Chapter 345: A Crocodile’s Tears

Foul blood spilled from the corner of Raccoon’s mouth.

He had only the faintest sliver of strength left. His limbs had been dismembered, his torso carved open. Nothing remained but a head and a pair of eyes that could still barely turn in their sockets—

And yet he spent that last shred of vitality on a curse.

“Croc—!”

“You... traitor!”

Raccoon’s curse was frantic, utterly hysterical. His voice was hoarse and fractured, every word flecked with bloody froth.

It was Crocodile. He stood behind Pandora and the girl, silent, like a submissive servant.

Raccoon’s rage transcended sanity.

That fury eclipsed fear, eclipsed agony, eclipsed even the shadow of death itself. His contorted expression tore through what little human skin remained on his face, revealing the grotesque, twisted anomaly beneath.

Fungal-like black bristles sprouted wildly from the torn flesh. Decayed, stinking bone and meat glistened with a damp, dark sheen under the moonlight.

Raccoon-like, yet far more twisted, far more inhuman than any raccoon.

That was his true face.

“It seems he won’t be accepting any offer of surrender.”

Pandora’s tone was indifferent.

Crocodile, still standing behind the two of them, still wore the guise of the portly, middle-aged businessman. Slightly receding hairline, rounded chin, impeccably dressed in a dark suit.

The groveling, desperate posture he had shown earlier in the bathroom was now completely gone.

In its place was deference.

He was silent for a moment.

Then, a single tear fell.

It rolled down his plump cheek, glistening with a briny sheen under the moonlight. His voice was hoarse and heavy, laden with a profound sorrow:

“Yes... such a pity, truly.”

“My former companion... Raccoon, the most adaptable of us all. He should have been able to accept all of this.”

“I only hope the master will grant him a swift end.”

Crocodile tears.

Real or feigned—likely even he himself could no longer tell the difference.

“That depends on Phoebe...”

Pandora said softly, her tone carrying a hint of barely perceptible anticipation.

At her words, the scattered chunks of flesh and blood on the ground—Raccoon’s remains—began to writhe, drawn by some invisible force.

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Those pieces had been strewn across the ground, soaking in pools of putrid blood. Now, as if awakened by some power, they quivered, twisted, and converged toward a single point.

Mixed with bits of soil and gravel, they writhed madly behind Phoebe.

The process was grotesque and swift. The flesh and blood churned like living matter under the moonlight, soil and gravel churning within it like dough in a mixer.

In the blink of an eye—

A tall, humanoid anomaly clad in a black trench coat coalesced behind Phoebe.

It bore an aged rifle, the hem of its coat fluttering gently in the night breeze. The rifle’s wooden stock was covered in scratches and wear, its metal components gleaming with a cold, hard light.

The gunman stood behind Phoebe like a silent sculpture, its face blurred and featureless.

Only the black muzzle of that rifle was painfully distinct, chilling to the bone.

What remained of Raccoon’s consciousness stared vacantly at this scene.

He saw it. The gunman behind the girl slowly raised its arm. It leveled the rifle’s dark muzzle against her back, directly over her heart.

That was his flesh. The last remnants of him. And the weapon it had become was now aimed at...?

In the next second, Pandora gently tugged Phoebe aside.

It was a small movement. Just a slight shift, bringing the girl closer to her front.

Bang!

The gunshot rang out. The sharp crack echoed through the dark alley, startling a few night birds from the distant eaves.

The bullet grazed past Phoebe, so close it stirred the loose strands of hair by her ear, and with terrifying precision, struck Raccoon dead center in the forehead.

That lone remaining head snapped backward.

A neat bullet hole appeared in the center of his brow. Entry wound at the front, exit wound at the back. The final flicker of light in Raccoon’s eyes was extinguished completely in that instant.

His residual consciousness dispersed. His rage, his terror—all faded into nothingness.

This was an “accident.”

A meticulously selected “accident.”

The accidental kill had taken effect.

Phoebe’s feeding began.

“Still got room, Phoebe?”

Pandora looked down at the girl beside her, her voice gentle.

“Yes, Pandora.”

Phoebe nodded, her voice small, tinged with a languid contentment.

“But this time... I’m a little full.”

Pandora smiled.

Indeed. Though over the past three months she had intentionally fed Phoebe a few times, tonight’s feeding had been the largest by far—and the highest quality.

The previous times had been nothing more than scattered, ordinary anomalies, or scraps handed off from the cleanup squad. But tonight, each one had been richer than the last. The successive feedings were finally beginning to show results.

Not only had Phoebe’s physical condition improved significantly; her abilities had also begun to develop.

She could finally control the target consumed during anomaly creation.

Before this, when Phoebe summoned an anomaly, the consumption of the target had been completely uncontrollable. Now, she was able to selectively use only part of the material.

However, because this was a newly acquired ability, she was still unpracticed.

That was why, when the gunman formed, it had not only used Raccoon’s flesh and blood but had also inadvertently drawn in some soil from the ground. That soil, mixed into the flesh, formed the dark, muted portions of the gunman’s coat and the rough texture of the rifle’s stock.

As for the gunman-type anomaly itself—

Pandora felt Phoebe’s hand clutching hers. That small hand was beginning to tremble faintly.

Phoebe sensed it. Behind her, the gunman was raising its hand once more, leveling that black muzzle against her back a second time.

This time, there was no “accident” left to exploit.

Pandora’s other hand clenched at empty air, her spell matrix in her mind adjusting slightly.

Shadow coalesced instantly into a massive scythe.

The scythe was over three meters long, its blade broad and curved, ink-black, yet gleaming with a cold, sharp luster.

It came down with a howling rush of wind!

Shlk!

The shadow scythe cleaved downward, bisecting the gunman-type anomaly Phoebe had summoned.

The cut was clean. From the left shoulder to the right hip. One stroke, two halves.

The upper and lower sections of the body toppled to opposite sides. The black trench coat spread across the ground like two shredded scraps of shadow.

Pandora noted the resistance she felt through her grip and gave a subtle nod. That scythe strike, at the moment of contact—she had felt a distinct resistance. More than any time before.

The anomaly’s strength had clearly increased by a significant margin, now reaching a standard Rank-3 level. It was no longer the kind of trash that could be cut down with casual ease.

Furthermore—

Pandora’s gaze sharpened.

There, under the moonlight, within the bisected corpse—

The hollow cavity that should have been empty now faintly revealed the rudimentary shapes of internal organs.