The whole nation is trying to survive on the cable car; I'm choosing one of three options at ea

He emerged from the south side of the defensive line, his steps neither fast nor slow, his wings folded behind him, his feathers gleaming with a holy, undeniable white light in the firelight.

He walked past Zhao Derong, who was lying on the ground with bandages wrapped around his chest, the bandages soaked with blood. He glanced at Proxiu but said nothing.

He walked past Chen Mo, who was squatting on the ground with his tail drooping and his ears close to his head. His gaze lingered on Proxiu for a moment before shifting away.

He walked past Lin Xiaohe, who kept her head down, her short knife stained with dark green blood, and she didn't even look at him.

He walked past Lin Yuwei, who was holding a silver leopard cub. The cub's ears perked up, its tail tucked between its legs, and it let out a low hiss, like a warning.

Lin Yuwei pressed it down without saying a word.

Prosci walked to the corpse of the Zombie King.

A box gleaming with a yellow light lay quietly beside the Zombie King's finger. The edges of the box had dark gold patterns that, in the firelight, resembled snakes slithering in the darkness.

He bent down, reached out, and grabbed the box.

His movements were swift and decisive, without any hesitation, like someone who had picked out vegetables at the market and reached out to take them.

Then he didn't run.

He turned around to face Su Mu, a smug smile on his lips that made you want to punch him.

He held up the box and waved it in the firelight, like a child showing off a toy he had snatched.

"Su Mu, you're really good at pretending."

He was clearly at his limit, yet he pretended everything was fine. His voice was loud enough for everyone around to hear. "I've seen plenty of gigolos like you who climb the social ladder by relying on women."

"Commander Bai values ​​you, but only because of your face, right?"

Su Mu leaned against the tree trunk, remaining motionless.

His eyes were still closed, and his breathing was still rapid, like a dead man who hadn't heard a sound.

Prosciutto continued, his voice growing louder.

"The contents of this box are a waste in your hands."

"Why not give it to me? At least I can still put it to good use." He turned the box over in his hand, the yellow light dancing in his palm, casting flickering shadows on his refined face.

Everyone around was stunned.

Those who had been praising Prosciutto, those who had called him an "S-rank," "angelic," and "future strongest," were now speechless, their mouths agape.

Some people frowned, some clenched their fists, and some lowered their heads, not wanting to look anymore.

"Don't worry, I won't take your things for nothing." Proshu pulled a white skill book out of his pocket and casually tossed it on the ground.

The skill book hit the fallen leaves with a muffled thud, its white cover gleaming dimly in the firelight.

"This is compensation for you."

"A white skill book, that should be enough for you." His tone was condescending, arrogant, and entitled, as if it were his right to say, "I gave you something, so you should be grateful."

Zhao Derong propped himself up halfway from the ground. The wound on his chest had reopened, and blood was seeping out from the bandage.

He looked at Prosciutto, the light in his eyes shifting from weariness to anger.

"Are you fucking... even human?" His voice was hoarse, but each word seemed to be squeezed out from between his teeth.

Liu Yang grabbed his arm and shook his head.

Fang Lin's arrow was nocked on the bowstring, which was fully drawn, but she did not let go.

Chen Mo's tail stood up, his ears pressed against his scalp, and he let out a low, beast-like roar.

His teammates held him down on the shoulder.

"Don't be impulsive." Chen Mo's claws dug into the soil.

Prosciutto did not look at them.

He looked at Su Mu, waiting for Su Mu's reaction.

Su Mu did not react; his eyes were still closed, and his breathing was still rapid.

Prosci's lips curled up a little more.

"Oh right, I forgot to tell you something." He spread his white wings, the feathers gleaming with a holy, undeniable white light in the moonlight.

The wingspan was wider than before, and every feather looked as if it had been carefully combed. Under the interplay of firelight and moonlight, it resembled an oil painting from the Renaissance period.

With a gentle flap of his wings, his body floated up from the ground, half a meter off the ground.

"I can fly."

What can you do to me?

He flew into the air.

Its wings spread in the night breeze, and its pure white feathers looked like a blooming white lotus flower under the moonlight.

He looked down at Su Mu, and at the survivors on the ground looking up at him, a smug smile on his lips that made you want to punch him.

Su Mu remained silent.

From the moment Proxiu started snatching the box, to when he called him a "pretty boy who rose to power by relying on women," to when he threw the white skill book on the ground, to when he spread his wings and flew into the air, Su Mu didn't say a word, didn't open his eyes, and didn't react at all.

He was like a dead man, like a sleeping man, like a man who had nothing to do with any of this.

Su Mu didn't move until Proxiu had flown into the air.

His eyes opened.

Those eyes weren't golden, nor were they glowing; they were just ordinary, black eyes, like two deep wells.

There was no anger, no murderous intent, no mockery, and no other emotion in those eyes.

He removed his hand from the tree trunk and grasped the spear leaning against him.

When the spear was pulled out of the leaf litter, some of the dried blood on the tip was scraped off by the leaves, revealing the silvery-white metal underneath.

He didn't use a thrust, he didn't use any skills, he didn't even stand up.

He leaned against the tree trunk, his right hand gripping the middle of the spear as if it were a javelin.

Then he threw it out.

The spear spun through the air, its tip pointing forward and its tail trailing behind, resembling a silvery-white lightning bolt in the firelight.

The speed was so fast that most people present only saw a blur, and the sound was so fast that the spear had already arrived before the sound of it cutting through the air reached their ears.

"puff......!"

The spear pierced precisely the hand that Prosciutto was holding the box.

It pierced through the back of the hand and exited through the palm, the tip of the spear flying forward half a meter with blood and bits of flesh before embedding itself in the tree trunk.

Prosciutto's fingers instinctively loosened their grip the instant the spear tip pierced through, and the box fell from the air, its yellow light arcing through the darkness.

Prosciutto let out a scream, not a suppressed, muffled groan, but a sharp, pig-like scream that completely disregarded his image and dignity.

He reached for the gun with his other hand, but pulled his fingers back as soon as they touched the barrel because of the pain.

His wings flapped wildly, not to fight, but to run away.