Immediately afterwards, the pressure on my back eased.

In that moment of relaxation, Sergio twisted his wrist, pulled it out along the spike, and dragged it downwards.

The thing paused for a moment, as if it were truly alive. Then, it was ripped open with a knife. He could almost hear a sharp scream coming from behind the window. Clearly, someone was operating it remotely, perhaps using an old method like a mental link.

In the instant he broke free of his restraints, Sergio turned, grabbed the ringed hand of the "narrator" clinging to him, twisted it in the opposite direction, and then slashed it horizontally—

He moved quickly, as if he had never been so focused before. His series of actions were extremely swift and seamless. The sharp stone on the ring sliced ​​open his throat and plunged into his artery, causing blood to spurt out.

In less than two seconds, before Stanford could even react to what had happened, the wild dog that had just been crying so sweetly that it could make one feel good from the bottom of their soul now had murderous intent in its eyes, filled with violent and angry hatred, looking both pathetic and hysterical.

Sergio didn't even look at him. As he severed the artery, he grabbed the patterned medallion from the chest of the man's suit.

No one knows what that idiot was thinking, but Sergio had his eye on that thing from the moment he saw him.

A small toy for a Class C operative.

The technical department specialists created it using a forbidden material. Its exterior has a typical aristocratic style, making it look expensive. Inside, it is studded with dozens of chip-like life tissue blocks. The moment the user activates it, it can form a pistol with six bullets containing genocide properties.

The moment he saw it, he realized that this thing was practically a gift from heaven. Of course, he had one too, but he had lost it long ago when he slept with someone else. Back then, who thought so much? Once you used its special ability, you could kill gods and Buddhas. What idiot would still be playing with firearms?

The chip instantly reassembled and transformed in his hands—great, not even a fingerprint authentication was done. Stanford probably didn't take it seriously before he died, just dragging it into the arena like that. How stupid must he be?

After the gunshot.

He glanced at the corpse, its brains splattered and luxury items scattered everywhere, feeling somewhat bewildered, yet strangely lucid.

The moment Sergio broke free of his restraints, killed, and seized the gun, he knew what he was going to do next.

He should shoot himself in the head.