Traveling to another world, I made a two-dimensional girl into a card

After the duelists draw all the cards from the deck, they put the obtained cards in the hand area. Only the cards in the hand area can be used at will. Therefore, the duel will test the construction of the deck and your luck when drawing cards. It is also a science to ensure that your mana crystals have not grown to a higher level and to withstand the opponent's bombardment.

Of course, it doesn't mean that after you draw the cards, you will rely on these three or four cards for the whole game. When your turn begins, you will draw a card from the deck to the hand area, which ensures that you will at least not fall into the dilemma of having no cards to play. But if you don't add some cards to replenish your hand in the deck, it is easy to use up a bunch of cards in your hand at once when the mana crystal grows high enough, causing yourself to fall into the embarrassing situation of drawing one card and playing one card.

A deck can hold thirty cards, but no less than 30. When all the cards in the deck are drawn, not only will no cards be drawn each time, but the drawer will also suffer increasing fatigue damage. One point will be caused in the first round if there is no card drawn, two points in the second round, and three points in the third round. Therefore, it is not a good thing to draw cards from the deck too quickly in a protracted battle.

Similarly, there is an upper limit to the number of cards in your hand. Your hand can hold up to ten cards. When you draw the eleventh card, that card will be automatically burned, which is equivalent to directly removing it from this duel. It will not even enter the graveyard area. Based on Fang Qingyun's experience in his previous life, there is basically no way to get the burned cards back.

No matter what card it is, they all have their own quality. It is very easy to know the quality of a card. Just turn the card over and look at the name of the card at the bottom. The background color of the name column represents the quality of the card.

The quality of cards in this world is different from the ones Fang Qingyun played before. From low to high, they are divided into white, green, blue, purple, orange, and red. This is the same as the classification method of the Book of Fate. Maybe the Book of Fate adapts to local customs?

You can only carry one of the highest-level orange and red cards in a deck, but you can carry two of the white, green, blue and purple quality cards.

For example, if you have two red quality [Knight King]s and one red quality [Merlin the Mage] in your hand, then when building a deck, you can only carry one [Knight King] and one [Merlin the Mage]. But if [Knight King] is a purple quality card, then you can carry two [Knight King]s, but you can still only carry one [Merlin the Mage].

The quality of a card is determined by its rarity, and has little to do with its combat effectiveness. There are 1-1 orange cards and 9-9 white cards in this world. Rare cards often have better special effects and are more outstanding among cards of the same cost.

Therefore, mindlessly choosing higher-quality cards to construct a deck determines the lower limit of a deck, while carefully selecting some low-quality cards that match the system determines the upper limit of a deck.

It is not easy to obtain an orange card and a higher-level red card. In a city, the number of people who own an orange card may be less than a hundred. As for those who own a red card, there are only a handful of them in a city. The names of these people are written into the outstanding alumni column in local textbooks for publicity.

Turning to the back are card deck examples. Fang Qingyun thinks this is more useful. If he uses the views of his previous life to apply the rules of this world, he might end up making a fool of himself. So he decided to finish reading these before nightfall.

First, compose the deck:

In regular competitions, the upper limit of mana crystals is ten, and a deck must contain thirty cards. If you don't have enough cards, then in the official competition, you will be randomly given some blank cards with slightly disadvantageous stats to help you make up the 30 cards. They do not have any special abilities, but only attack power and health equal to their costs, such as 6-6-6. According to the previous formula, such cards are a little short of the attribute value and do not meet the requirements to become qualified cards.

The book also wrote about the original rules, which was to use as many cards as there were. However, a powerful nobleman deliberately broke the rules and brought a few trump cards. Relying on special effects, he would pull out the eldest brother when the younger brother died, and successfully corrupted the atmosphere of the time. As a result, excellent card players were eliminated, and opportunists became popular.

It coincides with the "Olympic" competition held every four years. This important competition has considerable significance for all races. The final winner can be favored by the God of Cards, realize a wish, and his own race will also receive a lot of rewards.

Fang Qingyun curled his lips when he saw this. Okay, the Holy Grail War, right? Different races are fighting for the Holy Grail, right?

As a result, a group of people with incomplete decks entered the competition that year. When they wanted to use the same trick again, they were ruled out for fouls by the Joint Committee. Emperor Sershi wanted to struggle, but the God of Cards appeared in person and disqualified those people from the competition.

