?Chapter 312:


    The assassins would be fast on her trail, forcing her to find a strategic vantage point from which to dy their advance.


    Nightfall would tip the odds in her favor, giving her the cover she needed to handle the assassins.


    Lydia deftly found a gap, nestled her sniper rifle into position, and scoured the dense jungle terrain.


    Thirteen elite assassins lurked within, their intentions as lethal as their training.


    The nearest assassin was stationed a daunting five hundred meters away.


    With unyielding focus, Lydia fixed her aim through her scope, locking onto the faint outline of the enemy’s forehead.


    A calm breath, a gentle squeeze of the trigger, and the shot was off—silent but deadly.


    The assassin dropped, lifeless, before he could utter a sound.


    The rifle’s suppressed whoosh barely whispered through the air, as if the jungle itself conspired in the silence.


    Lydia, undeterred and eyes narrowed, shifted her aim to the next advancing target. It had been another precise headshot; another enemy had fallen.


    With each pull of the trigger, her expression hardened, the ferocity of her instincts unfurling. Her blood ran hot with the thrill of the hunt, igniting a ruthless streak honed over years of survival.


    Her skills remained as sharp and merciless as ever, a testament to her enduring lethal prowess.


    This relentless onught eventually captured the attention of the enemy assassins, and soon, one sharpshooter pinpointed her covert position, sending a bullet her way.


    With a sudden, deafening bang, the bullet pierced Lydia’s left leg, sinking in deep.


    Blood surged from the wound, yet her face remained stoic, betraying no pain.


    With practiced ease, she stowed her rifle and rolled from behind the rocks, her movements quick and determined as she dashed deeper into the enveloping jungle.


    Her small frame blurred into the shadows, moving with the stealth of a night phantom.


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    As dusk fell and darkness enveloped the sky, eerie cries echoed from the treetops.


    Mistaking crows for Lydia, the assassins asionally fired, unintentionally sending a flock into sudden flight.


    Despite the throbbing pain in her leg and left hand, Lydia’s gaze remained icy, her expression devoid of any warmth.


    Clenching her teeth around the strap of her rifle, she used her right hand to grasp a tree trunk, vaulting herself up with remarkable agility to conceal herself among the branches.


    Only five assassins remained.


    Below her, blood dripped steadily from her leg wound, the scent drawing circling vultures.


    Their ominous pping sounded like grim messengers of doom, awaiting the feast that Lydia was determined not to provide.


    This was a fight for survival; one misstep could transform Lydia into a feast for circling vultures.


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