Seeing the blood-soaked Albert Brooks rushing over with a pig-killing knife, the cheering White and Little Jailer were scared out of their wits. They immediately dropped their whips and wooden sticks and fled in panic.

The three archers were a bit braver than them and fired another volley of arrows at Albert Brooks's chest. However, the archers' aim was so poor that the hastily shot arrows didn't even graze a single hair on Albert Brooks!

“Witchcraft! He used the Maitreya Sect's witchcraft!” The archer Mr. Williams, standing farthest to the left, suddenly shouted as if he'd discovered some earth-shattering secret. He threw down his wooden bow and ran off, hot urine streaming down both legs.

The Maitreya Sect—drinking clear water, eating vegetables, chanting Buddha's name, impervious to blades and spears. Thinking of the crime Parker had forced onto Albert Brooks before his death: Deputy Hall Master of the Maitreya Sect's Wisdom Branch! Mr. Sullivan also went weak all over, tossed his bow and arrows to the ground, and immediately followed in Mr. Williams's footsteps.

Only Mr. Thompson was left, still thinking of avenging his nephew, trembling as he tried to nock another arrow. But Chris Brooks, who could no longer tell if this was a game or reality, wasn't about to give him another chance! In a few quick strides, he rushed up, and with the momentum, plunged the pig-killing knife into the man's chest. “Puff”—the blade slid between the ribs, piercing straight through Mr. Thompson's body.

“Murder! Murder! The Maitreya Sect demon is killing people in the street!” The fleeing White and Little Jailer, glancing back from a distance, saw this scene and screamed at the top of their lungs.

“Run! Run! Albert Brooks has stabbed both Parker and Mr. Thompson!”

“Run, run! Albert Brooks is Sesame Thompson's secret agent—he's killed officials and started a rebellion!” The neighbors who had tried to help Parker arrest Albert Brooks ran even faster, spreading their own “facts” as they fled.

“Boom!” Like pouring half a bowl of cold water into a pot of boiling oil, countless figures suddenly burst out into the bleak twilight, stumbling and scattering like headless flies.

As if in response to the chaotic shouts, thick smoke suddenly rose from the east and west of the city, and along both sides of Zhuque Avenue. Flames leapt from courtyards, casting a demonic red glow straight into the sky...

“Sesame Thompson, Sesame Thompson's troops have broken into the city!”

“Red Turban Army! Red Turban Army! The Red Turban Army that drinks talisman water, impervious to blades and spears!”

“Kill! Kill the Tartars, welcome Lord Li into the city!”

“Kill the corrupt officials, equalize the rich and poor! If you're a real man, follow me!”

In an instant, countless people were shouting, countless rough hands gripping sharpened wooden sticks, charging out from low thatched huts and merging into a destructive flood.

Anyone in their way was knocked down, regardless of wealth or status. Courtyard gates were smashed open, whether grand or humble. Houses were set ablaze, and soon it was impossible to tell which were thatched huts and which were blue-brick mansions.

The flood of destruction swept away everything in an instant. The sounds of crying, pleading, cursing, clashing weapons, and collapsing houses quickly became the main theme of the evening, driving everyone who heard it into madness.

Under the dark red sky, Chris Brooks was deaf to the surrounding chaos. He had killed—six or seven people at once. In past virtual games, he had slain millions of enemies, but never had any of those experiences felt as real as tonight.

The blood was sticky, still warm as it splattered on his face. The enemies were afraid; after killing the leaders, the rest scattered in panic, instead of charging forward for more experience points like in games. Every opponent's dying expression was vivid, and they even lost control of their bowels and bladder, the stench so foul he felt he could vomit up his own guts.

But now, he couldn't throw up. He had to figure out where he was. Why had that dead fat man called him a Maitreya Sect member? What was this place's connection to the People's Republic of China? How could he find a way back?

So, after a brief daze, he moved with a skill even he couldn't believe, pulled the troublesome pig-killing knife from Mr. Thompson's corpse, and, gripping it, chased after the nearest person. As he ran, he shouted in extremely awkward Mandarin, “Stop! Don't run! If you run again, I'll use my ultimate move!”

“He really is from the Maitreya Sect!” The unlucky Mr. Sullivan he was chasing stumbled, his legs pumping even faster. “Heavens have mercy, I actually pleaded for him just now. Now I'm doomed—even if I escape tonight, when the authorities investigate later, I won't be able to explain myself. Oh heavens, what sin have I, William Sullivan, committed to bring such disaster upon my family!”

He ran fast, but Chris Brooks ran faster. In a flash, the knife tip was already aimed at his back. Poor Mr. Sullivan, scared out of his wits, his legs gave out and he fell flat on his face. Crying, he crawled forward a couple more steps, raised his hands high, and pleaded, “Spare me—!”