Compared to frontline members, Portolia wished she could be one of those who set the rules of the game within the organization, instead of fleeing overseas in a sorry state, continuing to arduously amass hard-earned Game Coins.
Dean might be her only chance to turn the tables.
Lost in her wild thoughts, time trickled away. It was approaching one in the morning.
Just then, Portolia’s phone beneath her vibrated slightly, displaying a red alert: "L7 Sweeper team in position, communication channel open, please contact us as soon as possible."
The armed squad sent by the organization to cover her departure had arrived.
L stood for Los Angeles; 7 indicated they were the seventh team. She was familiar with the organization’s teams 5 through 9 in Los Angeles. She herself had formed these teams, recruiting gunmen who were remnants from the fallen Carmen Family and absorbing them into the organization. As such, she felt a certain connection to them.
"Damn it, they sent a bunch of cannon fodder!"
A flash of resentment lit Portolia’s eyes as she slowly rose. All she could do now was pray that after she left the United States, the organization would successfully recruit ’Dean,’ whom she had recommended. If not, she’d have to start from scratch again overseas.
She took out her phone, opened the newly appeared contact list, and made the call.
"Widow, glad you’re safe."
"Thanks. I’m at home right now, but I’m not sure if the enemy is watching from the shadows. You need to secure the area before I come out!"
"...Sorry, our equipment and personnel can’t support that. Besides, the organization’s orders are to cover your departure from Los Angeles before six o’clock. The boat to pick you up is waiting by the sea right now. Widow, you don’t have much time!"
Hearing this, Portolia’s heart tensed. The implication was clear: if I don’t leave before dawn, I’ll be stuck here forever!
A cold look flashed in her eyes. She licked her red lips and cooed, "Got it. I’m coming out immediately."
After hanging up, Portolia slowly drew the short Tachi from her waist, her tongue gliding along its cold edge. She opened a hidden compartment, blade in hand, and rushed out from the darkness in a few strides.
Under the moonlight, shadows fell.
A glint of cold steel flashed.
On the bed, the deeply sleeping child’s head was severed, rolling under the bed like a ball.
Portolia shook the blood from her blade and took out a white cloth she had prepared. She wrapped the bloodied ’ball’ that had rolled under the bed and kissed it tenderly. Then, she donned a wide, Japanese-style outer robe, concealed the short Tachi near her groin, slung the ’ball’ onto her back, and headed outside.
After over twenty years of rigorous training in the ancient arts of killing, Portolia was confident in her ability to annihilate any enemy within seven steps, even if splattered with their blood; she had no fear of firearms.
She was still young and didn’t want to die.
So today, anyone foolish enough to cross her would die!
Outside the house, two cars were brazenly parked.
Five or six individuals surrounded the vehicles, guns at the ready, their eyes vigilantly sweeping the area. They were completely unaware of Dean, who had been observing them from the shadows.
Portolia’s assessment of them was astute. This is just a motley crew, cannon fodder gunmen trained by the Carmen Family, good for nothing more than guarding a construction site.
As the house door opened, Portolia, incongruously dressed in a kimono and sneakers, emerged, sticking to the shadows.
She frowned at the people waiting by the road. These idiots! Don’t they realize that standing in the open like that makes them completely vulnerable?
Before she could dwell on it, a burly, bearded man in a baseball cap waved at her. "We’ve secured the retreat route. You’re late!"
Portolia cautiously scanned the surroundings. Once certain there was no immediate danger, she moved toward the group with strange, calculated steps.
With every step, she kept her body concealed by the plants and structures just outside the courtyard. This not only protected her from potential snipers but also ensured she could find cover immediately if attacked.
The escorts were all brutes. Their gazes were fixed greedily on the flash of pale, smooth skin visible beneath the overlapping hem of her kimono as she walked, their breathing growing heavy.
They exchanged glances, nodding subtly. Everything was unspoken.
The groups converged. All seemed well.
Portolia breathed a sigh of relief. Facing the men’s intense stares, she beamed. "L7, I was the one who recruited you into the organization back then. Can you tell me, is the organization really planning to get me out?"
The burly leader nodded. "Yes. Get in the car, we..."
The scent of her perfume, carried on the movement of her robe, wafted into the man’s nostrils.
In the next moment, he only felt a slight coolness at his throat. Then he heard a gushing sound, like a fountain, as his blood surged toward the wound, draining all his strength and warmth...
The hem of her kimono settled. Googlᴇ search N0velFire.ɴet
Behind the leader, the other men were still marveling at the woman’s audacity—that she was apparently going commando—when Portolia fiercely kicked the dying leader’s body toward them.
A spray of blood erupted, dousing the men behind him. They were so stunned they could only instinctively shut their eyes.
The moment they closed their eyes, they lost the chance to ever open them again.
Taking advantage of the chaos, Portolia slashed with her blade. She moved swift as a rabbit, her blade like a willow leaf cutting the wind, each light stroke delivering a fatal cut to the throat with ruthless precision.
In a mere instant, the petite figure, drenched in a rain of blood, burst from the group of men, standing tall with her blade in hand.
Behind her, the five or six large, powerfully built men, armed with rifles and fully equipped, clutched at their throats—which had been sliced more than halfway through. They collapsed helplessly, and the cold air around them quickly grew thick with the scent of blood.