Ahead, two MG42s—Hitler's buzzsaws—vomited death-metal bullets without pause. Behind them, the "scritch-scritching" mechanical spider horde waited, ready to leap and hug you to the sky with a single BOOM.
Levi knew this feeling.
Classic game scenario. You've fought your way through hordes of trash mobs, dodged traps, and finally reach the BOSS room… only to find two elite mini-bosses blocking the door, thick as armor, while an endless train of small mobs trails behind. And, of course, the red-ticking rescue countdown glows in the corner of the screen.
Front and back pincer, mid-field fireworks—the perfect death trap.
Any ordinary player would have long since let go of the controls, questioning whether to reroll a class or uninstall entirely.
But Levi's teammates weren't ordinary.
Especially Steve Rogers.
The man was Marvel's definition of broken from the start. Levi often wondered if this plotline was just Americans glorifying their "spirit of America" setup.
"I need three seconds."
Steve didn't even look back. Levi and Logan immediately understood—this was a tactical command. Three seconds.
In this corridor woven from 7.92mm Mauser deathstorms, even a hesitation of 0.3 seconds could shred a man like paper.
Logan let out a low beastly growl and stepped forward, pressing almost flush against Steve's back, exposing the most vulnerable part of himself—his spine—to Levi.
You're trusting me with this? Levi thought. I don't even know if I can pull it off.
He inhaled sharply. His super-soldier-enhanced heart, racing from the previous fight, strangely slowed. The serum didn't just grant explosive power and speed—it gave him a brain like a supercomputer.
The only way out: the most illogical, brutal, and efficient approach. Kill the two steel turtles in front of them before the countdown hits zero.
"Left one's mine," Levi said calmly, voice low but cutting through the hail of gunfire.
"Copy," Steve responded with a single word.
Now.
The instant Levi's words fell, Steve moved.
Lowering his center of gravity, he raised his circular shield to cover his upper body, then dove straight into the death-web of fire and shrapnel.
Clang clang clang clang!
A barrage of metallic impacts pierced eardrums. Bullets slammed into the vibranium shield, but Steve didn't flinch—not a step.
Behind him, Logan's form was almost one with him. Crouched in the shield's absolute safety zone, his steps mirrored Steve's perfectly. Three glinting adamantium claws locked onto the throats of the gunmen on the right.
This coordination wasn't rehearsed—it was honed in mountains of corpses and rivers of blood. Muscle memory forged in life-or-death crucibles.
Levi chose a third path. One recommended by the system, maximizing flashy maneuvers.
He slammed his right foot onto the ground—not forward, but diagonally upward. Like an arrow released from a bow, he shot toward the left wall.
Newton's laws? Today, he would step on their coffin boards.
With the serum's boost, Levi felt weightless. Gravity was a joke.
His toes ran up the vertical wall with ease, his body forming a thirty-degree angle with the ground—gliding like a ghost along the surface, leaving a faint afterimage in the air.
The two Hydra gunners' attention was fixed entirely on Steve charging head-on. They had no idea that death itself had already slipped into their blind spot.
Here.
After sprinting seven or eight meters along the wall, Levi twisted his waist, grabbing a thick ventilation pipe on the ceiling mid-air. In a gymnast-perfect giant swing, he silently cleared the machine-gun nest.
Gravity reclaimed him.
Levi descended like a falcon folding its wings, aiming directly at the left gunner's back of the neck.
Thud!
No explosive noise—just a bone-crunching thud.
His knee hit precisely, heavily, without flair. The unlucky soldier went limp, soft as clay, hands still gripping the trigger—but the muzzle flash was gone forever.
Simultaneously, the frontal battlefield also resolved.
Steve, five meters from the right gunner nest, roared—releasing pent-up fury.
He flicked his wrist. The shield, having absorbed tons of kinetic energy, spun like a razor-sharp red-white-blue disk. The target? Not the gunner—but a supporting steel pillar beside the nest.
Clang!
A deafening impact, then the shield rebounded at an impossible angle, guided as if by GPS, smashing into the gunner's temple. The poor man didn't even have time to register fear before collapsing, eyes wide in terror.
At that precise moment, a black shadow leapt from behind Steve.
Logan.
A tiger freed from its cage. Three steps, and he dove into the already-unmanned nest. Claws flashed. Two gaping, stunned soldiers were instantly reduced to bleeding chunks.
Clean. Efficient. Bloody.
From Steve's "three seconds" to the full neutralization of the heavy fire points—it had taken no more than five seconds.
Levi dropped lightly from the gun nest, glancing at Steve calmly reclaiming his shield, and at Logan smearing blood across the wall. He couldn't help but mutter inwardly:
Even novels wouldn't dare write this.
Scritch, scritch, scritch…
The mechanical spider tide surged behind them again.
"No time to loot! Move!" Steve didn't glance at corpses or gear, eyes locked on the iron door at the end of the corridor, shouting:
"Go! B-Block, now!"
The three launched forward, sprinting full tilt toward the prison sector.
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