Orc Tyrant

The boy died silently, his neck was broken and his body was caught before he landed.

Before he exhaled his last breath from his lungs, Stephen Blackhart had begun to drag the corpse into the maintenance compartment.

He has been in this line pipe for ten hours, and he estimated that he will stay for about three hours before he moves next time, until this reckless little guy shows up.

Stillness has always been the key to concealment.

He originally had another strategy, which was to keep moving to prevent himself from being locked in.

That has its advantages, but it only applies when one has a place to go.

Right now he has no area to move around, he is being hunted, and if he wants to complete his mission, he must survive.

The boy gave him a chance.

He is probably only fifteen years old, but his soul has fallen into the darkest corner, and the horns that Stephen Blackhart grows from his forehead can judge that he has been completely corroded by the dark power.

This degeneration may be due to his parents. Generally speaking, babies born in cult families will be baptized by evil warlocks, and what they get is not a blessing, but a twisted curse from the evil god.

Babies who grow up in such an environment will eventually become extremely cruel butchers or conspirators.

So Stephen Blackhart didn't hesitate when he started, because he knew he had cleaned up a future murderer.

The dead boy wore a dark red acolyte robe with a hood, which represented his identity as a low-level cultist, and this uniform was suitable for high-level judges, because this type of robe is usually made It’s a circle bigger than the users so that they can rely on it in the next few years.

The old can use this uniform.

He put it on flexibly, feeling a sense of disgust squeezing over his head, and at the same time, with a detached interest, he noticed that the clothes were still warm with his body.

Before that, he had spent half an hour studying the boy's face through the eyes of mechanical insects.

But he looked at it again, trying to make sure that his facial features could roughly mimic the exhausted state of a dead man's face.

He hoped that this uniform was enough to cope with it. If someone observes closely, they may find that it does not fit.

In only a little time, he can only make a rough estimate of size and body shape, and even in the process of finding the right time to kill the boy, there is an uncomfortable risk of making mistakes.

But he is indeed not the most professional assassin.

After disguising everything, she climbed down to the depths of the sewers, where the tunnels were filled with harnesses and pipes, and the dust and dirt told her story about how many people had been here before him.

The content from the mechanical insects that make up the cordon did not show any problems.

The air temperature, noise level, and vibration are all stable at the background level, and the compound eyes of the swarm show him nothing more than empty shafts, ducts and tunnels.

Everything is quiet. Here, huddled in a space too small for children to approach him.

He needs to wait for a while, processing the code in his consciousness of being divided into two.

Stephen Blackhart needs to stare at the swarm of mechanical insects-they are staring at every node connected to his current location, but that only takes up half of his attention.

It seems good to use the remaining brain power to crack the communication of the other party.

Blood worshipers also use remote communication equipment. The use of witchcraft communication is expensive and inflexible. Even as stupid as they are, they know the benefits of machinery.

This naturally gave Stephen Blackhart a chance, he is one of the best cryptographers in Kaimon Church.

It took him an awkward few minutes to activate and figure out how the communication device he got from the dead boy worked.

Two machines pierced the machine that was made greasy by blood, and the encrypted communication began to wash his consciousness.

These data are probably not high-level, unremarkable in content, and of little importance, but he is good at creating lethal states from the subtle.

In addition, cracking the password also gave him something to do.

For a long time, the Citizen Temple has taken the field of science and technology and all its secrets as its own, but the traditions and secrets that became the predecessor of the Kaimon Church have been born as early as the ancient night, and they have their own unannounced secrets.

Those ancient survivors may be in control of machines, logic and calculations, but judges are not machines. They are the power that humans have honed to the limit.

It's not just a skill, or training, or even the transformation of their brains through blades, organ transplants, and chemistry.

It is a compulsive force, a driving force branded in the body that he must satisfy.

Even as a secret communication, this set of passwords can be described as complicated.

Stephen Blackhart is happy to know this, because watching it disintegrate will bring more satisfaction.

He only spent three hours.

When he finally cracked it, he let the data flow in his consciousness for a moment.

It feels like light, like fresh water, and warm air.

The portable communicator no longer accepts new transmission signals, but the communication fragments that have been transmitted through it still exist, like broken glass windows.

He immersed his consciousness in them, recorded, checked and classified.

There are some valuable-

"Wait a minute."

His mind paused suddenly, and then his heart began to beat wildly. With the blood pouring into the brain, inferences and possibilities began to form, combine and expand.

He must move, he must try his best to leave.

Stephen Blackhart began to squeeze out of his hiding place.

Once he could crawl, he began to move more quickly, and when he could run and climb, he had turned into a black afterimage, rising from the depths of the passage.

Behind him, the body was hidden in the shadows.

It will be discovered, but he should have escaped by then.

The four mechanical flying insects following the channel monitoring made a buzzing sound. They landed on his shoulders and then crawled into his hair.

The remaining ones have already been concealed, their silver bodies attached to the Nano Saint Cloth under the robe, like a larva clinging to the insect mother.

Leaving here is not a problem, but it is also not that simple.

The next step is time.

It is very possible that the blood worshipers may be tightening their nets. The longer he stays underground, the smaller the nets will become.

On the other side of the calculation, it is the fact that he is moving quickly, and the error that goes hand in hand with rushing is like a worm on a dead body.

Go too fast, take too many shortcuts, and his plan may fail.

When all the risk factors reached a critical level, it was the presumed deadline for him to be terminated. After he killed the girl, this deadline was approaching every second.

Leaving now, his mission may be regarded as a failure, but a greater victory awaits him.

In the process, the columns of calculations in his mind are still running, eager for more data and hope for conclusions.

At the core of each accelerating thinking, a fragment of the blood worship signal echoes and shines, like a piece of information written in fire.

...The Patriarch has arrived in Dunwich...