Chapter 480: Rain Alley

The slum alley was so narrow that only two people could walk side by side.

On both sides rose seven- to eight‑story handshake buildings, their wall cladding peeled off, old clothes that never got clean hanging on drying lines, water dripping down, mixing with rain leaking from the eaves.

The sky grew unnaturally dark; it was only four p. m., yet the sky in the crack above was already pitch black, thunder rumbling muffled within the clouds, like someone dragging an iron coffin across the heavens.

Deep within the alley.

Five people formed a half‑arc, sealing off any retreat without a single gap.

At the front stood a bearded brute with a black teardrop tattoo beneath his right eye, a half‑lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He wasn't wearing Investigation Bureau issue gear; instead he wore a civilian‑grade spiritual‑energy Tactical Vest sourced from the North American Black Market, its model code on the chest ground away by sandpaper, leaving only a scar‑like groove.

In his left hand he gripped a thumb‑thick spiritual‑energy high‑voltage cable, its end attached to a half‑unfolded silvery‑white electric net that buzzed, with blue arcs crackling where the wires intersected.

The other four took positions on either side: two wielded spiritual‑energy rifles, one a modified shotgun, and a bald man carried a portable seal box on his back.

Five people.

Fully armed, well‑trained, breathing evenly, their positions spaced to ensure overlapping crossfire coverage.

They were no amateurs.

"Number Two, Number Three, tighten the net. Number Four, pre‑heat the seal box," the bearded man's voice was low and deliberate, each word carrying the composure of someone who has spent years licking blood off a blade. "Number Five, is the recording on?"

"On," a tall, skinny teammate at the rear, wearing a duck‑bill cap, lifted the tiny camera on his chest. "Full‑HD 4K throughout."

"Alright," the bearded man removed the unlit cigarette from his mouth and tucked it behind his ear. "Clean and swift, don't scar the face. This item looks so good that the auction house will start at seven figures at least."

The "item" he mentioned lay at the very end of the alley.

At the base of a wall with no way to retreat.

A woman.

No.

A Weird.

She curled up in the corner, her back pressed against a red‑brick wall covered in moss, her left hand covering the severed cross‑section of her right shoulder. The wound bled no blood; instead, pale, silk‑thin strands rose, wrapped in a faint almost invisible glow, silently dissipating in the damp air.

Grudge.

But its concentration was very low—so low that even the least experienced of the five hunters didn't feel a headache.

She wore a white dress torn more than half away, barefoot, shards of broken glass wedged between her toe gaps, and several scorch marks on her calves from spiritual‑energy blasts.

Her hair was long, wet and clinging to the side of her face.

Face.

When the bearded man first saw her face clearly, he froze for a full two seconds.

It was stunningly beautiful.

It wasn't the kind of beauty that fits human aesthetic categories; it was a more fundamental, primal allure that left one unable to choose between terror and awe. The facial features were exquisitely refined, yet overlaid with an almost transparent pallor, and beneath the skin faintly visible were bluish‑gray veins slowly coursing.

Weird.

One hundred percent Weird.

But her eyes…

When those eyes lifted to look at the approaching hunters, the bearded man instinctively stepped back half a step.

It wasn't because of killing intent.

Quite the opposite.

There was something in those eyes.

There was resentment, poison, despair, unwillingness, and a kind of… grievance that made the whole body uneasy.

Too human‑like.

"Chief?" Number Two noticed his hesitation and whispered a reminder.

The bearded man snapped back to his senses, choking the ill‑timed pang of compassion in his throat.

Seven figures.

Those two words were more effective than anything.

He didn't answer Number Two. He merely flicked the power knob on the spiritual‑energy high‑voltage cable with his right thumb, shifting from level two straight to level four. The net's hum rose sharply, and the blue light cast a cold hue over everyone's faces.

"Pull the net."

Numbers Two and Three stepped forward together, their spiritual‑energy rifles angled downward, aiming at the Weird woman's knee.

The Weird woman neither screamed nor lunged.

She simply pressed her back tighter, her remaining left hand gripping the brick wall behind her, her Nail embedded in the crevice, scraping a white mark from the weathered brick.

A deep, supremely suppressed roar emanated from her throat.

Like a cat driven to a dead end.

It wasn't a threat.

It was a warning.

Warning them not to come any closer.

"Damn, it's got quite the temper," the bearded man grinned, the black teardrop tattoo distorting slightly as his smile muscles tightened. "Brothers, get to work. Remember, a broken leg's fine, just don't scar the face. The buyer wants the goods—"

He didn't finish his sentence.

Because the thunder sounded.

It wasn't thunder from the sky.

It was behind them.

At the alley entrance.

Click.

The sound of soles stepping into a puddle rang clearly in the gaps between the claps of thunder, reaching each person's ears.

The bearded man's pupils contracted sharply.

He turned his head.

A person stood at the alley entrance.

A black waterproof coat, zipper pulled down to the chin. Holding an Old Black Umbrella, the waterproof coating on the edge of the canopy had worn bare in several spots, letting water drip down.

He was not tall, and his build was rather thin.

A teenager.

He looked about fourteen or fifteen, his school uniform pants soaked halfway by rain, one hand holding the umbrella, the other hand in the coat pocket, walking lazily, even a bit half‑asleep.

He seemed to be just passing by.

He might also just be looking for a place to shelter from the rain.

"Damn unlucky." the bearded man cursed.

He turned his head, scanned the corner where the Weird woman stood, then looked again at the motionless boy at the alley entrance; his expression shifted from irritation to cold hardness within three seconds.

"Number Five, the recording is off."

