Starting to Gain Experience from Push-Ups Chapter 1139 - 556: Showdown Between Flesh and Killing Machine
Previously on Starting to Gain Experience from Push-Ups...
Thud thud thud thud thud——
The enormous rotor blades whipped up the air currents, instantly transforming the rooftop terrace into the core of a fierce mini-storm.
Scattered debris, shattered glass fragments, and heaps of leftover blood froth got caught in the furious gusts, hurling themselves in every direction.
The armed chopper didn't bother descending straight onto the landing pad.
Clearly, the pilot was no novice, boasting plenty of battle-hardened experience.
As the searchlight's white beam swept across the messy battlefield and the fallen bodies, the aircraft abruptly angled upward in a sharp maneuver.
In that way, the helicopter remained suspended about fifty meters over the skyscraper's summit, preserving a safe buffer zone.
A shrill wail poured from the turbine engine, overpowering every sound rising from the streets far below.
Two intense xenon spotlights, akin to harsh lamps in an interrogation chamber, pinned down a handful of silhouettes right in the heart of the rooftop.
The glaring brilliance forced eyes to squint or shut tight.
Through the veil of light, only the gigantic metallic outline loomed visible, along with the cluster of rocket pods slung under the belly.
Right then, the side door of the cabin slid apart with a sharp hiss.
A pair of troops clad in complete exoskeleton suits poked out partially.
They held back from dropping down via ropes, instead swiftly assembling that multi-barreled Gatling cannon.
The barrels whirred into motion during warmup, producing a chilling grind of metal parts.
Lurking in the gloom beyond them, what looked like multiple red-glowing optics stared down impassively via their targeting optics.
This setup screamed total dominance through overwhelming firepower.
A mere twitch on the trigger, and the entire terrace would crumble under a barrage of bullets in mere moments.
Static static static——
Suddenly, a sharp burst of static from the mic shattered the tense quiet.
The noise originated from Black Mamba's decapitated body; the comms gadget on his collar blinked its signal steadily.
Before long, a stern masculine tone, laced with static interference, rang out distinctly for all to hear:
"Bloodthorn, this is control. Landing area shows irregularities—signs of fighting and numerous bodies detected. Describe the situation on ground right away."
"Repeat: report now, or we'll initiate purge protocol."
Recognizing that voice, Fire Dragon, curled up in the shadows, surged with a rush of excitement like a jolt of pure energy.
Disregarding the searing agony in his leg, he flailed his arm wildly toward the chopper overhead.
"Over here! We're right here! The site's all clear now."
Fire Dragon bellowed as loud as he could:
"It was just a mix-up before, but we've sorted it out mostly—come down quick to res—"
He cut himself off, choking back the "rescue us" that nearly escaped.
Though help had shown up, Fire Dragon still shot a terrified look at the beastly figure nearby.
The horrifying images of him slaughtering allies effortlessly lingered in his thoughts like a searing mark.
With the troops on scene, he wouldn't dare provoke anything rash now, keeping his mouth sealed tight.
Terrified that this demon could snap his neck and punt his skull like a soccer ball before any missiles flew.
For the moment, his sole wish was that the Illuminati folks would respect the armed forces' presence and hold back from escalating fully.
Sprawled on the floor, the Masked Guest's face shifted in a far more controlled manner.
He ducked his gaze, concealing a fleeting spark of relief in the darkness.
He even amped up his shaking, mimicking a bird utterly petrified, to seem as harmless as possible.
Yet his darting eyes quickly flicked from Fang Cheng to nearby hiding spots.
Figuring out the optimal blind spot to dive toward if things turned explosive.
On the Illuminati's end, the atmosphere crackled with far greater strain.
"Boss, what's our play? That's the army up there."
Gazing at the formidable gunship, Old Chen's complexion drained, as he instinctively ducked behind Fang Cheng for a shred of protection.
"Appears to be some top-tier commando unit— this is turning complicated..."
Fei Ying clenched his Butterfly Knife firmly, his eyes flicking to the rooftop doorway some ten meters off.
Though this blade felt laughable against aerial guns, he trusted his sprinting pace, worrying mainly about how his allies could evade the sweeping fire.
Fatty Hu stayed mute, employing his one good hand to smear away the crimson streaks on his cheeks.
His burly neck's muscles throbbed, legs braced apart in a pose primed for instant combat.
The savage intensity in his stare, facing the menace of autocannon blasts, flared even hotter.
From the rearmost position, Eagle Eye subtly tweaked his sniper's aim, tilting upward to fix on the chopper's cabin.
Via the magnified lens, the pilot's skin details stood out in sharp clarity.
Nearly instantaneously, he crunched all the factors—gusts, range, gravity's pull—in his head.
Finally crafting the perfect trajectory to smash through armored panes and drill into the pilot's skull center.
Eagle Eye drew a steady breath, digit hovering over the firing mechanism.
Poised solely for the command to unleash the fatal shot.
Tension gripped every soul to its breaking point.
Yet Fang Cheng, smack in the whirlwind's midst, simply held his ground calmly.
Gusts tugged at his attire, locks whipping wildly rearward.
He narrowed his eyes a touch, peering into the overwhelming glare.
Not a trace of dread crossed his features, nor any hitch in his steady inhales.