "percentage-based health reduction required to activate" attribute in the stats below, and it deals true damage that is unaffected by any defensive equipment or skills. Schiller decided to name it "Hercules," after the Greek god of strength.
The name certainly carries this wicked humor, since one of the twelve trials Hercules underwent was stealing the belt of Hippolyta, the Amazon queen, which was definitely one of the demigods Diana hated the most, thus praising her bad luck in giving the spear such a lousy name.
The power of a dust explosion should not be underestimated. The container carrying flour was blown to pieces, and the explosion also affected several surrounding containers. These smugglers clearly had no sense of safety; they piled up goods as full as possible, regardless of type or arrangement. Next to the pile of flour were boxes of ammunition. The grenades, being relatively safe, did not explode, but the batteries in some devices caught fire.
By the time the people on the boat rushed aboard, the fire was completely out of control. Everyone knew there were grenades inside, and it was only a matter of time before they exploded; no one dared to approach. Then, a loud bang rang out, a man fell to the ground, followed by another gunshot.
"Sniper! There's a sniper!!!"
They were speaking the local language, which Schiller couldn't understand or read their lip movements, but he could roughly guess what they were saying. Deathstroke didn't have a professional sniper rifle, but it was more than enough. He hit his targets precisely, every shot finding its mark, taking down the first four or five men who charged forward in just a few shots.
“I’m going to seize the ship,” Schiller said.
Deathstroke, busy taking attendance, merely nodded. Schiller turned and walked towards the bottom of the ship. The technicians on these smuggling ships were usually not loyal; a little threat would get them to obey, all they needed to do was get the ship to Egypt.
This time it finally worked, especially when Schiller blasted open the door to the safe room with a single shot; no one objected to his proposal. The cargo ship changed course and headed towards the Egyptian port.
"Why don't you tell them to hurry up and open the gate?" Deathstroke, reeking of blood, poked half his body in.
"We can't go too fast. Ships on the Red Sea aren't stupid. If they see a cargo ship moving at maximum speed, they'll know it's been hijacked." Schiller was extremely cautious. This place was now a giant arena, perfectly embodying the Dark Forest principle; not revealing themselves was the top priority.
“You’re really strange,” Deathstroke said, leaning against the door with his arms crossed. “Sometimes you’re very professional, but you don’t seem violent enough.”
The time spent hijacking the cargo ship was essentially wasted time; there wasn't much else to do. Schiller started a conversation with him, asking, "Do you believe violence is a necessary quality for law enforcement?"
"That's what all the idiots who chase after me think."
“So they didn’t catch you,” Schiller said. “Anyone who tries to overpower you in terms of violence will realize they’re sorely mistaken. There’s no way a human being can fight a machine of violence that’s out of control. That’s obvious.”
“A novel description,” Deathstroke chuckled. “But you’re right. All the bastards who dared to challenge me have gone to meet Satan.”
“This is the main reason I’m working with you.” Schiller turned and stared at the crew.
Deathstroke thought he was praising his strength, meaning that with a teammate like him, dealing with enemies wouldn't require much effort. But upon closer inspection, that didn't quite make sense.
Schiller was indeed in trouble, and it seemed that those hunting him down were quite powerful, possibly some kind of shadow government. But at least they still had some reservations, and seemed to want to capture him alive.
Deathstroke, however, was a different story. The people he'd gotten involved with had completely abandoned all sense of shame; they'd stop at nothing to kill him, resorting to anything but extreme violence. But even under these circumstances, Schiller was still willing to get involved with him, which significantly increased the difficulty of his journey.
He didn't seem like the kind of thrill-seeking madman. Deathstroke trusted his judgment. There must be some other reason. But it seemed their plan had succeeded this time; once they reached shore, the sky's the limit. He'd just have to ask them next time they met.
Soon, the port of Hegada appeared on the horizon. Schiller breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing the city. The sea was definitely not his domain. Ships were man-made islands at sea, each a self-contained society. Jumping between such islands was far more dangerous than traversing any land-based city. Fortunately, he had found a good teammate.
“Be vigilant,” Deathstroke said. “The people chasing you are unlikely to cause trouble at the port, but the ones chasing me might be a different story.”
Schiller knew this final battle was inevitable, but having a powerful ally to protect him always came at a price. Besides, Deathstroke would be roaming the area for a while, which could help his subsequent plans.
"Put down your cannon," Deathstroke said. "We need to charge out as fast as we can; there's no time for you to aim. What kind of melee weapon are you good with?"
"The exact opposite of you."
"what?"
“They’re just not good at anything.” Schiller looked out of the cockpit and said, “I’m afraid your deduction is wrong. The previous setbacks have made them pin their hopes on the port checkpoints, where there are more people than they thought.”
Deathstroke narrowed his eyes and stepped out of the passage to glance outside. The other side had clearly seen him too, but dared not make a move, obviously intending to let them out before engaging in combat.
From this vantage point, Deathstroke could see over thirty guns outside, and more than half of them were standard-issue equipment with uniform paint schemes. This prompted Deathstroke to click his tongue in disapproval.
“I really want to ask them how much your bounty is,” Deathstroke couldn’t help but sigh. “It depends. If I pull off this job, I can take at least half a year off.”
Schiller stood at the cockpit door and grinned: "Do you think it's easier to deal with me than with them?"
“Oh, you actually have a different opinion on this?” Deathstroke stared at him.
“You can just say you need my help,” Schiller said. “Or, in your words, ‘just don’t hold me back.’”
“Honestly, I have no hope for it,” Deathstroke said.
“Let me fire the first shot,” Schiller said, looking toward the door. “Then your biggest problem won’t be them.”