I, the Final Boss of the Beta Server!

Chapter 21: The Pitch-Black Tide

After firing those few shots, Rast did nothing more.

He stood silently in the torrential rain, like a still stone statue.

Sure enough, after a few dozen seconds, the downpour lessened, turning from a raging waterfall into fine drizzle.

But the footsteps that had been concealed by the storm also drew nearer.

Amid the rain curtain, streaks of blood-red glows lit up.

Without the shroud of mist, the first wave of Iron Cross had already discovered Rast’s position.

Fervent gazes locked onto Rast’s figure, as if he were some rare delicacy—one bite of his flesh could grant eternal life.

Bang—

Close-quarters combat erupted in an instant.

Rast dodged a steel sword slashing at him from an Iron Cross, then used the recoil from kicking it to leap high into the air.

In the next moment, the space he had just occupied was sliced apart by a dense barrage of gunfire.

The barrage also engulfed several of the nearby Iron Cross.

Driven mad by the evil god sculptures and bloodlust, the Iron Cross had long since abandoned any notion of avoiding friendly fire.

Those unfortunate few were instantly riddled with bullets, collapsing like limp, torn sacks.

Rast used midair shifts to rebound several times, then nimbly hid behind a steel framework.

The missed bullets struck the metal supports, sparking bright flashes.

During his midair dodges, there were still a few bullets Rast couldn’t completely avoid.

Against such a dense barrage, even the most seasoned veteran would be limited by physics.

However, he blocked most with his military dagger, and only a few bullets hit non-critical areas, tearing open bloody gashes.

Though the injuries weren’t serious, and under the effects of the serum Rast’s body began rapidly regenerating without even bleeding—

This self-healing wasn’t without cost.

Each regeneration consumed large amounts of his stamina.

If this level of suppressive fire continued unabated, Rast would eventually die from exhaustion.

Fortunately, the era of Deep Blue Port hadn’t yet developed fully automatic firearms.

The few prototype assault rifles were still in early trials.

The guns held by these Iron Cross didn’t have large magazines.

After a single round of intense volleys, they all fell silent, simultaneously reloading.

And what Rast had been waiting for was precisely this brief window between reloads.

He suddenly kicked off the metal pillar behind him, and shot forward like lightning toward the Iron Cross.

He weaved and darted through the crowd like a bullet that had just been fired.

The sharp screeching of metal clashing echoed like war drums.

With every clash came a thrust of Rast’s dagger—piercing and then pulling out from hearts or throats, trailing arcs of blood.

The black dagger flashed in the rain like pitch-black lightning tearing across the sky—

Piercing.

Flashing.

And flashing again...

Until Rast stopped moving.

Only then did the lightning that pierced the heavens come to rest.

He halted beside his sniper nest, the dagger hanging low, dark blood dripping from the tip of its triangular blade.

Before Rast, the last few Iron Cross froze, then collapsed into the rainwater pooling from the storm, splashing up tiny waves.

These Iron Cross didn’t go down without resistance.

Before infection, they were all elite navy veterans with years of service.

Besides their marksmanship, they were also highly skilled in military close-quarters combat.

Even after being transformed into Iron Cross, they retained that combat experience.

Melee combat was by no means their weakness.

But Rast was more experienced than all of them.

Even the finest naval elite trained only for a decade or two—

Rast had honed his fighting techniques for over two hundred years.

And after the Iron Cross serum patched up his final weakness—his physical attributes—

Fighting against these military Iron Cross was no different than an adult toying with children.

The brief victory didn’t make Rast relax, because new footsteps had already started echoing again.

Iron Cross from the outer edges of the port were arriving.

……

If one were standing atop a high point in the port district at this moment, they would see a truly astonishing scene.

The Iron Cross on the outskirts surged forward like waves of black ink, layer upon layer.

While Rast and his sniper nest stood like a tiny grain of sand before the tide.

That grain of sand should have been swept away without a trace.

But Rast stood firm like an unyielding boulder, shattering wave after wave of the surging tide.

In the end, it was the tide that halted before the boulder.

The Iron Cross gathered on the outskirts, watching Rast within.

Gunfire rang out one after another, but none dared approach.

Around Rast, Iron Cross corpses were piled layer upon layer.

His own body was also covered in scars, both from gunfire and blades—

These were the price he paid for repelling wave after wave of Iron Cross.

Anyone could see that Rast was at the end of his rope.

His stamina and regenerative powers had reached their limit.

Yet not a single Iron Cross dared to deliver the final blow.

They had actually been scared—by a single human.

The instinct to seek profit and avoid harm was etched into every creature’s bones.

Even the Iron Cross were no exception.

At this moment, in the face of Rast, fear and the will to survive overwhelmed their thirst for blood and their sadistic desires.

No one wanted to be dragged down at the last moment by Rast, becoming mere pawns for their comrades’ benefit.

At such times, the Iron Cross were even less useful than brainless zombies.

If they had been zombies, Rast would’ve long been drowned by the corpse tide and devoured like a feast of monk’s flesh.

The two sides fell into a brief stalemate.

If things continued at this pace, Rast would soon accomplish his goal of buying time.

But just then, Rast suddenly moved.

He kicked off the ground and sprang out, even though there seemed to be nothing beside him.

In the next moment, a blade slashed open the skin at Rast’s neck, drawing a bloody line—mere millimeters from severing his throat.

The muzzle of his revolver flared with fire.

Single-action rapid fire emptied all the full-metal jacket rounds in the chamber within a single second.

Faced with the relentless Iron Cross assaults, Rast had no time to reload.

That’s why he had been relying on his dagger for close combat.

The bullets currently in the chamber were his last reserve for this fight.

But he now spent them all on empty air beside him.

And it still wasn’t over.

The moment the rapid-fire ended, Rast hurled the revolver straight out.

Then, he kicked up the sniper rifle from the stabilizing frame beside him.

The long sniper rifle spun in the air, then was firmly caught by Rast.

In midair, he aimed and pulled the trigger—

A point-blank sniper shot, nearly face to face.

The steel-core bullet spun through the muzzle’s flame.

And then, with the sound of a bullet tearing through flesh—

The pointed round froze abruptly in midair, where there appeared to be nothing at all.