"Wait." Sun Haowen turned his head abruptly and looked at his seat from a distance, but his body still kept moving forward.

The exchange of fire, the two sides shot desperately, in the cabin, there were corpses everywhere, the blood plasma overflowed into a river, the more and more turbid scarlet light gradually dimmed, the explosion of heavy bullets hit the eardrum like a hammer, overhead, countless fires were fleeting, turning into a scarlet sky and a yellow meteor shower, in front, the rebels frantically tried to break through the fire network, and people continued to fall apart in the face of gunfire, and the rear, one after another, rushed out of the soldiers, trying to rush to the front row, but not halfway to the fragmentation.

"What the are you trying to do?" Jang Ji-woo scolded in disbelief, stopped moving, raised his arm and pointed at the end of the narrow gap, the muzzle of the gun shaking violently in a circle.

Sun Haowen stopped talking, used his hands and feet together, and crawled forward all the way, countless bullets, hurriedly brushing against his skin, inlaid on a special seat.

"What the are you doing?" Jang Zhiyu roared like crazy.

"Don't move!" Sun Haowen roared, actually overshadowing the explosion of bullets, and the firearm in his hand always pointed to the other end.

"You're fucking crazy, I'm fucking ......" A black shadow flashed from the perspective, and two bullets hit the rebel at the same time, completely shattering his body.

"It's fucking." Sun Haowen hurriedly held Zhang Zhiyu's shoulder and scolded in a low voice, "Hurry up, they are all here to kill you." Gotta hurry. ”

His left hand held the metal box tightly to his side, his right hand still holding the firearm high, his lips twitched slightly, and his eyes bloomed with a cold and penetrating look, which was extremely abnormal.

.

.

The four in front of it grabbed the head-on-the-head *, and the infinite it grabbed the gun.

Zhang Zhiyu instinctively pulled in the opposite direction, and infinitely it drew an arc, lifted off into the air, and spun and floated in the air, but more pitch-black arms grabbed the weapon.

Everything is meaningless.

Everything is extremely illogical.

It's just a dream.

It's as ethereal as a dream.

The cylindrical metal that protruded everywhere, between the countless pairs of palms that had never existed, turned into nothingness, only disappeared, the crack still extended, without any sign that it once existed, even if it never existed, the energy did not change in the slightest, the energy it should have.

Neither side can give the other a substantial change.

It's like nothing exists.

Nothing really ever existed.

Zhang Zhiyu threw a straight punch, the first time desperately threw out his arm, the solid muscles of the green tendons burst out, looming from the scratches of the smashed shirt, the arm threw out a long straight line, hitting its chest, its body shrank back, its hands and feet gradually vacated, kicked up indiscriminately, the edge of the robe fluttered violently, the speed slowly slowed down, everything was still in place again, the mirror was no longer broken, the cracks were still in place, everything was so beautiful and shocking.

There's no logic anymore.

Just a dream.

The infinite self, in an instant, waving its arms, its mind outside of everything, examines it all, between every crack.

The fissures suddenly began to shrink, to fold back, along the lines of rifts that shone with color that had never shone before, clear, like countless bolts of lightning, and then to fold out infinite branches, and now they contracted violently, like the illusion of time, they followed the traces inward, and finally disappeared without a trace.

Countless self, waving infinite arms, along a straight line, infinite fragmented space, infinitely far extended.

The fissures, just rectangular, the inter-ends of the fists, the ends of the shoulders, arranged vertically, extend far away.