Stumbling and staggering,
it looked like he could collapse at any moment, but he just wouldn't fall, shots fired, hammered and battered; in just a brief moment, the last assault team was gone.
Then, that person, he actually flew back.
Just when he seemed about to fall, he flipped and flew back.
I had no idea what word to use, nor did I know what else could possibly describe it, but over there at the head of the Oak Mercenary Group, they simply called it flying.
It chilled me to the bone, left my limbs icy cold, a frigid feeling enveloping my whole body.
Forty men, five teams, three small squads of four each, these three were assault rifle wielders, experts in indoor combat, the Oak Mercenary Group's vanguard for such warfare—two were sent in first, and were wiped out by a hand grenade just as they entered.
There was another four-man squad, the best of the best, they hadn't even entered when someone suddenly emerged from the window, hammered and shot them down.