Naturally, the game that year was shut out, and the furious Emperor Serhi 73 held a public trial. The opportunity that only comes once every four years was wasted, and these people who couldn't even play their cards right were publicly tried, punished for multiple crimes, and taken to the shooting range to become targets for rune guns.

Rumor has it that the 73rd generation was tricked into gambling and lost the princess's dowry. As for the truth? Who knows? I don't think there would be any brainless person who would gossip about his father and sister in front of the 74th generation. How many people would have such a brain?

Of course, "Olympics" is the name Fang Qingyun gave to this competition, which is quite appropriate. Its full name is: The Four-Year Priestess of Multi-Racial Amsira, the God of Cards. Fang Qingyun just thinks that this name is very strange and difficult to remember, and most importantly, it is too long.

Fang Qingyun, who was reading with great interest as a spectator, ate so much that he turned to the next page only to find that there was nothing else. This was the last page, and the next part would talk about card forging and card trading.

To put it simply, card trading is the exchange of card codes, which are the source of the cards. Through simple modifications, a usable card can be copied.

This exchange does not affect the card itself, but based on the level of the copier, a degraded imitation may be produced. It is common to lose some attributes, special effects and affixes. If the imitation is copied, the more you copy, the worse it will become. The book does not recommend students to spend a lot of money to copy. What if you get a third-hand copy of something? The gain is not worth it. You might end up with a blank 5-2-3, and then you will be a fool.

Fang Qingyun turned another page, and there was nothing after that.

Is the transaction introduction so sloppy? Fang Qingyun was a little bit unbelievable.

It was indeed so sloppy. Regarding the casting of cards, the book also wrote very simply, saying that the best part can be obtained in the secret realms within each principality today, and a small number of people can obtain it in the dream plane through dreaming. However, the book marked it in red font, whether dying in the dream plane or the secret realm, it is eternal death, and the deceased will lose his soul.

Brain dead, it turns out it's the live-action version of SAO Hearthstone.

Fang Qingyun thought about it and added PLUSPROMAX super deluxe edition to the definition.

Of course, if you don't have so many pursuits, you can go to the counter of the Card Makers Association, an organization under the City Hall, to go through the copying procedures. They will make copies of some of the cards in the secret realm. Although the copies are generally one level lower than the originals, the Card Makers Association can guarantee that these are first-hand imitations, and are definitely not second-hand or even third-hand garbage, so they can always be used.

However, the price of the copy... can be measured by a family's annual income. Given Fang Qingyun's current situation of being so poor that his pockets are cleaner than his face, it is a bit unrealistic to want to buy a card.

Chapter 6: First time traveling through time and encountering zombies? Fortunately, it wasn't Ghost's

Fang Qingyun, who didn't find any useful information, just had some dinner. Although the meal was really bad, it was free after all. Taking advantage of the street lights after dark, Fang Qingyun successfully got lost for a long time and found the Big Ben in front of him, and found the dormitory building where his "comfortable" dormitory was located.

He is not actually a person with poor sense of direction, but he is just too lazy to remember the way. Coupled with his conservative personality, when he arrives in an unfamiliar place, he will first look for a familiar road, and then use that familiar road to reach the place he wants to go, even if it means taking a detour.

He silently covered himself with the quilt. This might be his last night. Fang Qingyun breathed nervously. Although he didn't feel nervous, when he took his pulse, he found that his pulse was about 100. Now even his breathing was manual.

He used up his last bit of humor to cross his hands over his chest, to prevent the Book of Fate from having to go through the trouble of sorting out his remains after he died. He was always used to not causing trouble for others.

The moment he closed his eyes, the Grimoire of Fate on the table beside him opened to the first page with a faint blue light. On it was a painting of a train in ink, with several humanoid creatures struggling to climb on the running train. The missing flesh, weird postures, and twisted limbs all reflected their true identities: undead creatures, or zombies.

A few lines appeared on the page:

【World Name: Zombie Army 4 Death War#193406812】

[Danger level: Level 1, three stars (more dangerous in level 1, please proceed with caution)]

[Abyss distortion value: 0.01%-0.2% (some individual character collapse and behavioral inconsistencies may occur)]

[Stability: 98.14% (Enemy weakening is still effective)]

[Richness: Level 1, five stars (extremely rich, you can eat and take away as you go)]

The words on the pages turned into blue dust and dissipated. Fang Qingyun also felt dizzy. The sickening feeling of spinning and weightlessness made Fang Qingyun want to sit up immediately, but the next second, he felt his muscles stiffen, and his body seemed to be kneaded and tightened by a pair of big hands. He gradually lost consciousness...

