Ultimate Firepower
Chapter 515 - 494: Blood Night

Chapter 515: Chapter 494: Blood Night

Yuri was a man of principles—if no one reached for him, he wouldn’t reach for them. But if someone dared to make the first move against him, then that was just perfect!

Push and shove, your parents raised you for nothing.

Pull and tug, no one will love you.

The matter was simple, straightforward.

The person whose hand was being twisted by Yuri howled in agony, twisting their body in vain. Unable to bear the excruciating pain in their arm, they dropped to their knees, wailing even louder.

To be honest, handing over the phone to Yuri would’ve been the end of it. A small loss to avoid bigger trouble—reasonable enough.

But the problem was, these three young men traveling together weren’t exactly harmless, and that turned out to be fatal.

A burly guy standing nearby threw a punch straight at Yuri’s head, but Yuri merely leaned back and dodged the blow effortlessly.

Yuri didn’t let go of his grip. As his head tilted back, the man kneeling on the ground was suddenly yanked forward, crashing down face-first. Yuri stepped forward quickly; when the puncher’s hand retracted, Yuri’s free hand shot out faster and slammed into the burly guy’s throat.

The puncher’s head slumped forward as he crumpled to the floor—no struggle, no screaming, incapable of understanding life or death.

The third young man was the most dangerous. He wasn’t tall or muscular, but he drew out a knife without hesitation and plunged it straight toward Yuri’s chest.

Yuri’s eyes lit up with an almost predatory gleam. He kicked out, his foot smashing into the knife-wielder’s knee. Turning slightly to the side, Yuri let the off-balance man kneel with one leg by himself. As the knifeman fell forward, Yuri promptly brought his recoiled right knee up, slamming it brutally into the man’s face.

A muffled "boom" echoed as the man’s head snapped backward, his chest hitting the ground first.

Yuri still hadn’t let go of the extended hand aimed at him. Once again, he demanded, "It’s a robbery. Hand over the phone!"

"Take it, take it..."

Wincing in pain, the young man kneeling on the ground fumbled with his left hand to pull his phone from his pocket. He crooked his body, slowly raising the phone to his head but could no longer lift it completely.

Yuri took the phone and glanced at it, then pushed the phone’s screen against the thumb of the hand he was holding.

The phone unlocked.

Yuri nodded in satisfaction, pocketing the phone. He glanced at the man near his feet, squatted down, and picked up a folding knife.

"My hand... It’s going to break... Let go! Ahhhh!"

In one swift motion, Yuri brought the knife down, severing a thumb clean at the base.

A shrill, agonized scream pierced through the night air.

Finally, Yuri released the unlucky young man’s arm. He folded the knife, tucked it into his pocket, and walked back to his car, gleefully clutching the dripping severed thumb.

There was no right or wrong, no good or evil, only necessity.

Back in the car, Yuri pulled a few tissues from the cup holder. Carefully, he wrapped the severed thumb to prevent blood from smearing the fingerprint, then took out the stolen phone and pressed the thumb against it to turn it on.

But Yuri didn’t rush to make a call.

He opened the maps app and expertly entered an address. Once the navigation voice began, he stepped on the accelerator and headed off, following the guidance.

The road wasn’t short, but with hardly any cars in the middle of the night, the fast pace wouldn’t waste much time.

Years of imprisonment hadn’t rendered Yuri obsolete—he still knew how to use phones and computers, always managing to access electronic devices while in prison.

That said, having been locked away for over a decade, the outside world was undeniably different—including the street names, which had changed. Navigational assistance was still necessary.

A mental map outdated by time gets replaced by GPS. Quick and efficient.

The car sped through deserted city streets. A journey of several kilometers took just over twenty minutes.

Eventually, Yuri arrived at a residential district. This area housed retired officials, neither too costly nor available simply with wealth—an exclusive enclave of single houses, not apartments or high-rise buildings.

They weren’t quite villas, given their modest size, but in Moscow’s exorbitantly-priced city center, such properties were unattainable by any ordinary means.

Now that he was here, navigational guidance was unnecessary. Yuri confirmed the street numbers, searching for the correct house number until he parked before a small yard.

Exiting the car, Yuri approached the gate. He hesitated to press the doorbell, retracting his hand halfway before inspecting the wall. After considering for a moment, he shook his head and ultimately pressed the bell.

The ringing sound echoed for a while without eliciting any response. Yuri, visibly impatient, decided to press again.

This time, there was a response—the screen installed at the gate lit up, and a female voice asked, "Who is it at this hour?"

Yuri faced the screen and said, "I’m here to see Asos Yelinsky. My name is Yuri Komonov. If he’s home, let him know I’m here."

Ringing a doorbell at 1:30 a.m.—an undeniably rude act.

But Yuri felt no obligation to be polite, speaking confidently, even arrogantly.

A loud gasp of shock came through. A gasp tinged with disbelief.

Yuri knew the surveillance setup allowed those inside to see who rang the bell. He didn’t say anything further, nor did he ring the bell again.

After a brief wait, the tightly locked gate clicked open. Yuri nodded slightly and reached for the handle.

The gate opened, allowing Yuri to walk into the yard. Crossing the small garden, he arrived at the main entrance door. He opened it directly—it wasn’t locked.

