"It's your turn," Beelzebub said lazily, yawning nonchalantly, "let me see you." ^_^ Look, book, first, hair, please, to, enlightenment, meng, book, net ^_^"

Sasha preferred to sip any kind of drink if he could, wine, soda on ice, milk with spices and tea leaves, and, of course, coffee, but he didn't bother to disobey his friend's wishes in such a small matter, so he drank his coffee, twisted the little handle, and prepared to turn it upside down on the top of the saucer.

The cup fell from about three or four inches and slammed diagonally against the saucer with a loud, high-pitched crashing sound, and coffee grounds that had not yet solidified splashed everywhere.

It was an unimaginable mistake, and it was the gods or the devil who gave them the ability not only to work in places that felt unbelievable, but also to give them senses, physical strength, healing powers, and agility beyond the average person, even if it looked like a half-melted piece of butter. Bissandi can also easily catch a bird or mouse that is within sight. Big Hopkins moves even more reminiscent of the usual vampires in movies—a dark shadow brushing the corners of his eyes, a gust of wind brushing his cheeks, a fleeting smell of musk and tobacco, and whoever he kills is unaware of it for the first few seconds, if he wants to.

Beelzebub jumped up, to be exact, he thought he had jumped, but to others he could only say that he was a little sluggish to stretch out his arms and pounce forward. But we have to say that it was necessary, for Sasha would have fallen straight and headlong on the little round table—and his nose and lips would have suffered without Beelzebub's arm.

"Oh," Beelzebub grumbled vaguely, "I never thought you'd be heavier than Chegalle." It's really not a good sign, only drunk, anesthetized and dead people are so heavy and soft.

Sasha didn't speak, his strength and his remaining thoughts had to be used in more useful places. Beelzebub, for example. He raised his hand sluggishly, his little finger lightly touching Beelzebub's bare neck.

The warm invisible power poured into Beelzebub's body, stronger and more vivid than any before, and lasted for a short time, only about two or three seconds, but it was enough to wake Beelzebub awake, and several bundles of muscles that branched from the waist up slipped out from under the loose shirt and reached to the ground.

The floor was covered with a heavy carpet, but that didn't stop the part of Beelzebub from feeling a constant and rhythmic vibration. As someone approached, Beelzebub's small tentacle helped his arm wrap around his friend, who was completely paralyzed, and two other tentacles extending from the latissimus dorsi reached for the windows that were about six feet tall—all of which were high in this particular little inn. It's small, like castles and churches before the fifteenth century, and can barely allow sunlight, air, and creatures that don't weigh more than ten pounds — cats, for example, can, but not too fat.

The seemingly soft and fragile tentacles brutally tore open the iron window lattices used for decoration. The glass shattered, and the cold, cold air outside the window poured into Beelzebub's nostrils, his nose itched a little, accompanied by a small sneeze, and more strands of muscle protruded from his body and plunged into the crevices of the masonry. Helping him climb the smooth wall, part of the muscle squirmed, and Shirt Pkins was moved behind his back. The tips of Beelzebub's ten fingers lengthened, hardened, sharpened, and dulled, and they were like hammers and chisels. First in fine pieces, then in large chunks of concrete, Beelzebub poked out of the widened opening. The salty wind enveloped him at once, his eyes sparkled in the darkness, and the streets of the night were as quiet and gloomy as a long-abandoned tomb corridor, with no one and no light.

Beelzebub jumped on the road with Sasha, more dexterously and lightly than a cat, and now it was raining, and it was not raining, but it was fine, and the road was dark.

Almost as soon as he hit the ground, he was hit, and his strengthened skin and muscles were able to withstand even a less powerful bullet, but this bullet was special. The boy who grew up on Poseidon Island knew what it was, a tranquilizer needle designed to deal with large sharks, with an explosive capacitor needle that emitted a burst of electricity on contact. The voltage is high, the current is low, and a single needle can make a big guy weighing half a ton incapacitated, and he has been beaten at least a dozen now.

Of course, this was not enough to contain Beelzebub, and the skin and muscles squirmed wildly and rapidly, replacing the necrotic parts that had been struck by the electricity. What made him even more troubled was the sudden increase in the scent of roses in the air, just as they had smelled in the room, Elder John came out of the alley, his sleeves rolled up, blood curling down his severed veins, his face pale like a black-and-white photograph, his steps vague, but his eyes were as firm as two nails of steel.

"Hello? Sasha?" Beelzebub said, but Schipkins did not answer.

The adverse effects of the electric anesthetic needle and the damn scent of roses made Beelzebub's spirit flutter for a while, and he trembled involuntarily, feeling weak and dizzy, "Our Lady testified. He muttered, catching a glimpse of a few small flesh-colored tentacles waving happily in the rain—little tentacles that shouldn't have been there at all, and he couldn't even feel them coming from there, let alone control them.