Falling, falling, and falling, like banknotes in a washing machine, the excessive rotation made Fang Qingyun feel like he was on the verge of being torn into pieces. His whole body became sluggish, and an astonishing feeling of nausea churned in his stomach, so much so that he didn't even notice that the feeling of weightlessness had disappeared.

The suppressed feeling of nausea finally found a way to be released. Acid and half-digested food spurted out of Fang Qingyun's throat. His spasming stomach kept protesting, draining itself in the protest.

Fang Qingyun wiped away her tears, and her blurred vision finally became clear again. The shaking ground, the old carriage, and the constant sound of the train and the whistle reminded Fang Qingyun all the time that she was on a train, and an old one at that.

While Fang Qingyun was catching his breath, he suddenly felt a burning pain on his arm. He retracted his hand reflexively. While rubbing the painful area, he inadvertently discovered that a line of time 12:00:00 appeared on his wrist.

Time is still passing by second by second, and it seems that this is the maximum activity time. According to the description of the Book of Fate in his mind just now, if he does not return after the time limit, he will be forced to return. If he is still in a combat state, he will return after the battle.

In short, there is no way to exploit loopholes, nor can you get things by using the time-returning operation.

After recovering, Fang Qingyun took a look at the environment: a narrow bed, a small table made of boxes, and a compartment formed by wooden boards. It was so simple that even the splinters had not been removed. There was also a semi-finished oil painting on the table made of army green boxes. The painting was fixed to a relatively flat piece of crate board with thumbtacks. The gaps between the wooden slats were so large that you could see your fingers. Fang Qingyun was worried that he would pierce the poster if he used a little force when painting.

After scanning the posters, Fang Qingyun found something interesting. The poster showed two soldiers beating up a shampooer who was a German leader during World War II. The shampooer looked like a living dead, and his face was "exposed" in the physical sense. If it weren't for the iconic beard and hairstyle, Fang Qingyun would not have been able to tell who he was with his half-baked ability to judge people.

This painting is obviously not finished. There is a pen and some drawing supplies next to it. There is also a line of English on the picture: The war of death is not over yet, and the German devils have gone to hell.

Write in the picture, low score treatment. Fang Qingyun, who had strayed from the topic, continued to concentrate.

This line of text is the result of Fang Qingyun's own translation. It seems that in order to prevent him from the trouble of learning the language before entering the world, the Book of Destiny automatically installed a translator for him, so that he doesn't need to look up the dictionary on the spot. By the way, the automatic translation actually uses Microsoft Yahei font, which is really interesting.

Fang Qingyun tried to translate it again using his not-so-good English. He knew the words hell and devil, but what did the dead war mean? Death war? That didn't make sense. Damn war? That should be damn war. After thinking about it, he could only translate it literally into death war. Confused, Fang Qingyun could only attribute this nonsense to the painter's poor English.

When Fang Qingyun saw the "German devil", he had a premonition in his heart. He always felt that there was only one person who could be considered the German devil... and that was the fascist moustache shampooer. So, the shampooer was dead?

Fang Qingyun walked around his vomit and went to the other side of the table. There was a half-open box on the table with some fur cushions inside. It looked like there was something inside. Fang Qingyun turned to the side, and the person lying in the box, which was originally in the blind spot of his vision, also revealed his shape.

It was a three-barreled shotgun, with three shotgun barrels and two triggers, and it looked like it had been assembled. Fang Qingyun took a look and found that it was a break-type shotgun, which was a shotgun that could be broken in half and loaded. Fang Qingyun had no name that matched this gun.

As a half-baked military fan, he had no confidence in his memory, but what was certain was that this gun should not be the old stuff that added gunpowder by itself. Fang Qingyun stroked the cold surface of the gun. There must have been no stamping parts on this gun at that time. It would have taken until modern times to manufacture large machines... Maybe. Fang Qingyun couldn't remember whether there were any machine processing factories in the old West. There shouldn't have been any...

Did the old West have trains at that time? Fang Qingyun thought about it and thought that based on the plot of several people robbing a train when he played Red Dead Redemption 2, there should be trains.

I digress. After Fang Qingyun's exhaustive search, he still couldn't find a prototype that was exactly the same as this gun. The closest one might be the M30 Air Force shotgun, which was made during World War II and fits Fang Qingyun's guess about the German devil, but the M30 uses two shotgun barrels and one rifle barrel, and has a double trigger structure.

