Henna walked like smoke through the cramped cobblestone alleys where no one was around.

More than 80% of the inhabitants of the military city of San Carlos are soldiers stationed here, there are no natives, no slaves, and even the servants chosen by a few nobles are serious whites, bankrupt, criminal, unsatisfactory, sold or abandoned by their families.

People come here either to work or to pay for money, to work at sunrise and rest at sunset, and there is neither a desire to socialize nor a leisure for pleasure.

This will probably bring a sense of security to the people in the city.

But because of this, there is always a lack of life here. Tomorrow is not late, but there is no one in the streets.

Henna loved the curfew-like environment.

In the dead of night, with no one around, she could run freely without worrying that the exclamations of passers-by would drag her out of the shadows.

It's the best.

Henna Fei also seemed to run, tracking the shadows and shadows scattered everywhere in the night. Everything tangible is a way to her, whether it is the stone alley, the eaves, the walls, the sundries, or the trees planted in the yard, the ropes hanging from the balcony facing the street......

The black gown unfurled its huge hem against the wind, like a dark cloud that moved close to the ground, and for a moment it drifted silently to the spire of the church bell tower.

The only door to the tower was open, and by the door lay a priest, sitting in a pool of blood.

He opened his mouth and opened his eyes, his gray eyes staring blankly at the moon in the sky, and there was a huge wound in his throat, which had been drained with blood, and the dark red rolled flesh could faintly discern the hidden branches.

Henna stood against the wall against the corpse, her soft-soled leather boots less than a fist away from the pool of blood, listening intently to the sounds inside the door and on the bell tower.

She didn't look at the body that was close at hand, because the details that needed attention were already visible when she flew closer, and the details of the priest's murder were not difficult to guess.

What's more, the life or death of an unknown believer in God has little to do with her, she only needs to be sure of one thing, that is, whether the gunman on the bell tower is still in place.

After waiting for more than four minutes, the third round of gunfire rang out as promised, slowly, firmly, and crisply, revealing the shooter's strong confidence and relaxed state.

The interval between shots was stable.

It was not the kind of rigid fixation that had no aura, and every shot of the gunman was pressed on the villa's counterattack, and although the gunfire of the villa was not interrupted, Henna could clearly hear the panic and panic on the other side of the villa.

Found you......

Henna took off her hood and watched the light smoke that was about to dissipate from the bell tower, tiptoeing into the spire.

……

Shooting a third gun again, Nasian sat down against the wall of the bell tower.

He pulled out the paper shell from the bullet bag, bit open the paper shell, poured the preloaded gunpowder into the slender barrel of Kentucky, and then pulled out a separate lead pellet, stuffed it into the chamber, and pulled out the pass and compacted it inward.

The Kentucky, made by the Americans, is the farthest and most accurate gun in the world.

With this gun in hand, the top hunters can achieve assassination at a distance of more than 300 meters, and even the average good gunner can extend his effective range to 100 meters away.

This data is a bit unbelievable in this era.

Because as far as the mainstream rifle data is concerned, the old brown bass has a theoretical range of only 300 meters, and the cutting-edge Charville is farther, with a theoretical range of 380 meters, but the effective range of both is the same, only 30 meters.

The Kentucky barrel is longer than that of both the Brown Bess and Charleville, with a theoretical range of 450 meters and a tested effective range of 80 meters, thanks to the exquisite hand-rifled silk hidden in this slender barrel.

But even so, Kentucky is still an unpopular weapon, not only are people in other countries rarely use it, but even the Americans who invented it are actually equipped in very few quantities.

With the development of front-loading flintlock pistols, pre-loaded paper-shell bullets have long been standard for increasing the rate of fire.

The preloaded bullets of other guns were gunpowder and lead bullets together, and as long as they were torn, poured, and compacted with a strip, the gun was ready to fire, and a well-trained gunner could easily do a 30-second or even 20-second round.

But not Kentucky.

Success is also rifling, defeat is also rifling, rifling caused the barrel of Kentucky to lose the airtightness on which the front-loading gun depends.

In normal loading mode, the kinetic energy ignited by the gunpowder is dissipated along the rifling, and the remaining force is barely enough to push the lead bullet out of the chamber, let alone use it to achieve a super-long-range assassination-style attack.

So Kentucky's buckshot is special.

The outer layer of wax, wrapping paper or cloth is more often directly squeezed into a large lead pellet slightly larger than the caliber of the barrel, which is rotated with a whole strip and compacted with the firing charge.

