Smack! Svetlana was swatted, leaving her flushed and furious. "What do you think you're doing?!"
Eddie snorted. "I don't send bioweapons to do my killing."
"Seems you still don't know your husband. After this, you're getting a lesson you'll never forget!" Ada gloated.
It was still 'education,' but the kind likely to leave Svetlana pregnant with a second child. Get wild enough and even a queen can end up expecting.
Svetlana spun and slashed the air; the compressed blade of wind sliced an invisible Hunter clean in half.
"Wanna compete?" Eddie drew his Desert Eagle and fired a single shot at the empty air below.
The bullet whizzed past, splattering blood. A grievously wounded, still-invisible figure appeared, its head blown apart.
"I'm not playing your game. Don't try to trick me—I'm not ready for baby number two."
These bioweapons had been dispatched by Kaplan to wipe out the oligarch group; kill the leadership here and Eastern Slav Republic' administration would collapse.
What Kaplan hadn't expected was that his Nemesis Eddie would be here.
With Eddie present, any number of bioweapons was just fresh meat. Their vaunted speed meant nothing; to him they moved like ants.
In the rich district Eddie led Ada and the others on a hunt, treating the terrifying Hunters and Lickers as toys to be discarded only after they were bored.
On the main battlefield an upgraded Black Tyrant appeared—Western Federation's advanced Thanatos Tyrant, engineered using Plaga parasites to mutate and strengthen muscle mass.
Fresh off the production line, it had been thrown straight into field testing.
This Black Tyrant stood five metres tall, a true giant that could look down on the so-called Cursed Tyrant—a puny white kid, the runt of the litter.
Bang! One punch from Thanatos Tyrant—enough to flip a heavy tank—sent Cursed Tyrant flying; it crashed through a seven-storey building and landed in the street.
With its supports gone, the building collapsed, burying the Cursed Tyrant in rubble.
The spectacle silenced every armed fighter; this was plainly a monster. Relying on monsters for victory was opening Pandora's box.
No cheers—only fear and grim reflection.
Kaplan's eyes blazed with excitement, but a single message wiped the grin from his face and left him brooding.
A photo of his wife appeared on the phone. "Trash Kaplan—get out of Eastern Slav Republic now!"
It was from Britney, Kaplan's wife, her final plea for him to flee and stay alive.
Though Britney felt nothing for Kaplan, their second child still needed a father in name.
Chapter 569: Nemesis is the runt.
His men looked calm, but inside they were snickering: if this guy wasn't getting cuckolded, who was? Good riddance.
Buried under the ruins, Cursed Tyrant assessed the damage, shed its straitjacket, and let the T-Virus multiply. Its frame swelled, hands ballooned into giant paws, yet it stayed humanoid.
Boom! The two tyrants collided again; now Cursed Tyrant matched Thanatos blow for blow, trading punch after punch.
The armed fighters' elders ordered Lickers to assault the regulars; the creatures vaulted into the trenches.
Screams erupted, then fell silent almost at once.
A Licker torn in half was flung out, slamming a charging guerrilla to the ground; the hundred-pound torso shattered his bones and he shrieked in agony.
Crash! Another boom sent a car soaring thirty metres into the air before it crashed back down.
Lickers were hurled out with it, every one of them stone dead.
One Licker struggled to rise, only to be crushed under a single stomp.
It was a limit-released Cursed Tyrant. The oligarch group had dispatched five such units—two to the front, three to quell the rich-district chaos.
The Hunters showed no fear; under computer control they launched suicidal charges.
Among them were toxic Sweepers, yet their claws merely left white scratches on the Cursed Tyrant's hide.
Even when they drew blood, the T-Virus devoured the toxin and used it to repair damage.
Bang! Guerrillas fired a 30 mm IFV cannon; the shell was caught, the impact shoving the tyrant back a single metre.
The Cursed Tyrant looked up, expressionless yet with the ghost of a smirk, as if awareness had dawned.
It tossed the crumpled shell aside and began to run—slow, but every footfall shook the ground; hearts thudded in time with its steps.
"Open fire! Kill it!" a squad leader yelled, raising his assault rifle.
Rear-mounted Gatlings whirred, spitting six thousand rounds a minute.
Clang! The tyrant shielded its head with one hand, peeked through its fingers, and punched.
A guerrilla on the roadside was launched skyward, dead before he landed—his organs pulped by the shockwave.
It grabbed a one-ton car and hurled it two hundred metres, crushing the machine-gunner.
Gatlings are hard to control; their weight kills mobility.
Wherever the tyrant walked, no one survived—every weapon might as well have been a toy.
Whoosh! A rocket streaked in; Cursed Tyrant swatted it aside.
On a rooftop a Nemesis bared its fangs and roared at the sky.
Thud! Nemesis leapt from the five-storey roof, flattening a parked car beneath its feet.
The showdown between Cursed Tyrant and Nemesis was about to begin.
What should have been an epic clash ended with Nemesis sent flying by a single blow.
Outdated and out-muscled, the Nemesis Kaplan had fielded was no match for the Cursed Tyrant—an obsolete relic.
Crack! Its head twisted off. Once the terror of Raccoon City and Rockfort Island, Nemesis was scrapped for good.
With the new Talos Tyrant online, Nemesis had been replaced.
A generation's nightmare, abandoned by progress.
In the rich district Eddie glanced at his wrist computer: the hour for the Russo-Oriental joint strike.
The coordinated assault would topple the local regime and install a puppet ruler.
From now on tourism and motorsport would drive the economy—pure entertainment. Twenty percent of net profits to Russia, twenty to the Orient, ten to post-war reconstruction.