The enemies came surging in, a chaotic mob.
Although their prosthetic bodies were not as advanced as John's, their sheer numbers and relentless tactics, willing to trade injuries without regard for life, almost struck critical points several times.
John, too, had lost himself in the kill.
With the [PreCogOS Protocol] active, he constantly anticipated their moves in close-quarters combat, countering with strikes at deadly points.
John pressed on with determination, ignoring his wounds, hacking and slashing for several long minutes until his vision cleared, and no enemy closed in on him anymore.
"Huff, huff—"
John was drenched in blood, his face sticky, hot, and metallic-smelling. He panted with his mouth open, unwilling to swallow the blood, spitting constantly to get it out.
[Processing attackers: 16/17 (incomplete)]
John noticed the mission prompt, flicked [Sora], and let the blood clinging to the blade's edge slide off.
Then he raised his gun.