To put it bluntly, it is to rack your brains and process a projectile with a whirlwind pattern during the loading process that perfectly fits the rifling of the rifling of the rifle itself.

This anti-human reloading design directly ruined this perfect gun.

Pierce didn't like Kentucky because of his small hands and limited strength, taking 5 minutes per reload, and an additional 50% dumb fire rate if it was on a rocking sea.

Nassien, on the other hand, was fond of Kentucky, as an experienced veteran hunter could compress the reload time of each gun to a minute and a half, even if he was in the sea, and the mute fire caused by excessive deformation of ammunition would not exceed 20%.

Of course, the opportunities to use Kentucky at sea are limited.

When the ship is in the state of docking or approaching, the distance between the hunter and the target rarely exceeds 100 meters. For them, a regular rifle that loads quickly is more valuable and more deterrent than Kentucky, which takes a shot in minutes.

Hunters are invincible.

As the grim reaper of the battlefield, the hunters always believe that the only one who can kill the hunter is the one who can kill the hunter.

It's like today.

In Nasian's opinion, the gunman who was shooting at him at the villa was undoubtedly conscientious, conscientious and alert.

But that's about it.

He couldn't threaten Nacien, and the distance of 350 meters was the limit of Nacien's accuracy, and for the gunman, it was far beyond the limit.

His counterattack was futile, and there was no chance of a hit, but he had already been nearly shot by Nacian twice because of the need for a probe during the shooting.

Shooting means death, it's only a matter of time.

Nacien hummed boredly, put down the loaded gun, and picked up the second one from his hand.

Suddenly, he heard a very faint sound of wood grinding, and the position was ...... From under the tower.

Nacien froze.

The spire of the bell tower is connected to the tower gate by a slender coiled wooden staircase, and because of the age, there is indeed a sharp grinding sound when stepping on it.

But the sound should have been much louder than what had just been heard, as if the staircase was going to collapse at any moment, and it was impossible for anyone to hear it anyway.

But what about the voice just now?

Cat? Dog? Mouse? Or ...... Someone with exceptionally light steps?

Nasian's expression became cautious. He slowly lowered the gun, got up as he put it down, pulled the blade of his most trusted gun from his waist, pulled the trigger with his fingers, and protected his chest.

He had held his breath, his mind pondering the possibility of auditory hallucinations.

The probability of auditory hallucinations is greater than 70%.

There are no pedestrians in the night alleys of San Carlos, and tonight's shootouts and turmoil have left those who have not slept in their rooms honestly, and even sporadic movement has been wiped out.

In this case, the secret sentinels sent to the east, west, north and south will certainly not miss the people who approach the bell tower.

And who can track down the bell tower at this time?

The port authorities were almost killed by the regimental commander, and the few who were alive were also pressed in the villa.

There were a large number of sailors gathered on the docks, but the fire was scattered and disorganized, and it obviously took a lot of time for them to organize in the absence of a leader.

The other two in the fortress are even less noteworthy.

The night could not hide the gunfire and the commotion, they have not moved so far, and there will be no timely action tonight.

In this way, it seems that it can only be an animal running around......

Nacien took a deep breath and cautiously leaned towards the staircase.

"Let me see, which restless little thing ......"

The chill is shining!

A chill flashed at the moment of Nacion's probe, turning into a crimson shadow that shot straight into his brow.

The red light was too fast, too fast, and Nacien didn't react at all, so he could only watch the red light approach.

Bite!

A broad-bladed throwing knife fell from the sky, grazing Nacion's cheek and striking the tip of the red light with a crisp sound, and the two fell to the ground.

A hoarse voice at the top of the bell whispered, "Nasian, retreat!" ”

Nacien crawled backwards, and in the moment of retreat, black smoke filled the air, and Henna swooped up from the darkness at the staircase, holding her dagger upside down.

A few strands of loose hair fell down.

Nacien stared at the falling hair, and then over it, at the coffee-colored Grim Reaper, who was so dexterous as to be human.

Airplanes!

The clock trembled, and a small gray shadow fell from the clock and landed between Nacian and Henna, cutting off their vision from the middle.

The man wears a voluminous smock similar to Henna's, which is pure gray. Wearing a hood that covers his head and face, he is short in stature, like a child.

He leaned forward like a beast, his robes swaying in the wind, revealing two of the pirates' favorite iron hooks, and the cold light flickered.

Henna rolled over and landed, squinting at him.

"Are you the chasseur's protector?"

"I'm the shadow warrior Zaniin." He responded in a hoarse voice, "Look at your movements, is it Assasin?" ”

"Assasin Henna, henna. Yesla. ”