Chapter 1279 More Victims

A week after the second victim, Lena, was discovered, an early-morning bakery apprentice in the Shoreditch district found a huddled figure next to a pile of beer crates at the back door.

Another victim has emerged: a 19-year-old art school student who was found in a deep coma with nothing around him except his canvas bag.

Two days later, the fourth victim appeared. He was a young screenwriter who was used to walking his dog in the early morning. He collapsed in a secluded redevelopment alley near Notting Hill. His frantically barking corgi attracted patrolling police officers.

In MI6's secret analysis room in central London, Carlton lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

The whiteboard in front of him was covered with photos of the victims, physical evidence from the scene, and map connections; the one in Notting Hill had only been posted a short time ago.

A young female agent covered her nose and waved her hand dismissively to clear away the stale air. "Supervisor, could you please not smoke in the analysis room?"

Carlton did not put out his cigarette, but stared blankly at the photos of the victims at the scene.

Before joining MI6, he was an excellent detective with the London Metropolitan Police, so he knew very well what these clean scenes meant.

Efficient and pure, with an extremely clear purpose: deliver, then leave.

The cigarette between his fingers burned down to almost nothing without him noticing, the ash quietly piling up and falling silently, all without him realizing it.

He jerked violently when the burning pain shot through his fingertips, realizing that the red-hot tobacco had touched his skin. Only then did his furrowed brow relax.

"The killer's pleasure comes from knowing that he has planted a deadly seed, which is slowly blossoming into pain and death somewhere he cannot see, according to a program he designed."

Carlton's expression turned serious. "He's enjoying this sense of remote control. He doesn't care who the individual victims are; he cares about the act of launching it and the chaos it will inevitably cause."

“Hilda,” he turned to the young female agent, “updating the killer’s profile: an antisocial personality under extreme rational control, emotionally detached, viewing murder as a purely technical process to achieve personal pleasure, possibly possessing excellent self-control and planning ability, and possibly even presenting a normal facade in life.”

Hilda, a female agent, typed rapidly on her keyboard, updating the criminal profile displayed on the large screen in the analysis room.

On the other side, a few blocks away, on the top floor of the Lane Hotel, in the presidential suite.

The luxurious room, spanning over 300 square meters, was temporarily transformed into Maxma's command center. The floor-to-ceiling windows, which occupy an entire wall, still overlook the London skyline and the winding Thames River, but instead of sofas, there are several magical projectors in front of the windows.

The London map on the projection screen was divided into zones based on risk level, and the expensive Persian carpet in the center of the room was put away, replaced by a metal tactical table that projected real-time images of London streets.

The room's original artwork and antique furniture were gone, replaced by several huge equipment racks along the walls, which held not only the Dominator's Pistol but also Pandora, the ultimate weapon combining magic, alchemy, and Muggle technology.

Hunter took a sip of coffee at the tactical table, his fingertips tracing patterns on a map of London's streets.

Sitting across from him, Vincent had just returned from St. Thomas' Hospital. He was adjusting several A-type spheres in front of him, intending to spread them out further to provide more detailed real-time information about the neighborhood.

The cleaner the killer's behavior pattern, the more ambiguous the predictable location becomes.

Hunter continuously streamlined and optimized Maxma's patrol plans, but with Maxma's current two-person team setup, there were always two or three blind spots.

He sent the latest patrol plan to all team members via a dedicated magical communicator on his wrist, then finished the rest of his coffee. "There's a gap in Sector E. Rather than watching the hole on the map widen, I'd rather fill it myself."

Vincent nodded and continued adjusting the A-type ball in front of him. "Uncle Hunter, remember to keep in touch."

Hunter responded, got up, went to the equipment rack to change into his combat uniform, and then put on a dark gray overcoat, the length of which was just enough to cover the Dominator pistol at his waist.

For the next two days, he acted like a top-notch scout with infinite patience, appearing precisely at specific times and locations.

Three days after the fourth victim appeared, Hunter left the hotel early as usual.

He first went to the Thames River, disguised as an office worker, and passed by a jogging path.

He stayed there for 40 minutes before taking the subway to Holburn.

Outside the complex, maze-like ventilation duct area of ​​the subway station, he disguised himself as a worker inspecting the lines, carrying a tool bag and occasionally scanning the crowd, looking for any suspicious figures.

In the afternoon, he appeared near Tower Bridge, where a gathering of young people had just ended. He leaned against the railing, as if waiting for someone.

As evening approached, he arrived at Kensington Gardens.

The tourists are leaving in an orderly fashion, their next destinations either nearby hotels or the small shopping street right next to them.

As Hunter approached the garden, his eyes immediately fell on an inconspicuous black van parked by the roadside.

The car was parked in a very strategic spot; it wasn't in a no-parking zone, yet it still offered a view of the east side of the garden and the entrances to the two paths.

The windows were tinted dark, there were no markings on the body, and the tires were clean, but the chassis height and the wear on the rims were slightly different from those of common commercial trucks, suggesting that it was a model that had been lightly modified and was often used for special missions.

Hunter immediately made a judgment in his mind: they were either MI6 or a special department of the police.

Their appearance confirmed his suspicion that Kensington Gardens was dangerous at this time.

Hunter went to the other side of the garden, sat down on a bench, and took out a folded newspaper, as if to kill time.

Time passed slowly, the streetlights came on one by one, and the last few dog walkers left.

Hunter was about to get up and head to the next location when, just as he finished putting away the newspaper, a figure appeared in the center of the garden.

Wearing a black jacket and a regular baseball cap, he looked particularly suspicious.

Hunter tensed all his muscles, calmly flipping through the newspaper, his right hand quietly resting on the Dominator pistol at his waist.

The man did not look around; he walked steadily toward the largest oak tree in the center of the garden.

Suddenly, he slowly squatted down in front of the tree.

A flash of silver light appeared, and the side door of the van in the distance slid open suddenly.

At the same time, Hunter had already raised the Dominator pistol at his waist and pulled the trigger without warning.

The light blue beam of light struck the man in front of the oak tree directly. He did not fall down immediately, but quickly regained his balance and turned to look in Hunter's direction.

It's him! The murderer has been found!

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