The Apocalyptic Queen's Werewolf Journey (Thora and Darius) novel Chapter 479

The moment the truck rolled into the factory, people immediately moved in to receive it.

Sure enough, the factory was crawling with armed personnel. From the look of things, their sole purpose was to guard this place.

The four men from the cab jumped down and began their handoff with the welcoming party.

The two sides were speaking in low voices, but before the conversation could even finish, a single gunshot ripped through the silence. Bang!

The man who'd stepped forward to talk took a bullet clean through the skull and dropped dead on the spot.

Every armed guard in the factory snapped to attention instantly, raising their weapons, eyes sweeping the darkness.

"What the hell!"

In the distance, Frost raised his hand in a mock gun gesture and let out a cold hiss. "Bang!" His smile was chilling enough to make your skin crawl. He lowered his hand and playfully blew on his thumb like it was a smoking barrel.

Sierra leaned against a wall nearby, silent as stone, with both hands already gripping her twin daggers, her expression locked in combat-ready focus.

Mace Stooky, standing beside Frost, shot him a cold sideways glance—clearly displeased with his decision to act without orders.

Frost didn't spare Mace's look a second thought. He simply raised his hand and waved it forward.

Black-clad operatives who had been lying in wait surged out from the shadows all at once. Every one of them was masked and dressed head to toe in black, with only their ice-cold eyes visible, and they advanced on the factory with overwhelming firepower.

The staccato roar of machine guns and the thunderous blasts of rocket launchers wove together, turning the factory into an inferno in a matter of seconds.

The Hawthornes' armed forces fought back hard, using the factory's layout for cover and returning fire without hesitation.

But the attackers weren't just aggressive—they were savage, reckless, and utterly merciless. That particular brand of brutality triggered an instant association in the Hawthornes' minds—the notorious thief syndicate on Chaules, the Mirage Corsairs.

Panic spread like wildfire. A cold dread sank into their guts. Had they really crossed paths with the Mirage Corsairs? And with every passing second, the attackers' methods confirmed their worst fears.

Mace, Frost, and Sierra stood at a distance, watching the carnage unfold with faces as blank as marble. Not a flicker of emotion.

Finally, Mace raised his hand and waved. The black-clad fighters eased off their assault.

The Hawthornes' forces had been torn apart. No one dared so much as twitch.

After the ambush, their casualties were devastating. Only a handful remained standing, and against the Mirage Corsairs' overwhelming firepower, resistance was futile. They knew better than anyone—once you were up against the Mirage Corsairs, there was only one outcome.

After a moment, the highest-ranking survivor inside the factory stepped out slowly, hands raised, and called out, "Whatever you want, it's yours! Just stop the attack!"

Mace let out a cold laugh and turned to Frost. "You feel like stopping?"

Every person on the scene whipped around to look. Behind the factory stood a row of figures.

The darkness was too thick to make out their faces, but every single one of them radiated an aura of iron-forged lethality.

And behind them, two perfectly aligned columns of soldiers in irregular camouflage stood at attention—there was no question about it. These were mercenaries.

The man standing at the center was flanked on all sides, yet he towered above them all in presence alone. He carried the isolation of a king and the cutting edge of a general. He was, without a doubt, the heart and soul of this unit.

The instant Frost laid eyes on him, the color drained from his face. Sierra's expression grew heavier by the second.

They'd clashed with this man before—more than once—and recognized him on sight.

Julio stepped forward and spoke evenly, his tone respectful, clearly addressing the man beside him. "Boss, it's three of the Mirage Corsairs' Twelve Generals—Mace, Frost, and Sierra."

Mace locked his gaze on Lance, his voice low and hard. "Didn't expect to run into you here, Mr. Wright."

Lance took a single, unhurried step forward, his long legs carrying him with effortless authority.

His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, shedding the dark allure he'd once worn and replacing it with something sharper and cleaner. There was an almost scholarly refinement to his features now, yet his presence still hit like a sledgehammer.

"As long as there's still a score between us that hasn't been settled, you can expect these little 'coincidences' wherever you go." Lance's thin lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes. The warning in his words was impossible to miss—this debt would be collected, sooner or later.