NOVGO.NET Chapter 1121 Summit
Chapter 1121: Chapter 1121 Summit
Pressing down from every direction like an invisible storm.
The leader’s heart thrashed violently in his chest. His breath became ragged.
His vision blurred at the edges from pure adrenaline.
He tried to steady himself, but his hands were trembling uncontrollably.
"It’s no fun at all." Ross’s sigh echoed from the darkness, almost disappointed. "You’re far too slow to play with me."
That single sentence crushed the last fragment of hope in the leader’s mind.
He spun around wildly, trying to pinpoint Ross’s location.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No presence.
Not even a shadow.
Only the sound of his own breath, too loud in his ears.
Then—
Bang!
Something struck him in the stomach.
Not a punch.
Not a kick.
Not even a blow.
It was a collision—as if a car speeding at full force rammed into him.
His abdomen caved inward with a horrible crunch, ribs bending and snapping like brittle sticks.
Air blasted out of his lungs in a broken gasp.
His feet lifted off the ground as his entire body was launched upward.
His back slammed into the ceiling with explosive force.
Plaster cracked. Dust rained down. His bones groaned under the sudden, violent impact.
For a moment he hung there, suspended awkwardly like a broken puppet—
—and then he fell.
He hit the floor head-first, then collapsed in a heap, arms twisted, legs limp.
The breath wheezed out of him in short, weak bursts.
Blood trickled from his mouth, pooling on the cold concrete beneath his cheek.
He couldn’t move.
He couldn’t even think.
His vision flickered like a dying flame.
And when the world finally steadied...
Ross was standing over him.
Hands casually in his pockets, face relaxed, eyes calm—looking down at him as though he were nothing more than a toy that broke too easily.
"This is the end," Ross sighed, sounding almost bored.
He shifted his weight, lifted one leg, and stomped down on the man’s skull.
Puchi!
The sound was wet, revolting, final.
The man’s head exploded beneath Ross’s boot—bone fragments, blood, and grey matter splattering across the dirt like crushed overripe fruit.
The body twitched once, twice, then went still. The metallic scent of blood thickened the air, coiling around the room like a suffocating fog.
Ross exhaled softly, as though even killing had become routine.
"That wasn’t as fun as I thought it would be," he muttered, wiping a speck of gore from his cheek with lazy fingers.
His eyes held no excitement, no satisfaction—only disappointment, as if the night had failed to amuse him.
He sauntered toward the window, footsteps unhurried, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight.
The cool night breeze touched his face as he pushed the shutters open.
Then his gaze fell upon the chaos outside.
Screams echoed through the night.
"Ahhhhhhh!"
The men who had escaped earlier were being hunted down, trapped in a narrow alley by Brandon and his crew.
The moonlight illuminated the scene in pale silver, turning the violence below into a haunting tableau.
Brandon’s men were no ordinary men—hungry eyes, twisted grins, movements too predatory to belong to humans.
They circled the terrified survivors like wolves savoring the moment before the kill.
Each man who had fled now lay on the ground, pinned beneath clawed hands or crushed under brutish strength.
"Please—no—no—NO—!" one of the fleeing men cried out.
His plea only made Brandon grin wider.
What followed was not mercy.
Not a swift end.
But prolonged suffering.
It began with screams—raw, agonized, high-pitched. Brandon’s group tore into the survivors’ clothing, skin, sanity.
Their minds broke far earlier than their bodies did.
The attackers laughed, taunted, mocked their prey as they played with them in grotesque, degrading ways.
The agony stretched on and on.
Minutes felt like an eternity.
Their cries grew raspier, weaker, dissolving into sobs and choked gasps.
Still, the torment continued.
Ross watched it all with calm, detached eyes, leaning slightly against the window frame.
His heartbeat didn’t quicken. His expression didn’t shift.
To him, the horror outside was no different than watching rain fall from the sky.
Eventually, after their "fun" was thoroughly exhausted, Brandon and his men unleashed the final part of their nature.
The feeding.
The alley filled with a new set of sounds—wet tearing, crunching, slurping—ghastly noises that echoed off the walls as the monstrous group devoured the bodies.
Piece by piece.
Scream by scream.
Life by life.
The bottomless hunger in their bellies drove them until nothing remained but smeared stains on the dirt.
Ross closed the window slowly as the last gurgling cry was swallowed by the night.
A faint breeze rustled the silence that followed.
Another night ended.
Another massacre completed.
And the world, uncaring, continued turning beneath the moon.
As for Ross, he made his way back down into the basement, wiping a smear of dust from his sleeve as if he had simply stepped outside to breathe some fresh air.
The atmosphere below was thick—fear clung to the women like another layer of skin.
Every pair of eyes snapped toward him the instant he reappeared.
Ross raised a hand casually, offering a small smile that seemed out of place in the tense room.
"They’ve gone away," he announced.
For a moment, there was complete silence.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Then—
"Impossible..." Giana whispered. Her voice cracked at the edges, her face pale and strained.
She hugged herself tightly, as if expecting the door to burst open any second.
"There were too many... even if some left, there should’ve been noise... something..."
Ross shrugged lightly.
"You can check upstairs."
His tone was so casual, so completely relaxed, that it only made the women more suspicious.
Still, desperation pushed them to move.
One by one they climbed the stairs, each step hesitant, as if they expected to see corpses piled at the top.
But what they found froze them on the spot.
The house’s main floor was spotless.
The tables were arranged neatly.
The floor gleamed with fresh cleaning oil.
The lights were lit and steady.