Although it was his first time participating in a battle of this scale, Samuel Thompson didn’t feel out of place.

It wasn’t that he was thick-skinned; mainly, eighteen years ago, he did backbreaking work just to survive.

Otherwise, where would the bronze coffin in his head have come from?

The figure before him, in his eyes, was just an ordinary corpse master.

Back then, there were times when he and the corpse master ended up grappling at close quarters—the bony frame was real, and it hurt like hell.

“That’s him!”

“Kill!”

“Unforgivable!”

Samuel Thompson had just withdrawn his long blade when he saw a group of people charging at him from not far away, their fanatic eyes fixed on him.

They were coming for him!

He realized it instantly.

Looking over at Edward Carter, he was already a hundred meters away.

Damn, at a time like this, he’s still hung up on a small fry like me. Did I curse him too harshly?

A city leader with a mind narrower than a needle’s eye—seriously, I’m embarrassed for him.

But thoughts aside, Samuel Thompson didn’t hesitate; gripping his long blade, he charged forward.

Stone-Splitting, seventh level—over 7,000 kilograms of brute force, and at full burst, more than 8,000 kilograms. Rounding up…

Against ordinary Blood God Cult stone-splitting martial artists, he had the advantage.

Thud!

He rushed forward, brought his blade down, and the Blood God Cultist at the front was sent flying, taking several others behind him along for the ride.

“Watch out!”

In the chaos, Clark burst out from a street corner, slashing three times in a row—three Blood God Cultists were cut down, and he closed in on Samuel Thompson.

After backhanding another cultist away, Samuel Thompson glanced at the helper who’d just arrived.

A yellowed undershirt, a wrinkled towel draped over his shoulder, a sallow face with dark spots.

Very ordinary looking—the kind of guy you could hit seventy or eighty of with a single stone.

“It’s true that the most righteous are often the butchers,” he thought. Not a word of that is false.

Before he could say thanks, the undershirted man’s alloy blade flashed again, cutting down the remaining Blood God Cultists.

Seeing this, Samuel Thompson gripped his blade once more and joined the fight, ready to wipe out the rest of the cultists.

Getting close to the undershirted man, a faint, unusual fragrance—mixed with the smell of blood—drifted into his nose and mouth.

It wasn’t perfume; it was the scent of burning incense.

When it came to smells, Samuel Thompson had always been sensitive. Speaking of which, that went back eighteen years.

Back then, he could grab a handful, sniff it, and know where the ancestors lived…

Working-class folks, still burning…

Wait!

After cutting down a cultist who lunged at him, Samuel Thompson suddenly realized.

This scent—he’d smelled it…

At a gathering.

When that group was devoutly worshipping, the incense they burned had this exact smell.

Ordinary Blood God Cultists always stood at a distance; only those at the very front, close to the altar, would pick up the scent after years of exposure.

Suddenly, Samuel Thompson shivered.

Of course, it was possible the guy just liked burning incense.

But with that yellowed undershirt and sallow face, he was clearly a working-class guy—would he really have the time and money for such a costly hobby?

“Thanks, brother.”

To confirm, he deliberately leaned in and sniffed again.

Sure enough, it was that scent.

What was going on?

Why was one of their own fighting against them?

He was even more ruthless than Samuel Thompson, a member of the Martial Security Army.

He really couldn’t figure it out.

Thud!

After cutting down the last cultist in this wave, more shouts and sounds of fighting erupted from a nearby alley. Clark didn’t hesitate—he grabbed his blade and charged in.

“Kill!”

Samuel Thompson didn’t follow; the undershirted man was stronger than him—at least at the Mountain-Splitting level. He glanced at the rampaging Edward Carter in the distance.

Damn!

So this is the bodyguard who swore to protect me.

Against a Mountain-Splitting martial artist, he was no match. That level started at ten thousand kilograms of force, and he didn’t even have that much, even rounding up.

The alley was dark, and there were no other Martial Security Army members around—killing someone and escaping would be all too easy.

“There’s a big fish here, hurry!”

Covered in blood and in the heat of battle, Edward Carter was suddenly interrupted by a call on his wrist phone. Seeing it was a message from Samuel Thompson, he immediately snapped to attention.

The bald guy had told him to protect Samuel Thompson.

After cutting down a cultist beside him, Edward Carter looked up and saw Samuel Thompson waving at him from a distance.

“Coming!”

He grabbed his blade and charged toward Samuel Thompson.

The chaos in the port district had already been mostly suppressed by the organized martial artists, and they were now mopping up the remaining Blood God Cultists.

In the alley, Clark’s blade drew blood with every strike. In the blink of an eye, he had cut down several cultists.

Looking back, he saw Samuel Thompson standing at the mouth of the alley, not coming in.

Narrowing his eyes, he turned and sent another cultist flying with a slash, then headed deeper into the alley.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he took off running.

“Brother, don’t go!”

“Big fish!”

Edward Carter arrived, looking at Samuel Thompson standing at the mouth of the alley.

“Quick, where’s the big fish?”

Chapter 6: Demon Blood at the Thousand-Jin Level!

Whoosh!

With a sharp whistle, a flare shot from Samuel Thompson’s hand, arcing into the depths of the alley.

The red and white light illuminated the darkness within.