Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 250

Chapter 250: The Swarm Descends

The remaining nine guards closed in like wolves that had caught the scent of blood. No more patience. No more careful patrols. They were collapsing on me in a tightening noose, and I could feel it—this wasn’t about stealth anymore. This was survival in its most vicious form. My enhanced reflexes and the downloaded combat skills weren’t theory now.

They were the only thing standing between me and becoming a shredded corpse on this concrete killing ground.

Through the thermal overlay, the compound became a chessboard of death. Two heat signatures pushing from the east, sliding behind a forklift. Three moving in tight formation from the west, rifles steady as they advanced from cover to cover along stacked shipping containers.

Two more flanking north through the vehicle depot, boots hammering steel grating with the confidence of men who thought numbers equaled inevitability. And above it all, high on the rooftop, one steady red dot lying prone—the sniper.

The bastard with a perfect angle, waiting for my skull to line up in his scope.

Time to dance.

The warning came not from ARIA but from instinct—the tiniest orange bloom against the night sky, a muzzle flash like a dying star. My body moved before thought caught up. I dove hard to my right, the sniper’s round cracking through the air where my head had been a microsecond earlier.

The bullet kissed stone instead, detonating in a shower of concrete dust and razor-edged chips that sliced across my cheek. The sound was monstrous, like thunder splitting inches from my ear. I could feel the bullet’s wake—a hot gust, an invisible hand brushing the hairs on my neck.

Close. Too close.

But rolling right put me in the jaws of the eastern team.

The first guard rounded the forklift like a ghost trained in violence—rifle up, cheek welded to the stock, finger already tightening on the trigger. His eyes went wide when he saw me right there, not running, not cowering, but surging forward into his space.

I lunged.

My left hand snapped up and slammed his barrel skyward. His round went wild, the muzzle flash blinding as the shot split the night. My right fist drove into his throat with a crack that felt through my knuckles like smashing wet porcelain. His eyes bulged. His rifle clattered against his vest as both hands clawed at his crushed larynx.

No time to pity. No time to watch him die.

The second guard swung wide from the opposite side of the forklift, pistol drawn, and fired.

BANG. BANG.

I yanked the choking man by his vest and spun him into the line of fire. The shots hit center mass, slamming into his back with wet, heavy impacts. His body jerked against mine like a puppet yanked on strings, blood soaking through his vest in sticky warmth. His last act was dying in my arms, limp and useless now except as a shield.

I hurled him.

Two hundred pounds of collapsing meat slammed into his partner. The pistol guard stumbled backward, the corpse knocking the air out of him before he smacked skull-first into the forklift frame. The crunch of bone meeting steel was sickening—like a hammer hitting a ripe melon. He crumpled beneath the dead weight, gun skittering away across the concrete.

Two down.

I barely had time to breathe before hell erupted from the west.

Three rifles opened up at once, suppressing fire hammering across the compound. Muzzle flashes strobed in furious rhythm, turning the night into a stuttering film reel of death. Bullets shredded the air, whining past my ears, sparking against concrete and steel, punching ragged holes in the walls behind me.

But instead of retreating, I sprinted toward them.

They weren’t expecting that. No one sane charges three men laying down full-auto fire. But sanity wasn’t my currency anymore. I was running on adrenaline, programming, and the knowledge that hesitation meant death.

Rounds slammed into me mid-charge—four impacts in rapid succession across my chest and shoulders. The kinetic jacket did its job, absorbing and redistributing the force, turning what should have been bone-splintering death into sledgehammer blows that left me gasping but alive.

Without it, I’d be a crimson mist.

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