The barrel of the M30 is in an inverted T-shape, just like this gun, but the barrel is different. The two holes on the top are thicker and are used to load shotgun shells for medium to close range bombardment, while the bottom loading hole is slightly smaller and is used to load rifle bullets for relatively accurate shooting.

Unlike this gun, the three neat holes are all the same, and there is only one trigger. I don't know whether it fires three rounds at once or one by one. Fang Qingyun pressed his finger near the barrel and gestured. The three holes should be loaded with shotgun shells. Maybe it has been modified?

Fang Qingyun did not feel at ease after getting the gun. A sudden ominous premonition came over him. He felt like he was facing a tyrant with a small pistol. The only difference from dying with bare hands was that he would die more heroically.

From the perspective of worldview, an unarmed painter carries a shotgun, which means that the threat in this world is almost approaching everyone and can happen at any time. Fang Qingyun has a hunch that something bad is going to happen next, and what he needs to do now is to arm himself quickly.

Having a gun without bullets is not enough. There are always some bullets next to the gun.

Fang Qingyun found three ammunition bags next to the gun, lying crookedly on the bed like a fat man who had eaten too much. They looked like the kind that were hung on a belt, and were rather old, probably from World War II. Modern ones are all bullet hangers and tactical vests.

He opened the ammunition packs and was disappointed to find that the first one he got was empty, but fortunately the remaining two contained a total of eighteen twelve-caliber shotgun shells, but that was only enough for six rounds.

Fang Qingyun loaded the shotgun barrel into the barrel and snapped it shut. The ammunition bag couldn't be hung on his belt and there was no magazine hanger, so Fang Qingyun tried to stuff it into his pocket along with the ammunition bag. However, the bulging shape made it difficult to maneuver and reload quickly. Fang Qingyun had to settle for the next best thing and poured the ammunition out and stuffed it into his pocket. It was still convenient to take out, but he hoped it wouldn't fall out of his pocket while he was running.

He imitated the operations he had seen before, searched for a long time on the top of the barrel, found the hammer, and pulled it up with force. Only by doing this, the hammer would fall when the trigger was pulled, completing the collision and firing the bullet. This should be the principle, right?

When there is no target, the finger on the trigger is called a golden finger. In this case, it is easy to shoot by mistake due to nervousness, resulting in accidental discharge and accidental injury. This is also military common sense that many marketing accounts like to say, so much so that many people shout golden fingers when they encounter their fingers on the trigger, like a child, and can't wait to show off their knowledge.

Now that there is no target to shoot at, it is time to be careful about the golden finger to avoid accidental discharge. Fang Qingyun put his finger in front of the guard ring. He was nervous now and his fingers might cramp at any time due to fright. If he accidentally discharged the gun and the ricochet bullet injured him, it would be a lot of fun.

Fang Qingyun maintained this posture and explored forward carefully. He checked every corner where someone might be hiding, searching as carefully as he did in the crucial round of CSGO. He was afraid that someone might jump out from that corner and kill him with a knife.

The swaying and dim lights, the polluted air, the faint smell of cigarettes, the dampness of the wood and the smell of paint mixed together to create a depressing atmosphere. Fang Qingyun could hardly breathe under this tense oppression. He originally wanted to lower the sound of his breathing, but almost suffocated himself.

Often, the more it is at such times, the less likely something will happen. Life is like a comedian, and it always tortures people in the most effective way.

Chapter 6.5, Train Attack

At the same time, in the front of the train.

There were three people in the front of the car, including a strong driver. His muscular body supported his dirty, greasy yellow shirt. The sleeves were rolled up into short sleeves, and his beard was dirty and had cigarette ash on it.

The coal shoveler next to him was wearing thick gloves and was using a shovel to push coal into the furnace. Sweat was pouring down his head like noodles, and the high temperature was causing faint heat. Then there was the young man standing at the door of the train. He was the only relatively clean person. He was holding a submachine gun and standing straight because of nervousness. His young face was full of the innocence and stupidity that belonged to this age group.

The driver stood in front of the pile of joysticks, a cigarette in his mouth. The calluses on his hands and his weather-beaten face showed his age. He picked up a rifle leaning against the wall of the car with his fingers that had turned yellow from years of smoking, looked at the coal shovelers working hard, and exhaled a deep breath of the smoky air.

"We will reach Milan in three hours," the driver estimated, looking at the ruins outside, the abandoned city, the corpses everywhere, the wall with "help" written on it, and the wandering monsters... Maybe they can't see their families anymore. The driver was immersed in the memories of the past, missing his deceased wife. He originally had a lovely child...

