The soldier inside the power armor was dumbfounded by the scene.
Just as he wanted to toss the attackers off, he felt weight on his left hand, right leg, as exoskeleton-clad players rushed up and clung to him. Motors scavenged from second-hand prosthetics were wildly maxed out, locking themselves onto him.
Be it slashing, punching, or smashing into the ground, the arms and legs never let go.
His mobility was greatly reduced, dragging tons of external weight that made running impossible, leaving him to struggle in place.
"Let go of me, let go! You cyber lunatics!!! Get off!!!"
Other power armor soldiers tried to assist but were desperately intercepted by Wildman, who commanded the firepower team to use rockets. Their target was no longer the power armor itself, but they bombarded the area around the surrounded armor, ignoring their own casualties.
Red Barrel, tightly clutching the opponent’s right leg, shouted,
"Jianxue! Hurry up! This force is so strong..."
Jianxue, having waited on the perimeter, seized the opportunity, rushed in, dragging hundreds of kilograms of explosives into the crowd, desperately sticking them onto the power armor soldier’s body, caressing the exterior like a maniac.
"Hehe, my masterpiece will not disappoint you!"
The remaining three power armor soldiers, who wanted to save others, dared not advance, quickly retreating frantically.
A massive mushroom cloud rose on the street, its power even felt by a hovering convoy hundreds of meters up, forcing it to ascend further.
Glass from surrounding buildings shattered, falling like a rain of light onto the ground.
The entire Santo Domingo heard this earth-shattering boom, causing many drivers to slam on the brakes, triggering a chain of accidents, horns blaring everywhere.
Caster, observing from the hovering car, had his mouth wide open, his expression beyond words.
He’d seen reckless acts.
But never reckless acts .
You could have just thrown the bomb over, right?
Though not guaranteed to escape, was such a suicidal attack necessary?
He even hallucinated about being back on Iwo Jima 130 years ago, watching a group rushing at his tanks with explosive poles.
And how did these mercenaries decide on such a suicidal assault collectively in such a short time?
Is your life not a life?
What leverage does your mastermind have on you, and how much did they pay?
The fifty-four reporters who had been eloquently depicting their prepared praises were now like ducks with their necks grabbed, forgetting their lines.
Night City was quiet for a moment due to this explosive sound.
At the Rebirth Bar, Queen Rogers, seated at her exclusive spot, watched the mushroom cloud rising on the TV screen, her expression suddenly turning somewhat forlorn.
The other bar regulars had varied expressions of emotion—appreciation, admiration, shock... until one raised a cup.
"This batch of rookies is fierce! Scared the hell out of me."
"It’s been years since anyone dared to engage the company’s core forces on the street."
"They’re a bunch of tough guys. If they survive, I’ll invite them here for a drink personally."
"How much do you have to be paid to do such a reckless job..."
Anything the reporters said nobody listened to.
The mercenaries living in Night City know nothing broadcast on television is true.
And as long as you go against the company, no matter the reason, goal, or stance, you’ll earn the mercenaries’ respect.
As the heat wave dissipated, ashes stirred by the blast began to settle slowly due to gravity, along with lighter burning materials.
The central road was nearly blown into whiteness, where the players and the power armor soldier who was embraced were left only with a two-meter diameter crater, leaving nothing else.
The players used almost a total annihilation cost to take away the nearest power armor soldier, while those who didn’t rush in were either blasted away like ragdolls or had their organs shattered by the shock.
This explosive power, akin to a 500-pound aerial bomb, doesn’t yet exist in this world a carbon-based being that can survive it.
Even if you are modified and wear light exoskeleton.
If the blast doesn’t kill you, the shock will.
There were no survivors except for Wildman who, shielded from the shockwave, barely lived under his exoskeleton, standing alone amidst the ruins, leaning on his shield and using inner and outer iron skeletons to support his tottering body.
And Wildman now faced the remaining three power armor soldiers who had retreated in time, avoiding the explosion.
The towering forms of the power armor soldiers appeared especially terrifying in the burning atmosphere; even if there were thrice the players, they wouldn’t allow the previous situation to happen again, the gap between them like a chasm, frontal conflict almost impossible to win for the players.
The spectacle was brutal.
But not the kind of brutality Caster wanted; he wanted the effect of overwhelming the enemy, but now there was no choice, glad he didn’t send more ground troops earlier, or casualties would have been higher.
After ensuring there was no threat, he indicated for the hovering car to descend.
"Take him back, interrogate the mastermind, don’t let the intermediary go either."
The action team following out of the hovering car immediately prepared to capture the motionless Wildman, drag him onto a stretcher for rescue.
He mustn’t die, at least not before the interrogation ends.
But just when the agent’s hand was about to touch Wildman.
His entire body suddenly emitted a piercing electronic wail, all equipped prosthetics simultaneously overloaded into madness, having seized him like an octopus, fingers and limbs moving chaotically, smoke and blood pouring from orifices, the harrowing screams startling everyone present.
"Take my customer, did you ask me?"