Blood poured from the sky without mercy The shattered fragments of the fallen golden formation drifted down like an ugly funeral Master Xuanku staggered through the ruins toward Leo

  His robe was soaked through with blood In his hand he gripped the string of prayer beads stained red Leo saw him reaching

  He saw their fingertips about to meet

  A dark red streak of light exploded up from the rubble It was Kongwen who should have been helpless on the ground His eyes were completely swallowed by an unnatural black

  His withered palm shot out like a viper It drove straight through Xuanku from behind

  Xuanku froze in place He did not even turn his head He used the last strength in his body to press the prayer beads into Leos hand

  His eyes held sorrow and hope at the same time His voice fell to a whisper that barely survived the storm Go

  Leave this hell Go back to your home

  Hot blood sprayed across Leos face Something inside him that held reason together snapped clean The frantic navigation voice in his head went strangely quiet

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  It became flat and calm like a machine with no emotions left Route planning failed Current package damaged

  Logic system reset Auto switch to cleanup mode

  Color drained from Leos world in a single breath Only red scanning lines remained They flickered wildly across his vision

  He did not scream He did not cry He reached out and grabbed a heavy black iron spatula lying by the great cauldron

  The tool spun once in his hand in a smooth perfect arc Like a top Manhattan chef turning fresh ingredients without wasting motion

  A demon cult fighter charged in shouting A long saber cut straight for Leos throat Leo shifted his body a fraction

  The edge of the spatula slipped into the gap at the attackers wrist bone He gave a small lift It was a flawless deboning move

  The scream never fully formed The flat face of the spatula smashed down and crushed the skull Red and white burst outward

  Like a bowl of tofu soup overturned on stone

  Leo moved again It felt like his soul had floated above his own body He watched the enemies pouring in from all sides with empty calm

  In his eyes they were not living people anymore They were late deliveries They were bad review orders that had to be physically removed

  The tip of the spatula cut across throats The body of it slammed into chests Each strike chased maximum effect with minimum waste

  He charged through the blood soaked ground Mechanical Precise

  Relentless

  The holy ground of the temple became a cold slaughter line The delivery rider who once only raced city streets now carried a spatula through an alien sea of blood And with every step he delivered death right on time

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