Chapter 38: Assassination

This was the terrifying clarity of Alexander's insight. Over the past several hours, he had meticulously observed every move of the mercenaries around him—every man revealed a set of inescapable little habits. Mercenaries were no different; as they used their flashlights to scan the area outside the estate, the angles at which the beams shone followed a predictable pattern. Alexander had mastered these patterns completely, and in his mind, he computed the perfect route—one so almost miraculous that it allowed him to approach the estate wall undetected.

On the wall, one mercenary—too drowsy to notice the arrival of death—yawned. Just that one yawn! Seizing the opportunity, Alexander, already pressed against the wall, began scaling it with bare hands. His movements were so light and silent that not a single sound betrayed him. In the blink of an eye, he was atop the wall.

The mercenary who had just yawned opened his eyes in surprise, only to see Alexander—dressed entirely in black and masked in dark attire—standing right before him. "What the hell, it's midnight and I'm seeing ghosts?!" the man thought. Before the mercenary could cry out, a knife—scavenged from a knife shop along Alexander's route—whistled across his neck, silencing him instantly.

Alexander holstered the knife. To prevent blood from splattering, as soon as he sliced the mercenary's throat he clamped down on the blood vessel. Then, using pre‑prepared cling film, he swiftly sealed the wound. Even as the mercenary's body remained standing—supported by Alexander's careful grip—his flashlight continued its usual patrol-like swing, as if nothing had happened.

Using the fallen mercenary's corpse as cover, Alexander carefully surveyed the interior of the estate. All the smaller outbuildings were dark; only the central villa's first floor blazed with light. He could also hear intermittent roars and howls from that floor, as if many were venting their fury. But Alexander didn't care—they only aided his stealth. After setting the mercenary's body aside and securing his flashlight in place, he clutched the inner edge of the wall and leapt into the estate.

He silently crept past a group of mercenaries. One might wonder: when a man is so utterly focused on watching the estate outside, who would expect a death-dealing specter to appear behind them? Under the cover of darkness, Alexander systematically harvested life along the wall—stealthily ambushing, slicing throats, setting down bodies, readjusting flashlights, and moving on to the next target. In just two minutes, he had eliminated nearly half of the mercenaries along the wall.

Then, one mercenary finally stirred with a curious remark, "What's going on, Old Pig? Why isn't your flashlight moving?" Unbeknownst to him, that very comment cost him dearly. As he moved to investigate his companion's fate, a knife flashed by and slashed his neck, ending his life in an instant.

That mercenary was dead. But the sudden outburst snapped the remaining guards awake. "What's happening, Adi? What about Old Pig?" one asked."Nothing, he was so drowsy I had to wake him up," Adi replied."Fine then—damn it, our team leaders are inside partying while we're stuck here guarding the door," another complained.

The remark, spoken in a voice that mimicked Alexander's impeccable Adi impersonation, became a spark. Soon, others joined in grumbling:"Exactly! We slogged through an entire day cleaning up zombies, and now we're forced to stand night after night—no respect for us!""Tell me about it—I haven't slept in nearly 24 hours. It's outrageous; why don't the captains come out and check on us themselves?"

A wry smile crept across Alexander's face as he mimicked Adi's accent, "Frankly, they just don't see us as human—we're merely cannon fodder."He wasn't trying to sow discord; as death-soldiers, the mercenaries wouldn't be swayed easily. Still, grumbling and complaints were inevitable—fueling their bitterness and distracting them with memories of their own grievances.

Sure enough, after Alexander's sly comment, the mercenaries launched into a furious tirade:"What's this nonsense? Today at the university they found a gorgeous female student—I hadn't even had a chance, and then Crocodile swooped in and robbed me, leaving me with nothing even a drop of soup!""Same here—I killed a zombie that dropped a Bronze-Grade item, the very first Bronze gear our team was supposed to get, and they snatched it away!""Ha, that's nothing; I…"Perhaps it was pent-up resentment or simply to shake off the sleepiness, but more and more mercenaries joined the chorus of complaints.

Seizing this moment of distraction, Alexander resumed his silent assassination. He targeted those who had just spoken—the ones who had recently uttered a word—and one by one, he dispatched them without raising suspicion. Finally, when only a few mercenaries remained, one attempted to speak up, "Aren't my experiences just like yours, Xiao Zhi? Don't you agree?"Alas, his inquiry would be answered only in the depths of hell. "Xiao Zhi? Xiao Zhi?" he repeated, then suddenly realized, "Not good—trouble's coming."He fumbled and produced a rectangular object—the signature signal flare of the Hunter Mercenary Team. In this apocalypse, when communication was scarce, the signal flare was invaluable. Decisively, he launched the flare.In the very next moment, a knife slashed across his neck—ending his life prematurely. The flare had already been fired.Alexander held his breath, his focus razor-sharp, and hurled his knife with all his might. Was he trying to cut the signal flare in mid-air? It seemed utterly impossible!