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- I'LL! KILL! YOU! - Chris was practically tearing his hair out from the overwhelming emotions. - I'LL END YOU!

But, as Jessica had once said, the Irish mafia wasn't your average group of store robbers. They had experience and the skills to match. And dumb villains only existed in movies.

So Chris, who was pouring most of his energy into focusing on a single enemy, still couldn't react in time to the actions of the Irish gang leader.

Because the leader, who had been retreating in small, cautious steps as if facing a predator, suddenly lunged for the one thing he thought could save his life.

The sawed-off shotgun that the now-deceased Johnny had left on the shelf by the entrance.

- YOU BASTARD! - Chris roared even louder, tensing his entire body for a leap. His dirty sneakers left noticeable marks on the old linoleum, and the force of his jump nearly cracked the floor, but...

The gang leader managed to grab the shotgun, aim it directly at Chris's charging figure, and pull the trigger.

BOOM!

Chris was sent flying like an artillery shell in the opposite direction.

In movies and the imaginations of screenwriters and directors, a shotgun blast sends an unarmored person flying in the direction of the shot. Supposedly, this emphasizes the power and lethality of a weapon considered incredibly dangerous at close range.

But in this situation, Chris's newfound strength and durability worked against him. The buckshot launched him at an incredible speed and slammed him into the wall, where he immediately slid down. The sight was so unnatural that the Irishman felt like he'd shot a solid metal dummy.

On average, a single buckshot pellet has five to ten times the kinetic energy of a pistol bullet. So while a bullet might pass clean through a body, buckshot at close range—and the gang leader and Chris were no more than two meters apart—would turn a victim into Swiss cheese.

But Chris had become significantly more durable. He'd survived a point-blank pistol shot, leaving only a small hole. However, as mentioned earlier...

A shotgun is much, much stronger than a pistol.

- Damn it, - the Irishman hissed and bolted outside, yelling at his men. - Grab the biggest guns you've got, now! We've got a fucking mutant in here!

- Boss, where's Johnny?...

- He's dead, damn it! That freak crushed his skull with one punch! Now get your guns and line up in front of the store! If anything moves, shoot to kill!...

But the Irish gang leader's fears were premature. Chris wasn't in any hurry to get up and remained groaning on the floor. A pool of blood spread beneath him, and his gaze lost all focus.

Yeah...

In this situation, his increased "durability" had played a cruel trick on him.

He was tough enough that the buckshot didn't go straight through him.

But not tough enough to withstand the damage.

One shotgun blast had turned his insides into an anatomical nightmare.

- It's so... - Chris whimpered, barely breathing. - Painful...

He'd never felt anything like this before. It was like someone had poured molten mercury into his body, which then hardened into daggers trying to cut their way out. He couldn't even think of a more painful analogy.

But...

Somehow turning his head, Chris saw Mr. Kramer's body again...

"Cold-bloodedly murdered in his own store..." - If the pain hadn't been consuming every part of his mind, Chris would've burst into tears. - "Wrapped in garbage bags, probably to be dumped in the bay..." - It felt like his grief over the fate of the first person who'd ever selflessly helped him was starting to drown out the all-consuming pain.

- I'll... - Chris, forcing himself up and nearly spilling his guts on the floor, stood, leaning against the wall. - Kill them all...

SYNCHRONIZATION: 15%

Of course, the numerous wounds had drained any trace of the fury that had consumed his mind, but his eyes... Oh, those eyes were filled with nothing but a thirst for murder.

Slowly shuffling his feet and leaving drops of blood behind, Chris made his way to the wide-open doors of the store. Where a firing squad was waiting for him.

A couple dozen men froze in stunned silence as they saw Chris's pitiful, near-corpse state. His bloody hand was pressed tightly to his stomach, acting as a makeshift bandage to keep his organs from spilling out. Behind him was a trail of blood, and the hole in his forehead spoke volumes...

- What are you standing around for, idiots?! - The boss yelled at his men. - Fire! FIRE, DAMN IT! Empty your magazines! Don't stop even if he drops dead! I want every bullet we've got in that bastard's body!

And the next second...

The street was filled with the sound of continuous automatic gunfire. And every shot from a couple dozen rifles was aimed at a single, defenseless target...

God's Hand: Twelve Great Feats [8/12]

---

- Alright, - Jessica, with renewed energy and a loaded brain, folded Chris's medical record and tucked it under her arm. - Is this the only copy in the archive?

- Yeah, - the orderly shrugged, holding out his hand in a universal "give it back" gesture.

- And the cameras, like you said, haven't been working for a while? - Jessica didn't budge.

- They've been down for six months, no one's bothered to fix them, - the young psychiatric clinic worker snorted. - Otherwise, would I be so calm about handing over a personal file?

- Got it, - Jessica nodded and...

Turned 180 degrees and headed for the exit.

- H-hey! - The orderly panicked, standing up. - We had a deal! Are you crazy?! Give the file back!