Inside the house, Yuri found two elderly individuals in the living room.

Closing the door gently behind him, Yuri looked at the white-haired old man and nodded silently. "I’m out."

One old man, one old woman—both seemed at least seventy years old.

The elderly woman appeared somewhat angry but mostly confused. The man, on the other hand, stared intently at Yuri, trembling as he spoke, "How could you possibly be out? Why are you out?"

"If I wanted out, I got out."

Yuri replied calmly, then addressed the old man, "I told you back then—I’d come for you first when I was out. I didn’t think you’d still be living in Moscow."

The elderly woman glanced at her husband in bewilderment and asked, "You... this gentleman is?"

The old man didn’t answer her question, standing fixed in place and addressing Yuri. "This is my wife. She knows nothing about this."

"I figured. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have come like this—I’d have done it another way."

There were many questions the old man wanted to ask, but he knew they wouldn’t matter.

After a long sigh, he turned to his wife and said, "Go inside, lock the door. Tomorrow morning, during business hours, call the police and have them deal with my corpse."

The elderly woman gasped abruptly, covering her mouth, and stared at Yuri in shock.

Yuri remained still, silent.

The old man opened his arms and hugged his wife. "Listen to me! Please listen! You must follow what I say! For the sake of our children, for the sake of our grandchildren, do exactly as I say! Wait until business hours tomorrow before making the call, and before then, don’t do anything. Do you understand?"

Rigid with fear, the elderly woman nodded slowly.

The old man whispered, "Go to the bedroom. Go now."

Stiff and hesitant, the elderly woman refrained from so much as glancing at Yuri. Quiet tears streamed down her face as she trudged back to the bedroom, step by painstaking step.

Yuri stood rooted to his spot, watching as the old woman entered the bedroom and shut the door. Only then did the old man let out a breath of relief.

"Shall you do it, or shall I?"

Yuri considered for a moment before saying, "You do it yourself."

Visibly relieved, the old man nodded. "Thank you. I appreciate that deeply. Thank you!"

Yuri shrugged. "If you have no last words, hurry up. I’m on a schedule—there are still quite a few people I need to visit."

"Can I use the gun?"

"Sure."

The old man exhaled slowly, reached behind his back, and pulled out a pistol—a Makarov PB Silent Pistol.

He racked the slide, placed the gun in his mouth, and looked at Yuri. Without hesitation, without delay, he pulled the trigger as soon as the barrel entered his mouth.

Not a word beyond that.

To shoot yourself, angle down—not up.

Shooting upwards might hit the brain, resulting in slower death. Angling down ensures the bullet pierces the brainstem directly, causing instantaneous death.

Yes, even suicide takes skill.

The gunshot wasn’t particularly loud. The old man collapsed instantly, his brain containing a horrific exit wound while the muzzle remained between his teeth and his hand gripped the gun’s handle.

Yuri stared at the corpse with indifference. Walking over, he methodically engaged the gun’s safety before prying it from the lifeless hand. Crouching down, he wiped blood and saliva off the weapon using the old man’s pajamas and slid it into his pocket.

He opened the door, stepped out, got into his car, and drove away.

This next stop was closer but came with added trouble—namely, heavy security presence.

Holding the severed thumb wrapped in tissue, Yuri unlocked the phone and dialed a number.

Though confined to prison walls, Yuri hadn’t severed contact with the outside world. While others assumed he knew nothing, Yuri proved otherwise.

The call connected, and an odd voice asked, "Who are you? Who are you looking for?"

"I’m Yuri. I’m out."

A stunned silence followed.

Yuri continued in an even tone, "I’ve just left Asos’s house. Now I’m heading to yours. There are too many guards at your gate—I don’t want to go in. So, come out. I’ll be there in about five minutes."

"You... know..."

"I know."

The voice on the other end sighed—deep, resigned.

Yuri added coolly, "Come out yourself. Spare me the trouble of going in."

"I’ll come out! Let’s meet by the gate."

"Alright."

Yuri hung up, expressionless as he drove steadily.

Five minutes later, he stopped two hundred meters from the gate, seeing someone waiting at the entrance. Flashing his headlights briefly, Yuri waited.

Approaching, the figure walked at a normal pace—not quick, not slow.

Yuri stayed in the car.

Upon reaching the window, the man—around sixty years old—glanced inside and asked in a low voice, "If I die, will it end?"

Yuri nodded. "Yes."

"Promise me!"

Yuri didn’t respond. He had no patience for assurances.

The man nodded, deeply inhaled, and whispered, "I have nothing left to say."

He swiftly drew a gun, intending to act, but Yuri interrupted sharply, "Not with that. Use this instead."

Yuri handed him the folding knife through the window.

The man hesitated but swapped his gun’s grip: muzzle facing away as his right hand passed the gun to Yuri while his left hand took the knife.

Opening the knife, he pressed the blade to his neck with his left hand, placing his right hand atop the blade for stability, and slit it fiercely—cutting his carotid artery and trachea in one decisive motion.

Holding his throat to minimize blood spatter, the man made sure to return the knife through the window before staggering away two steps, collapsing heavily.

Blood poured freely through his fingers, though none of it reached Yuri’s car.

The metallic stench permeated the air.

Tonight was destined to be a night bathed in blood—this was only the beginning.