"There are too many Ghouls. We won't last long at this rate; we're going to get worn down and killed here." Han Gao flicked his wrist to reload. His Alchemical revolver packed a punch comparable to a small grenade, capable of wiping out a batch of Ghouls with a single shot, but ammunition was ultimately limited, and they couldn't afford to exhaust their stamina against so many of these creatures—especially since Han Gao was already an old man.
"Got any trump cards left?" Finger produced a cigar from somewhere, lit it using the lawn still smoldering from the Domain of Flame, and casually clamped it between his teeth.
"You're asking an old man who can barely hold a gun anymore if he has any trump cards. Do you think that's appropriate?"
Chapter 97