Beelzebub tried to raise his head, the rain hit his eyeballs, and he tried to command the tentacles that were surging around him—he had practiced with Sasha, using them to run swiftly and swiftly like an octopus, whether it was a concrete road, sand, a mud swamp, or even a wall—but he soon found that this time it was not possible, most of the tentacles were quite easy to call, but there were always a few that were too free, and they not only did not want to obey their master's orders, but also did the opposite.

More people appeared from both ends of the street, their clothes were almost identical, white shirts, black trousers, some black robes, all men, no sinkers wearing raincoats, expressionless and silent, the whole scene was almost like a non-mainstream small-production horror movie.

Badly, Beelzebub remembered the town that Hopkins had told him about, Doug's Town. The population of that town did not exceed five hundred, and White Salt City was a city, a large city, and there were tens of millions of parishioners here.

"Can it be any worse?" He said to himself.

The facts quickly gave an answer, yes.

Sasha. Hopkins also got out of hand.

The "ghoul" let go of his hand, the doctor slid to the floor, his mouth wide open, but the severed trachea and vocal cords were already doomed to make it impossible for him to send useful information, he cooed like a chicken slaughtered by a chef, and Hopkins took one of his hands. Wipe the paper cutter clean on the sleeve tube.

Just as he turned, a nurse pushed the door open and walked in, and Hopkins had no choice but to get the knife dirty again. This time he poked in from underneath the **. He didn't bleed as much as he did last time, but Hopkins' camel-colored coat was completely unwearable, and he took his wallet and driver's license out of his coat, took off his coat and threw it on the ground, shoving the knife that had been wiped clean again into his trouser pocket.

The corridors of the hospital were empty. It was very quiet, the duty office in the atrium was brightly lit, and the nurses and doctors who were supposed to be sitting there were gone, except for the black-clad priest with wrinkled faces and a few lovely drunkards. Hopkins estimated the time, it had been less than four minutes since he started, and they should have been watching this all the time. Look at him.

"This is the place to save people." The black priest said.

"But it can kill just as much." The ghoul said. At the same time, he threw the knife in his hand.

The weapon that had ended two precious lives flew into the face of the black-claded priest, and he did not dodge or block, the knife disappearing as it touched his skin. In the blink of an eye, Hopkins was gone.

"Upper." The black priest said.

Hopkins stood on the ceiling of the hallway, true, his hair hanging down as he moved. Leaves a faint red footprint on the snow-white ceiling.

The black priest jumped up, his feet on the wall. Leaving a wet imprint, his body leaning in the air—Hopkins twisted his toes and spun upside down in circles, as gracefully as he demonstrated the standard pose of a Werner waltz spin—and the two men passed by, and the priest felt like he had touched him, but he couldn't be sure. The ghoul landed on the ground, seemingly unscathed, except for a handful of soft gray hair behind its ear, which disappeared the next second it was touched by the priest's hand, as if it had never existed.

The priest's wound was worse than his, his neck was torn open near his shoulder, the wound stretched from the base of his neck to below his collarbone, blood soaking his robe and underwear, and if he hadn't heed his instincts at the last moment, it would have torn open his carotid artery.

Hopkins smiled at him, his lips bloodied, his small, white teeth biting into a long strip of flesh that he sucked and ate as if he had eaten a piece of macaroni that had accidentally drooped outside.

Like any supernatural person, this kind of injury, which would incapacitate ordinary people and even faint, was nothing to the priest - the problem was that the smell and color of the blood that flowed from his body seriously irritated the boys, who had been preparing to take up guns and knives since they were five years old and had undergone hard training to fight against the infidels and demons who might be all over the world, but the vast majority of them had only killed sheep and dogs, and the wounded and dead were not unseen, He also participated in the hunt down of the Fallen and watched them be purified by the flames, but this was the first time he faced a "true demon".

"Daddy!" A particularly childish-looking drunken shouted, raising his gun without receiving any orders, aiming it at the demon who had nearly slit the priest's neck. He couldn't control it, anger and fear took over his mind and drove him to pull the trigger, and it was almost a direct effect, and his companions could be said to have followed it subconsciously, and the smoke of gunpowder filled the air, and bullets frantically shuttled and jumped and clashed in the wide, straight corridor.

Hopkins walked over to the bullet, his speed was so fast that there was no time for the priest to think, and the ghoul stretched out his fangs and claws, and two drunkards died in the blink of an eye, their throats slit, and one was hit in the abdomen by a companion's bullet, and his wail echoed through the hallway.

ps:

Apologize and take time off!

I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but the pre-holiday work is so busy that it has dragged on until now! I'm really sorry! - Sadly, I'll have to keep busy until the first day of the Lunar New Year! But the remaining two weeks or so will be basically fine, and I will try to add more!! Thank you again for your support and encouragement!!

In addition, Sasha soon had a title of his own......

((One second to remember)