Holding back the shiver all over his body, the guard Jun Fukuyama tried to take one step and another step. Why go? It's better to sit back and get some rest. The ending won't be any different anyway, so why not make yourself comfortable and die? He admonished himself this countless times, but his feet moved forward mechanically, step after step, refusing to give up.

As soon as he looked down, he could see the heavy leather boots stumbling forward. The upper was supposed to be shiny black, but the blood clots were sticking to it, reddish-brown, and the original traces were long unrecognizable. The sirens kept screaming, sharp enough to pierce the eardrums. The pants were wet below the knees, thick blood scabs like dark red soccer shins. His steps were heavy and scrambled, almost rubbing forward. I'm so tired, I'm so tired, I can't walk, I can't walk.

In the empty hallway, a long trail of blood dragged out on the mirror-like floor. As Fukuyama moved, the blood stains were still extended.

Every few steps, he had to lift his belt. The place where batons and flashlights should have been hung is now empty. The equipment had been lost at the entrance of the exhibition room. It's useless to hold it, it will only slow down the pace of escape. He just lost it and ran away quickly to survive. The comrades who resisted with batons all died, and died horribly, without exception.

Despair made Fukuyama cry uncontrollably. He sobbed, his shoulders jerking violently, tears streaming uncontrollably.

There should have been fifteen more companions when they escaped the exhibition room, maybe more, but one after another they were stabbed to death, caught, or died from the strange green flames. Fukuyama was the fastest runner, and he was also hit hard in the leg. The hooded skeleton youkai flew around, and it was impossible to resist. And it was helped by a bunch of terrifying-looking little demons, with claws as sharp as razors.

Reminiscing, crying bitterly, Jun Fukuyama took another step.

Maybe the floor was too slippery, or there was too much blood, and the boot slipped suddenly, and the poor security guard lost his center of gravity and fell heavily on his back. His eyes were blackened from the fall, and his mouth was full of rust. It's over, that's the end for me, he thought desperately. Struggling, he tried to get back to his feet, but the stiff muscles in his legs were too weak. He was too tired, too weak, like a broken candle that goes out when it is blown out.

Am I doing my duty as a security guard?

Completely giving up on escaping, Jun Fukuyama suddenly felt a sense of relief. Looking up at the cold light at the top of the hallway, he thought about his duties.

Those Mi people will definitely come. They're heavily armed and heavily armed, much better than us scraps with batons. I sounded the alarm in time, and that's my job. It's not that I don't want to do more, there's really nothing I can do. When I think about it, I feel better.

Until now, Fukuyama has not figured out what is going on. It was supposed to be a quiet and peaceful night, but the attack came suddenly.

The warning mechanism is ineffective, and I have no idea what's going on. The exhibition rooms and outdoors are equipped with the most sophisticated infrared warning devices, heartbeat monitors, and vibrators. Whether it's body heat, heartbeat, or footsteps, any clue will be alerted immediately. The invaders, however, came silently. Seeing a hooded yokai floating in the doorway, Jun Fukuyama almost thought he was dreaming. The brothers on duty drew their batons one after another, and rushed forward while shouting warnings. The youkai disappeared in place and appeared behind them in the blink of an eye. It swung its long sword, sword after sword, sword after sword.

Because of the excessive fright, Jun Fukuyama felt that his fingers were unusually stiff, and he trembled so much that he could not obey the call. It took him a lifetime to get his hands on the alarm switch on the wall. Flipping open the glass cover, he pressed it down hard, and the sharp alarm bell rang with it. "Alert!" He shouted as hard as he could, turned and ran.

Maybe it was when he got a sword in the leg, but he can't remember it.

When I lay on the ground and waited to die, time passed longer than I imagined. Obviously, the banshee was following closely behind, but it felt like a long time had passed. Finally, the floating terrifying figure appeared at the end of the corridor, only flashing for a moment, and in a blink of an eye, it was in front of it. Facing the cold sword blade, Jun Fukuyama breathed a sigh of relief, and the corners of his mouth unconsciously showed a smile of relief.

Yet he did not die.