- Suck it, - Jessica flipped him off over her shoulder. - The file's mine.

- I-I'll call the police!...

- You won't, - Jessica shook her head without turning around. - I was wearing a hidden camera. I'll say I was inspecting the clinic, and you'll go to jail. Be thankful I didn't ask for my hundred bucks back.

- W-wait!... - Realizing Jessica wasn't going to turn around, he shouted after her. - Just don't hand the footage to the police!... Please.

Of course, there was no hidden camera. But the lie was enough to scare the young, corrupt worker.

Once she was a safe distance away, Jessica tossed Chris's medical record into a trash can and threw in a few lit matches.

Watching the only copy of Chris's medical record burn, Jessica couldn't help but mutter to herself:

- You're such a great girl, Jessica, - she feigned admiration. - A real saint!

Of course, this act was purely for Chris's sake. Sooner or later, with his approach, Chris would draw attention. And if it only took her a hundred bucks to get the full history of Chris's childhood, more powerful and influential "interested parties" wouldn't have any trouble.

In theory, this act didn't change much, since there were still doctors who'd written those notes, but...

Now they'd have to spend more time and effort. Time that Chris desperately needed to... Well, at this point, Jessica didn't know what Clark needed to do. I mean, she was acting like a babysitter, but she couldn't solve Chris's problems for the rest of her life, could she?

- What the hell's going on? - Jessica frowned, listening to the distant gunfire. Gunshots weren't uncommon in Harlem, but this sounded like a full-blown war! Especially since it was coming from the direction of her house. - Wait!...

Jessica stopped, trying to ignore the bad feeling in her chest.

Her house. Was. In. That. Direction.

The same direction as Chris.

- No way! - Jessica shouted and broke into a run. - There's no way he got mixed up in this again!...

---

Ranch.

Chris had always dreamed that if he had a family, they'd have a ranch. Spacious and covered in green grass.

A peaceful place, free from the hustle and bustle of the city. The complete opposite of New York, which he'd never left in his life.

Chris imagined sitting on a lone bench and enjoying the silence...

- You're not in the best shape, huh? - An elderly but fit man sat down next to him. Even in his sixties, wrinkled and weathered, he didn't seem like a relic. More like a seasoned farmer or cowboy with a very long career.

- Father, - Chris whispered faintly.

- Right now, your body's being riddled with about sixty bullets a second, - the "father" continued calmly, as if discussing the weather. - Are you going to fight back?

- What's the difference?

- Is that a yes or no? - The "father" didn't take the bait.

- You're not real, - Chris continued. - You're just my mind's reaction to stress and isolation.

- You don't even believe that anymore, Christopher, - the old man smirked. The next second, he pointed to the sky. - Is that not real either?

God's Hand: Twelve Great Feats [6/12]

- I died two more times, - Chris muttered, reading the huge text in the sky.

- Half your lives wasted, - the man shook his head disapprovingly. - All because of your own stupidity...

- Is this your doing? - Chris pointed to the sky. - Are you the source of my... powers?

- You could say that, - the "father" nodded.

- So you're real?! Or just a figment of my imagination?! - Chris started to get irritated.

A second of silence and...

- What's the difference? - The "father" laughed.

---

God's Hand: Twelve Great Feats [6/12]

- Ha... - Chris took deep breaths, trying to stabilize his hallucination-filled mind. - Ha...

The continuous barrage of automatic rifle fire slowed with each passing second. The initial frenzy, which had lasted several minutes and several thousand bullets, was replaced by a stunned silence and the beginnings of fear.

- What the hell? - The Irish boss muttered, cautiously backing away. There were so many spent casings that every step he took echoed loudly.

- Bullets can't touch me, - Chris smiled slightly, looking at his body, which was covered in scratches but otherwise intact. Seeing the frozen horror on the Irishmen's faces, Chris bared his teeth in a menacing grin. - You're screwed now.

- DIE! - One of the gangsters snapped and pulled the trigger again. But...

The bullets barely slowed Chris down, leaving no visible marks. Even the occasional shotgun blast made him stagger and grunt, but it didn't knock him back.

In the next second, under the relentless gunfire, Chris closed the distance to one of the gangsters. One strike, too fast for the human eye to see, and...

BOOM!

The broken, lifeless body crashed into the door of an SUV. The shattered glass and deep dent spoke volumes about the force of the blow.

- LET'S GET OUT OF HERE! - The Irish gang started scattering in all directions, jumping into their cars. - LET'S GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!

- I didn't say you could leave, - Chris's eyes hardened. - Mad Enhancement!

Phantasm [Rank: C]: Mad Enhancement

An exclusive skill of berserkers that allows them to increase their base parameters at the cost of their sanity.

Activates in two cases:

In response to severe physical or psychological trauma, or at the will of the Chosen One.

Warning:

The strength multiplier depends on the degree of lost sanity. Be careful, Chosen One!

- NOW WE'RE GONNA HAVE SOME FUN!...

SYNCHRONIZATION: 33%