The first wave of mobsters charging down the stairs met a storm of bullets before they even realized what was happening—several dropped instantly.
The survivors ducked low, pressing themselves behind the marble railings. The ornate stonework shielded them from some of the gunfire, but bullets still slipped through the gaps, occasionally striking flesh. Pinned down and overwhelmed, they could barely lift their heads to return fire.
More gangsters came rushing down from the second floor, using the staircase as cover while shooting back.
Howard and the martial hall's men held their ground, firing whenever a head popped out, but the number of armed opponents kept growing. Each took shelter behind pillars or furniture, exchanging fire across the dazzling marble hall.
Then, in a burst of reckless excitement, the supposedly "cowardly" Howard stepped out from cover—standing brazenly in the open, firing wildly up the stairs. His eyes gleamed with manic delight.
That made him an easy target. A burly man with a double-barreled shotgun noticed and turned his weapon toward him.
BOOM!
Flames erupted from the barrel, a spread of lead pellets slamming into Howard's chest and abdomen. The impact sent him sprawling backward.
On the ground, Howard gritted his teeth in pain—the hit felt like being punched a dozen times at once. His ribs throbbed, but the armor held. Rolling quickly behind a heavy wooden sofa, he thanked the gods (and Chen Mo's tech) for the bulletproof suit's strength.
The gunman blinked in disbelief. How was the man still alive? Had he loaded rubber shells by mistake?
Before he could fire again, a single shot cracked from the corner—Chen Mo's bullet pierced his skull clean through.
More mafiosos poured down the stairs. The martial hall fighters found themselves under mounting pressure, trapped behind pillars and corners, forced to wait for brief lulls in the crossfire to retaliate.
Chen Mo, however, remained calm in the shadows. He barely fired—his focus wasn't on killing the mobsters, but on protecting his team. Every time one of them peeked out to shoot, Chen Mo's eyes tracked enemy muzzles; the instant a gun lined up on one of his people, his shot would strike first, killing the threat before it could pull the trigger.
As for Howard's earlier misfortune? So long as no one aimed for the head, Chen Mo didn't intervene.
This was training. Real, brutal, necessary training. Under live fire, their reflexes and instincts would sharpen faster than in any practice hall.
With Chen Mo silently watching over them, none were in real danger. Bullets that struck their armor only stung like punches, leaving no injury. In return, their aim grew deadlier—enemy after enemy fell screaming down the blood-slick stairs.
The marble steps, once pristine and gleaming, were now littered with shattered bodies and spent casings.
Fewer men came down from above; morale was breaking. Despite their superior numbers, the mobsters were terrified—these intruders were almost unstoppable, not a single casualty among them.
Behind a marble pillar, Huang Quan reloaded quickly. In the last exchange alone, his sharp reflexes and steady aim had dropped at least five foes.
Hearing the gunfire above grow lighter, he seized his chance—darting out from cover, both pistols blazing.
The first shot cracked the marble railing, scattering white chips into the air.
The second slipped perfectly through the gap, punching into a thug's chest.
Two shots, one kill. Huang Quan dove back behind cover just as a hail of bullets smashed into the pillar, sending dust and stone flying.
Han Qing, Wang Kun, and Luo Zhen followed his lead, bursting from behind cover to unleash rapid bursts—each dropping another enemy before ducking back to safety.
But it was old Albert who drew Chen Mo's attention. Calm and composed, the elderly butler crouched at a corner of the hall, pistols raised beside his ears, his face a mask of quiet steel.
As the enemy's fire slackened, Albert spun out from cover, arms sweeping forward in a smooth arc.
Bang! Bang!
Two simultaneous gunshots cracked through the air.
On the staircase, two mobsters with Thompson submachine guns froze mid-scream as crimson sprayed across the white marble.
Albert's twin guns barked again and again, his movements fluid and precise—an elegant death waltz amid chaos. When the last bullet clicked empty, he slid behind another column unharmed, the marble behind him pocked with failed shots.
Watching him move with such grace, Chen Mo couldn't help but nod in approval. For a moment, the image of Harry Hart from Kingsman flashed through his mind—refined, deadly, and utterly composed.
Howard, meanwhile, had wisely retreated behind a barricade of heavy sofas, firing through the gaps. From his safe position, he was grinning ear to ear, emptying magazine after magazine. Ironically, his kill count was catching up to Albert's.
On the upper landing, one gangster finally spotted him through a crack and slowly raised his gun.
Howard, blissfully unaware, kept firing, too caught up in the thrill of battle to notice the muzzle now trained on him.