Chapter 307. The Mad Carnage
"Warwick, begin. Leave no soul drawing breath," Noah commanded, his voice cold and detached as he closed the digital dossier on his screen.
The gang, a motley collection of dregs known as the Mohawks, numbered roughly thirty. To a creature like Warwick, they weren't enemies; they were merely loud, frantic prey waiting to be silenced.
"Noisy vermin! I shall tear them limb from limb! Their screams will be the only music I need!" Warwick snarled. His metallic claws extended with a sharp, hydraulic hiss, gleaming like surgical razors in the gloom. With a predatory coil of his mechanical muscles, he leapt from the high rafters.
BOOM!
The iron titan slammed into the concrete floor with the force of a falling meteor, sending a choking plume of dust and debris spiraling into the air. A long table, piled high with mounds of white powder, was sent cartwheeling through the air. The drugs scattered, mixing with the rising dust to create a surreal, ghostly haze that hung thick in the stagnant air.
"Hey! What the hell was that?!" a voice barked through the clouds.
"Goddammit! My product! Who did this? Show yourself, you bastard!" another shrieked. The sudden intrusion had jarred the bandits from their drug-fueled haze. Despite their intoxication, the sight of their precious white gold ruined triggered a feral rage. One man, squinting through the settling grit at a hulking silhouette, began to howl obscenities.
The rest of the den quickly followed suit, their voices rising in a chorus of murderous intent.
"Kill him! Empty your clips!"
"Perfect timing—I need a piss. I'll lop off his head and use it as a urinal!"
"Hahaha! Brother, your tastes are as twisted as ever!"
Coked to the gills and emboldened by their numbers, they cast aside any semblance of caution. They stood in the flickering neon light, laughing and debating the most gruesome ways to butcher the uninvited guest.
But as the dust finally settled, the laughter died in their throats, replaced by the icy grip of primal terror. Standing before them was a nightmare forged in a forge of madness. A seven-foot-tall juggernaut of deep-crimson metal loomed over them. Its eyes burned with a baleful, atmospheric red glow, and its claws—long, serrated, and terrifying—scraped against the floor.
[PROJECT: Warwick] stood revealed in all his mechanical majesty.
The silence was instantaneous and deafening. The bandits froze, their bravado evaporating like mist in a furnace.
"W-what... what is that thing?" someone stammered, his boots scraping back against the floor in a desperate retreat.
"What kind of joke is this? It's not even Halloween yet, haha..." A few of them, their brains too fried by chemicals to register true danger, found a hysterical humor in the sight.
One thug, sporting a neon-green mohawk that matched his gang's moniker, raised his UMP-9. His finger tightened on the trigger, and he unleashed a deafening spray.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
The submachine gun spat tongues of orange flame, the muzzle flash illuminating his panicked face.
But the expected result—a body riddled with holes—never came. The bullets, which should have shredded flesh and bone, struck the "suit" and ricocheted with a high-pitched metallic clang, as if hitting a thick slab of reinforced battleship armor. Flattened, useless slugs rattled onto the floor like hailstones.
The Green Mohawk stared in sheer disbelief, blinking his eyes as if he could clear the hallucination away. He tried to realign his sights for another burst, but in the blink of an eye, Warwick vanished. A blur of crimson motion crossed the distance in a heartbeat.
SHING!
The thug saw only a flash of red light. His UMP-9 didn't just jam; it fell apart into two perfectly severed pieces.
He stared at the ruins of his weapon for a lingering second, confused, until a searing, white-hot agony erupted in his lower half. His gaze drifted downward. He tried to step back, but his legs refused to move. Then he saw them... his own boots and shins, still standing upright five feet away, blood geysering from the severed stumps.
"W-what... AAAAAGH!" His scream ripped through the warehouse, a shrill, soul-piercing sound of pure agony. The shock of the pain finally cleared the drug-mist from his mind, replaced by the horrifying realization that his entrails were spilling onto the cold concrete.
That scream acted like a bucket of ice water for the others. This wasn't a cosplayer or a high-tech prank. This was an engine of slaughter.
Panicked, the bandits opened fire from all sides, a chaotic hail of lead drumming against Warwick's frame. The bullets sparked and hummed as they bounced harmlessly off his hide. And then, the wolf began his hunt.
It wasn't a fight; it was a harvest. The Vibranium alloy of Warwick's chassis was an absolute fortress against their small arms. He became a whirlwind of ruthless efficiency, every joint and limb a tool of execution.
With claws that moved like streaks of lightning, he carved through the bandits as if their bodies were made of warm butter, shearing through bone and gristle without resistance. His massive maw, lined with rows of serrated steel fangs, clamped down on the torsos of those too slow to run. With a sickening crunch, he tore the upper bodies away, leaving behind only twitching lower halves that sprayed arcs of crimson across the walls.
He pivoted, his steel shoulders hitting a charging thug like a runaway freight train. The "Iron Mountain" strike shattered the man's ribcage instantly, launching him into the air like a discarded ragdoll. The body hit the far wall with a wet thud, every bone in its frame turned to powder. Even his glowing red tail was a weapon of spite; it lashed out like a bladed whip, snapping spines and bisecting those trying to crawl away.
In his quiet study miles away, Noah watched the carnage—a scene that would have earned an "X" rating in any cinema—with a raised eyebrow. He leaned back in his plush chair, feeling as though he were watching a high-budget horror flick.
Warwick had numerous ways to end them—integrated lasers, high-frequency energy pulses, or explosive area-of-effect bursts. But the wolf seemed to crave the tactile sensation of the kill. He was savoring the manual labor of dismemberment, finding a dark, primal ecstasy in the spray of oil and blood. Every tear, every shattering impact, seemed to fuel his mechanical excitement.
The flickering red light on the monitor reflected the sheer savagery of the beast. Noah didn't mind. Every sentient being he crafted possessed its own soul, its own quirks. Warwick was simply expressing his unique personality.
[Mission Complete. 200 Essence Acquired.]
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