A crowd of heavily armed men poured out from the staircase opposite, all armed with assault rifles. The bullets swept through like a torrential rain, and the banshee let out a terrifying scream and suddenly disappeared.

The man with the weapon leaned over cautiously, it was those Mi people. Jun Fukuyama raised his hand with difficulty, indicating that he was not dead.

"The guard is still alive." A bearded man said, grabbing his hand and trying to pull him up from the ground.

"Alert all around." Another Mi man who looked like the leader ordered. Twenty or thirty assault rifles immediately dispersed, blocking the hallway.

"The thigh is almost broken," said the Mi Guoren, who examined the wound for Jun Fukuyama, softly, "how could he go so far?" ”

The blood trail dragged all the way from the large exhibition room, at least six or seven hundred meters.

"Leave that alone," said the leader of the country, and then added, "Search forward." ”

A few little evil ghosts appeared in the corridor bouncing around, almost colliding with this group of Mi people.

"Shoot!" The leader of the rice country shouted, "Fire!" ”

More than two dozen guns fired at the same time, causing a miasma of smoke in the corridor. The people of the United States shouted and shot at the same time, and the sound once overpowered the sound of the gunshots. However, their excitement did not last long, and panic was faintly growing. "They're not dead! Bullets can't pierce! One shouted, and the other shouted, "More are coming, look at the stairs over there!" Another began to pray in despair, "Our Lady is merciful, they are demons from hell!" ”

"Don't waste my time, you lowly creatures!" The little demons chirped and screamed, diligently spreading blood and death with their claws.

Jun Fukuyama lay on the ground, unable to do anything but listen. Just now, the Mi people bandaged him briefly, and the bleeding seemed to stop. Perhaps because of the excessive blood loss, he felt so cold and shivered all over, like the last ivy leaf on the wall in late autumn.

In the darkness and cold, we were attacked. Tried to fight back, but to no avail, he thought. The leader of the country roared loudly and gave orders, and the sound of intensive shooting was like a fierce rock music. "Die, you damned hell demons, die!" The rice people are still fighting, and he expects them to win to the end.

Bullet casings flew and clanged down the hallway. "They can't be killed!" A man cried out in despair. "Take a knife and stab them to death!" Another shouted.

Evil demons and banshees appeared in the darkness, mercilessly reaping lives, and Jun Fukuyama thought, it must be the damn blue diamond. It's clearly something that only exists in hell. The people of the United States took it out for public exhibition and attracted the attention of the dark. And so here they were. In order to take the blue stone, the demons can slaughter everything.

He struggled to turn his neck, and through the rain of bullet casings, he could only see his messy legs. The people of the United States moved back and forth in confusion. And the little demons jumped into them by stepping on the wall and even the ceiling, and in the blink of an eye, they were killed and wounded.

There were evil ghosts everywhere, he thought desperately, and listened helplessly to the panicked cries of the people of the United States. Creatures from hell, attacking from both ends of the corridor at the same time. Nothing can resist them, neither knives nor bullets will work. "Fire, fire!" One voice was screaming, the other was crying out in despair, "I can't see, who's going to help me...... and the third voice said, "Retreat, retreat!" The fourth voice objected, "One more time!" ”

The sound was like a sea, so noisy that Jun Fukuyama couldn't distinguish it. He heard the crisp sound of the rifle hanging up, which meant that someone was out of ammunition. How so? Isn't it a retired master of the United States Marine Corps? Isn't it well-trained and well-equipped? Your mission will be accomplished, you have been through a lot of battles, you will see death as your home, but you are trapped in a corridor less than 200 meters, and you are pressed to the ground like dogs, slaughtered one by one.

A Mi man stumbled over and collapsed beside Fukuyama. Before he died, he stared at Fukuyama's face, as if he wanted to say something, but all that came out of his mouth was blood foam. It's over, Fukuyama thought to himself, even the people of the United States don't have anything to do, we're finished.

The little demons swarmed up, their black claws shining with cold light. Fukuyama closed his eyes and silently said goodbye to his wife and daughter who were far away in Edo.