The Duckbill Cap man silently pressed the red indicator light on his chest to off.

The bearded man took the cigarette from his ear, put it back in his mouth, and lifted his chin toward his two nearest subordinates.

The direction was the boy.

"Clear them. Move fast."

Two words, light, casual.

No different from the tone when telling a market vendor to give an extra one‑cent discount.

Number Two and Number Four exchanged a glance.

The sound of a spiritual energy dagger being drawn was drowned by rain, only a thin blue line as fine as a spider silk on the blade edge revealed its presence.

The two figures spread out, one left, one right, slipping silently along the shadows against the alley wall.

Quickly.

Very quickly.

The daggers thrust toward the boy's throat from both directions simultaneously.

The angles were sharp, the strike decisive, a curve only those who have seen blood possess.

The boy did not dodge.

He didn't even release the umbrella handle.

He only raised his head.

His eyelids lifted slowly.

So slowly that it was out of sync with the two daggers about to cut his carotid arteries.

But his gaze did not look at the knives.

It passed over the blade edges, over the shoulders of the two assassins, over the bearded man's massive frame.

He saw the Weird woman curled up in the corner at the end of the alley.

She was also looking at him.

Those eyes.

Carrying resentment, carrying despair, carrying a plea that belongs to no Weird but to a human...

The boy's pupils trembled slightly.

A very small amplitude.

As if something deep and dark inside his mind was struck by that gaze.

Then it detonated.

The dagger sliced through the collar of his coat.

The sound of fabric tearing.

Then, nothing.

In the next frame, the man labeled Number Four lowered his head to look at his own throat.

A black umbrella rib pierced from his nape, precise to within a millimeter, just missing the cervical vertebrae but fully puncturing the trachea and left carotid artery.

Blood streamed down the groove of the umbrella rib.

He opened his mouth, emitted a breath no one could hear, then his knees gave way.

The other side, Number Two, fared even worse.

The boy's umbrella‑closing motion was so fast only a afterimage remained. As the folded canopy snapped, the tip swung on his wrist in a very short arc. The arc's endpoint landed on the right side of Number Two's jaw, three inches into flesh.

Number Two's dagger still held the forward‑thrust stance, his whole body already collapsed in the rain.

Two seconds.

From the boy raising his head to the two men falling, a total of two seconds.

The bearded man's smoke vanished.

He had no time to react.

The boy stepped over Number Two's back, his shoe soles sinking into puddles, splashing water mixed with blood.

Number Three raised a spiritual energy shotgun, his finger on the trigger was seized.

Not knocked away, not blocked.

It was a cold, bone‑jointed hand that pinched his index finger precisely from beneath the barrel.

Then pulled outward.

The crisp crack of bone breaking.

Before Number Three could scream, a kick struck his sternum. His body slammed into the left wall, the back of his head hit an exposed Reinforced Steel Bar head, his eyeballs rolled back, slid down, and stopped moving.

Number Five of the duckbill cap turned and ran.

He ran three steps outward.

The Old Black Umbrella flew in from behind; the curved hook of its shaft precisely caught the back of his neck collar. With a tug, his whole body was lifted like a chick being raised, then he fell backward onto the ground. The muffled thud of his back of the head hitting the ground echoed far away.

Only Luo Sai Hu remained.

His reaction wasn't slow. He had already flung a spiritual high‑voltage net from his left hand, and the four‑tier power electric net unfolded in the air, blue light interweaving into an impenetrable light screen.

This net had previously contained a B Ji Weird.

The moment the net's cover fell, Luo Sai Hu's right hand had already felt the spiritual energy grenade at his waist.

He had seen blood, killed people, and captured truly dangerous Weird.

He wouldn't be afraid of a child.

The electric net missed.

The youth was not standing in place.

Luo Sai Hu lowered his head.

He saw a palm pressed against the exact center of his Tactical Vest.

The hand was small, its Nail trimmed cleanly, a student's hand.

But the force of the palm pressing on it caused the front panel of his Tactical Vest to dent inward.

He was pushed backward more than four meters, crashing into the seal box he had brought; his back struck the box's corner, and the pain made his face twitch.

The spiritual energy grenade rolled onto the ground and was stepped on with a foot.

The youth stood before him, looking down at him.

Rainwater streamed down from that excessively youthful face.

No expression.

Really no expression.

It wasn't the deliberately cool "expressionless" act, but a pure blank that simply didn't deem what just happened worth any emotion.

Luo Sai Hu had fought for over a decade, having seen the coldest assassins and the craziest outlaws.

But he had never seen this kind of gaze.

It didn't look human.

It was even less human than the Weird in the corner.

"You......" he began to say.

The youth had already turned and walked away.

No follow‑up strike, no idle words.

His steps splashed in the puddles, one by one, heading toward the end of the alley.

The female Weird was still curled there.

She watched the youth approach, her body instinctively shrinking toward the corner, the pale resentment at the stump of her arm surging more violently.

She was scared.

Afraid of him.

The youth stopped two steps away from her.

He crouched.

He opened the umbrella, shielding her head, blocking the rain leaking through the wall crack.

His voice was light and even, with a hint of hoarseness from being soaked by rain.

"Don't be afraid."

The female Weird froze.

Her eyes, full of venomous resentment and despair, trembled slightly under the youth's calm gaze.

The alley was quiet for a few seconds.

Only the sound of rain and the humming of a Spiritual Pulse Cannon growing nearer from afar.

More hunters were rushing over.

The youth's gaze passed over the female Weird's shoulder, glancing at the Exit at the other end of the alley.

Then he lowered his head, looking back at her.

"What is your name?"