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墨書 Inktalez
"You really don't believe me?" the Black man said in disbelief.
"I never said I didn't believe you," Russell replied, feeling a bit awkward as he tried to prove his innocence.
"Then swear it," the Black man pressed.
"That's childish," Russell huffed. "Fine, fine. I swear I don't discriminate against anyone, including your skin color. Although we may be different, we will treat you like brothers in life and death. If anything happens, we will prioritize your safety. Does that work?"
"Hahaha, that's more like it," the other Black men laughed heartily.
Amidst the laughter of the Suicide Squad, their fighting spirit began to fade.
Thirty minutes later, two massive steel machines descended onto a grass hut near the military camp.
With a deafening roar, the new helicopters landed, their stealth paint only revealing their true form after some time.
"Get ready for action."
Russell quickly counted heads, optimistically helping his companions with their personal matters.
"Is there anything else to do? It's too late now. Once we're on the plane, you won't have anywhere to go. Is there anyone else who wants to join?"
Though he knew it was probably a pointless question, no one responded to him. He awkwardly walked to the back and was the last one to board the helicopter.
Once everyone was on board the two painted helicopters, the deafening sound of the rotors intensified.
The aircraft took off.
"We'll reach our destination in two hours. Everyone, please refrain from moving around on the plane."
The cabin echoed with the voice of Captain Loquacious.
Researchers were fiddling with their instruments, making final adjustments to cameras, camcorders, computers, and storage devices.
These pieces of equipment could be their lifeline, and they had to be fine-tuned to perfection.
The big shots from the Suicide Squad were repeatedly swapping out magazines, ensuring that the Uzi Submachine Guns wouldn’t jam mid-operation.
Although such issues were unlikely to occur with professional soldiers, especially those in the Suicide Squad who were unafraid of death and willing to charge forward with explosives in hand, even against overwhelming foes like the Swarm, they still preferred to survive each mission.
Their desire to live wasn’t overwhelmingly strong; their coexistence was merely a quest for solace in their shared experiences.
Being unafraid of death wasn’t as simple as it sounded. They could genuinely face death; after all, solitude and exclusion made death seem like a preferable choice. Perhaps people like them could find redemption after all they had done for humanity.
If God didn’t grant them salvation, hell wouldn’t be a concern either, as long as there was a place to pass the time without being tormented.
They would gladly venture into that thorny and challenging land.
Assembling, disassembling, loading ammunition, cleaning rounds, reloading, sharpening knives, and preparing various ropes—these were essential tasks before every mission began.
All these preparations helped them minimize the risk of dying due to personal errors when confronting crises.
While issues with firearms and ammunition were generally minimal—most defective items had already been weeded out by oversight agencies—there still remained a portion that was flawed.
The greatest source of instability lay with those who wielded weapons.
Their work had only just begun.
On the other side, the Hunters appeared relaxed and at ease.
They sat in another helicopter, seemingly with nothing to do, gazing at the rushing scenery outside, some even dozing off.
There was no sense of tension.
For the Hunters, they were accustomed to grand scenes.
Perhaps they thought that if death came, it came; dying on the battlefield was merely a result of insufficient strength, and they wouldn’t dwell on it.
Russell seemed the busiest, preparing luggage for everyone and checking the special items they carried.
The Uzi Submachine Gun was not considered a standard weapon for the Hunters; most of their weapons were Cold Weapons, crafted as Alchemical Weapons by Alchemists.
Due to material constraints, it was impossible for each person to have one, but having one in Russell's hands was sufficient.
After all, he was among the more senior Hunters.
The most senior, John, had suffered severe disabilities and would likely spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.
In the time to come, they might not even have a moment to spare before disembarking from the plane.
Freyr busied himself adjusting his equipment. He drew his Crimson Sun Sword from its sheath.
Lighting a candle, he wiped it with alcohol, burning away the gaps along the blade to temper and strengthen the steel.
He wasn't intentionally maintaining the sword materials; it was simply because he was the only one who could return alive this time. Thus, exchanging Score for a suitable Cold Weapon was more than enough.
This was done to ensure that the blade maintained tension during swings, allowing its sharpness to reach its peak performance.
A sword must not be dropped nor neglected in maintenance.
Even the strongest sword can corrode without care, affecting the wielder's abilities.
Burning also required considerable effort, but he had to evenly burn every section of the Rift.
A blade that has undergone quenching and burning would appear more advantageous.
With over two hours left, he had ample time to take care of it.
Meanwhile, Anis was busy scribbling in his notebook.
Sitting in a chair, he was endlessly tapping into the military wireless on the plane.
His Virtual Screen was flashing with countless graphics, converging into a massive form that undulated like mountain ranges.
These graphics were all data piled together, and Anis's analysis speed was remarkably swift, rivaling that of the best programmers.
However, converting these symbols into formulas could be quite troublesome, presenting a series of complex and difficult-to-explain symbols.
Even an outstanding programmer might stumble and fall at such a daunting task; this was beyond what the human brain could compute.
Even the fastest computing machines, stripped of everything and fully dedicated, would struggle to handle this.
One could imagine that this computer must have been modified.
Although Anis was more suited to being a behind-the-scenes Commander, he was still a Hunter in the Hunter Association.
The orders were significant, and the Association would not let him off easily.
Even if his abilities were not suitable for field combat, he had to uphold the honor of the Association.
Not being able to fight did not mean he couldn't survive well on the battlefield.
One must hold onto their beliefs to enhance the reputation of the Association.
It was for this reason that Anis personally arrived to witness the terrifying war.
The calculations were accelerating; his fingers danced rapidly across the keyboard, much like conducting a thrilling concert.
Completely absorbed in the programming, this project might be his most outstanding idea ever, evolving into a crystallization of intelligence.
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