Until that disaster, fear, killing, blood, screams, he ran away from the zombies with his child, his wife died at the hands of the zombies, and the child died on the road from bleeding caused by stray bullets. He returned to that night countless times, with trembling hands, using his clothes to stop the bleeding of the child, but could only feel the pulse getting weaker and weaker, seemed to see the child's face getting paler and paler, and his last words: Dad, it hurts.

The disaster took away everything, and after escaping, he lived in a daze for a long time. He drank to drown his sorrows, but dreamed of that night countless times, feeling powerless to do anything about the tragedy that happened to him.

Later, the rebels took a fancy to his skills and wanted to make him a train driver. When faced with the hand stretched out in front of him, he grasped it with his trembling, calloused hands, determined to die.

He was undoubtedly the best candidate for this mission. Driving a train in this wasteland full of monsters was as important as being a captain in the ocean. It required considerable courage, solid operating knowledge and a little bit of luck. Having lost his loved ones, he was undoubtedly the most violent horse. With a tendency towards self-destruction, he successively took on several missions across the most dangerous areas, and finally relied on his daring and courage to turn danger into safety.

Train drivers have one of the highest mortality rates in the professions. After all, the fastest way to destroy a train is to blow up the locomotive. The narrow space means that this "captain" does not have many people to protect him. He has brushed shoulders with death several times in his life, but death has not been able to knock him down. This stubborn middle-aged man got up and swung his iron fist at his own destiny.

This year, he has been driving trains for the resistance army for fifteen years. White hair has already entangled his temples. Years of getting along have also made him and his companions form a bond. He no longer wants to die. Now he occasionally has a drink or two, meets his wife and son in his dreams, and tells them about his latest affairs. He has become the most amiable among all the drivers, and no one can associate him with the middle-aged man who drove drunk with red eyes.

"Take a break, Misha, come and sit down," he called the young man over. He saw the shadow of his own child in the young man. Since the child got on the train three years ago, he has taken care of him, treated him like his own child, taught him the truth of life, and hoped that his fate would not be the same as his own.

If his child hadn't died, he would be as old as Misha.

The young man named Misha who was on guard hesitated for a moment, but still stood straight: "Dad, it's not time to change guards yet, I'd better continue to be on guard."

The old man smiled, but it was not easy to tell from his beard that he was smiling. The young man only saw that the two sides of the old man's beard were raised upwards. "It doesn't matter. Those damn empty shell zombies can't catch up with us. Let's take a break. Even if they catch up with us, they can only scratch the car and won't pose any threat. Besides, there is a machine gun position on the roof."

The coal shoveler stopped, leaning on his shovel and watching the conversation between the father and son who were not biological children. He lowered his head and wiped the sweat on the back of his gloved hand, and said jokingly: "Dad, why don't you invite me to sit down?"

"Orleans, you sit down too," Dad called out. Orleans did not move, as he knew his job did not allow him to do so. He laughed and scolded, "If I take a break, who will shovel the coal? Dad, are you going to do it yourself?" He wiped the sweat that had flowed into his eyes again. The rough gloves brought a slight tingling sensation, which removed the sourness of the sweat in his eyes.

He let out a long breath, stuck the shovel into the coal pile, and then threw the coal into the furnace: "Where is the Oriental who can't use a gun? Still drawing in the back?"

Dad nodded: "He was originally a Communist Party member and an electromechanical technician, but he got left behind with a broken radio on his back. Luckily he met me, otherwise he would have been ripped apart by the hollow zombies."

Orleans shook his head: "At the same age, Misha is a qualified gunman, but that guy can't even use a gun..."

The sound of breaking glass interrupted the rest of his sentence.

He paused halfway through his sentence, the rest of the words caught in his throat, his muscular body fell to the ground like a landslide, the shovel slipped from his hand and hit the iron side wall next to him, making a sound of steel colliding, which sounded particularly crisp even in the extremely noisy boiler room. The half of his skull that was blown off had lost its shape and turned into a pool of blood stuck to the wall. Red and white blood flowed out of the head that had lost a piece of tissue and soon covered an area of ​​the ground.

Dad grabbed Misha who was trying to raise his head and forced him to lie down in front of Orleans' body. The unique sticky feeling of the blood brought a huge burden to his stomach. His Adam's apple expanded and contracted, and the hot food residues mixed with gastric juice stayed briefly in the throat, waiting for an order to release the pressure.

