Chapter 158: Who Are You?

Isabelle, the unloved biological daughter of the Morgan family in River City, grew up in the countryside with a background as clean as a blank sheet of paper.

But Isabelle's ruthlessness on the racetrack, her precise strike against Zela at the Park Hyatt, and those encrypted commands that only Syndicate core members would understand... it was all too strange.

That indifference to human life, that arrogance radiating from her very bones.

Just like the woman he had blown to pieces at Base Seven with his own hands.

"Who exactly are you?" Beria's grip tightened slightly on his wine glass, his eyes filled with extreme suspicion and wariness. "Nyx? No, impossible. She's been blown to smithereens. You're just an imitator who somehow got hold of her files."

He seemed to be questioning Isabelle while also trying to convince himself. How could an ordinary eighteen-year-old student possibly be the Syndicate king who had stirred up bloodshed across the underworld?

Listening to his muttering, Isabelle's lips curled into an extremely mocking sneer.

She had no intention of explaining.

Isabelle reached behind her waist with one hand, and a pitch-black meteorite scalpel instantly slid into her palm.

The blade reflected a chilling gleam under the searchlight.

"Who I am doesn't matter." Isabelle tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes staring directly at Beria on the second floor, her tone flat yet carrying suffocating killing intent. "What matters is that I'm here to take your life."

Before her words faded, Isabelle moved.

She pushed off hard with her feet, like a predator that had been lying in wait, stepping on the edge of a nearby abandoned container and leaping into the air. Her speed was so fast she almost left an afterimage, heading straight for the wire mesh platform on the second floor.

"Fire!" Beria roared furiously.

Dense gunfire instantly tore through the factory's silence. Bullets poured down like a rainstorm, hitting containers and steel plates, sparks flying everywhere.

Isabelle twisted her body strangely in mid-air, using the factory's complex steel frame structure as cover, precisely avoiding all the fire networks.

The scalpel in her hand became a black lightning bolt. The moment she approached the platform, she directly severed the throats of two mercenaries.

Blood spurted.

Isabelle landed lightly on the wire mesh platform, grabbed an assault rifle with a backhand motion, fired three shots, and scored precise headshots.

Beria's expression changed drastically.

He threw away his wine glass, pulled out a triangular military dagger from his waist, and charged straight at Isabelle.

As one of Syndicate's highest authorities, Beria's combat skills ranked among the best in the entire underworld.

He was confident he could completely tear apart this arrogant Isabelle in close combat.

However, the moment they clashed, Beria knew he was wrong.

"Clang!"

The military dagger collided fiercely with the scalpel, erupting in a piercing metallic grinding sound.

An extremely terrifying force transmitted through the blade, making Beria's hand numb and nearly unable to hold the dagger.

He stared in shock, unable to comprehend how such seemingly slender frame could explode with such horrifying power.

Isabelle gave him no chance to catch his breath.

Her moves had no fancy flourishes—all killing techniques tempered from mountains of corpses and seas of blood. Every strike was lethal, targeting vital points.

Beria was forced from offense to defense, his dagger weaving defensive nets in the air.

"Too slow." Isabelle sneered coldly.

She sidestepped Beria's thrust aimed at her heart, her left hand shooting out like lightning to grip his wrist and press down hard.

Her right hand's scalpel traced a tricky arc, directly slicing open the combat uniform on Beria's right arm.

Blood instantly stained the fabric.

Beria grunted, staggered back several steps, his back hitting the iron railing heavily. He gasped for air, watching Isabelle close in step by step, fear finally surfacing undisguised in his eyes.

That familiar sense of oppression, that ruthless and merciless attack rhythm.

He retreated steadily in the exchange, cold sweat soaking his back. At this moment, he finally believed that this girl before him was not some clumsy imitator at all.

Isabelle flicked her wrist, the cold gun barrel pressed directly against Beria's forehead.

The metal barrel radiated chilling killing intent.

Beria trembled violently all over, blood from his right arm dripping onto the steel plate.

Just as he was about to speak, dense footsteps suddenly erupted from the shadows around the factory.

Dozens of Syndicate elites surged from the darkness, infrared targeting dots like a dense swarm of bees, instantly covering Isabelle's entire body.

"Kill her!" Beria seized the opportunity and roared.

Isabelle's expression didn't change, her body instantly falling backward.

She kicked hard at Beria's knee, using his massive body as a human shield in front of her.

Bullets whistled past her shoulder, hitting the steel frame and exploding in dazzling sparks.

Isabelle used the momentum to roll on the ground, silently disappearing behind a nearby abandoned container.

"Flank her! Suppress with fire!" the mercenary captain shouted orders.

Isabelle leaned against the cold metal, her breathing steady without the slightest irregularity.

She reached behind her waist with both hands, drew out two Glock pistols, and chambered rounds cleanly with her thumbs.

She felt no fear, only the killing instinct carved into her bones.

She leaned out and fired.

"Bang! Bang!"

Two crisp gunshots, and the two mercenaries charging ahead were shot between the eyes, falling straight down.

Isabelle moved like a ghost prowling in the night, using the factory's complex steel frames and containers as cover, moving swiftly. Her movements were extremely precise, without a single unnecessary flourish.

Magazine empty, she threw the meteorite scalpel backhanded, precisely piercing the throat of an enemy to her side, then seized the M4A1 automatic rifle from his hands.

Dense gunfire was deafening in the spacious factory.

Isabelle fought many alone, yet the fire network couldn't catch her shadow at all.

She calmly calculated every trajectory and blind spot. Each time her gun muzzle spat flame, it inevitably claimed a life.

In less than ten minutes, all thirty-plus Syndicate elites lay in pools of blood. The thick smell of blood filled the air, the entire factory like a hellscape.

Isabelle threw away the empty rifle, her combat boots stepping on spent brass casings covering the ground, and walked back to Beria.

Beria lay collapsed in a pool of blood. Looking at his completely wiped-out subordinates, then at Isabelle who was unharmed with barely labored breathing, the fear in his eyes finally reached its peak.

This terrifying dominance, this cold-blooded killing efficiency, and those tactical movements carved into her bones.

"Nyx... you really are Nyx!" Beria broke down, his voice shrill like a madman's. "You didn't die! How can you possibly still be alive!"

Isabelle looked down at him, her gaze like viewing a dead object.

"Too much nonsense."

"Bang!"

A gunshot. A bullet hole appeared between Beria's eyes, his roar cutting off abruptly.

His eyes bulged, and he fell heavily into the pool of blood, completely dead.

Isabelle put away the gun expressionlessly.