"Kid, hold on to your gun!" The old man knelt down and reached for the rifle. He watched Misha vomit like a dog in front of Orleans's body. The grief and pressure filled him with anger: "How can zombies have snipers? Aren't there only hollow zombies in this area?"

The subsequent bullets shattered the few remaining glass into pieces, and the glass fragments splattered onto the ground and into the collar of Dad's clothes, bringing a slight stinging sensation. He maintained a kneeling and crawling position and used his hands and feet to get himself to the train control panel. He raised his head to glance at the dashboard, but the bullets from the window soon forced him to lie down again.

"Our speed is only 40 kilometers, and we are still slowing down. Misha, quickly notify the soldiers behind to get ready. We must rush out as much as possible." The old man kicked the dazed Misha and made him stagger. The loud roar made the young man regain his sanity briefly. Watching him stumble to open the back door, the old man felt like he was back to the night when the tragedy happened. The same feeling of powerlessness made him breathe rapidly.

The zombies on the opposite side have snipers. These rational zombies are terrifying long-range killers. The machine guns on the roof of the car didn't fire either, so those good guys should be dead.

Dad revised his estimate. This train must have been attacked by intelligent zombies. It is estimated that the train will be derailed by the explosives set by the zombies in ambush in a short time. They are estimated to be in great danger. The only thing they can do now is to send this message out. Dad looked at the connecting door of the train and half-knelt to try to reach the radio placed there.

The flying bullet pierced through the thin iron sheet and shot off three of his fingers. He gritted his teeth in pain and did not try to stop the bleeding. Instead, he stretched out his other intact hand to the radio. Perhaps the sniper guessed his position, and the next shot pierced through the side of the train, which was traveling at about 40 kilometers per hour, and hit his head accurately.

This legendary train driver, this train driver who decided to live well, was knocked down by his own fate seventeen years after that night, and this time he couldn't get up.

The rebel soldiers in the train were playing cards amid the noise. This railway line was very safe. The only ones wandering around for a long time were hollow zombies. These hollow zombies didn't even have guns and couldn't shoot, so it was difficult for them to pose any threat to the huge train.

Such a relaxed scene made Misha take great effort to squeeze into the center of the crowd. He overturned the card game and interrupted the betting of the onlookers. Special situations require special solutions. Misha shouted at the top of his lungs in the face of the unhappy expressions of the onlookers: "We are under attack. The sniper killed Uncle Orleans. We will be derailed soon."

One of the bystanders sneered. He looked down at Misha with a strange arrogance, not caring what the three-year recruit said. He just continued the gambling: "You must have drunk too much. The sentry didn't report anything unusual. Why are you butting in? Ignore this kid, and keep going."

Misha, who was furious, fired a shot at the top of the carriage with a submachine gun. This shot made everyone realize the seriousness of the problem. They armed themselves one after another, and Misha hurriedly ran to the next carriage. He also had to notify the next carriage.

However, when he ran to the second carriage and just shouted "Enemy attack", the horrific sound of gunfire came from the side, and the dense bullets pierced through the wooden side sliding door of the carriage like a storm, leaving holes on it that let light shine through.

Bullets pierced the bodies of the newly armed rebels, leaving blood everywhere. Bullets sent poker cards flying everywhere. Broken limbs and brains flowed out of the steaming bodies, staining the card table and floor red. Low screams and cries for help came from the pile of corpses, like evil spirits urging people to die, frightening those who were lucky enough to be alive to collapse.

Misha watched this tragedy with a pale expression. Because he was not hit at the first time, this gave him the opportunity to lie down. He saw his colleagues who had just been armed turned into corpses, and saw the old soldier who had just been stubborn covering the gunshot wound in his abdomen with the hand that still had half of his palm left, shouting for help in a low voice. This scene of hell deprived Misha of his mind.

He stared blankly at a tall figure who opened the side door of the carriage. Misha reacted and shouted, pouring bullets from his submachine gun at the figure. He shouted so hard, as if the shouting gave him endless courage. The figure's response was simple. The machine gun in his hand made a metallic sound of bullets colliding as it raised its hand. A short burst of fire ended Misha's life.

Chapter 7: Where did this tough guy come from? It turns out it’s me, so it’s okay

Five minutes ago, several cars had followed the train, and the sentry on duty on the train had been shot dead by a sniper, so even though the cars were close enough, the entire train remained in an unheard of state.