Rebirth: A Second chance at life-Chapter 76: Wrecking HavoChapter .

Outside, Aurora tore through the last line of defense without mercy.

Blood was smeared across her cheek, but her expression remained cold, untouched, as if violence was nothing more than a chore to her.

She swung her LMG one final time, mowing down the last of the snipers who had been foolishly hiding behind the scattered, bullet-riddled vehicles.

"Clear," she muttered under her breath, her voice steady.

Bishop walked over at a lazy pace, leaving behind a trail of bodies in his wake. A fresh cut marred his forearm, blood trickling down to his wrist, but he barely seemed to notice.

His sharp eyes scanned the battlefield—the corpses, the overturned vehicles, the blood pooling under the broken bodies—and then finally settled on her.

"Done already?" he asked with a crooked grin.

Aurora shrugged, almost bored. "Bit boring," she said casually, checking the ammunition left in her gun.

Bishop chuckled lowly. "You always say that," he teased.

For a moment, it almost felt peaceful—the chaos behind them, the dark sky above, and only the smell of blood and smoke grounding them in reality.

"Now what?" Bishop asked, tossing aside an empty magazine.

Aurora smirked, a devilish gleam in her eyes. "Take that bastard away," she ordered with a casual wave of her hand.

Without a word, Bishop strode toward the smoldering ruins of the mansion.

His boots crunched over shattered glass and debris, the air thick with the acrid stench of smoke and blood.

Inside, amidst the chaos, lay Calvert—battered, shivering, and muttering continuously under his breath, his eyes wide and glassy, as if he had seen a ghost.

Blood matted his hair, and his clothes were torn and scorched, clinging to his frail, trembling frame.

His once-arrogant eyes were now wide with terror, staring blankly at the approaching shadow.

His body was nothing but a shattered wreck—bloody, broken, barely clinging to life.

Bishop stood over him, his boots inches from Calvert’s ruined form, his face carved from stone, utterly devoid of pity.

To him, Calvert wasn’t a man anymore. Just a breathing corpse waiting for the final blow.

The only sound was the ragged, wet gasps slipping from Calvert’s torn lips, each one more desperate than the last.

Bishop’s jaw clenched as the mere thought of what this bastard was going to do to Luna crossed his mind.

Without warning, he drove his boot hard into Calvert’s ribs, a sickening crack echoing through the smoky ruins. Calvert screamed, curling into himself like a dying insect.

How dare he.

How dare this filth taint the very thought of Luna with his filthy mind.

No one—no creature in this world—had dared to look at her, think about her, let alone fantasize about her.

Bishop’s chest heaved, not from exhaustion but from the fury barely restrained inside him. The fact that this bastard was still breathing, still twitching, was an insult in itself.

A dark thought crossed Bishop’s mind—he should rip out Calvert’s tongue for even daring to whisper her name in his sick fantasies.

Bishop didn’t waste any time—he tied Calvert’s wrists and ankles together with brutal efficiency, ignoring his muffled protests, then dragged him like a sack of garbage toward the waiting car.

He popped open the trunk, dumped Calvert inside without care, and slammed it shut.

Turning back, Bishop caught sight of Aurora and a smirk pulled at his lips.

He chuckled darkly. "Hahaha... She hasn’t changed her habits one bit," he muttered to himself.

Aurora had taken out a metal rod and smashed it into the side of the mansion’s gas tank. Gasoline gushed out, flooding across the estate’s carefully manicured grounds.

Without pausing, she grabbed a few grenades and explosives from Bishop’s supply. She moved with precise, mechanical efficiency—this wasn’t the first time she was burning an empire to ashes.

Once the mansion was drenched in gas, Aurora flicked open a lighter. The tiny flame danced in the air, its reflection glinting in her sharp eyes.

Without a second of hesitation, she tossed the lighter onto the gasoline-soaked ground.

The fire roared to life instantly, greedy flames devouring everything in their path. Aurora didn’t flinch.

She simply stepped back, pulling the pins off the grenades one after another and throwing them into the growing inferno.

The explosions shook the ground, sending shockwaves through the thick evening air.

Pieces of the mansion blew apart like shrapnel, windows shattered, and the once-proud estate collapsed in on itself in a symphony of destruction.

She stood there a moment longer, watching her work with detached satisfaction.

Then, without glancing back, Aurora turned on her heel and walked toward the driveway’s end.

Behind her, Calvert’s estate was now reduced to a burning graveyard. Smoke billowed into the darkening sky.

The heavy, metallic scent of blood and gasoline hung thick in the air.

Bishop started the car with a roar, the tires kicking up dust and ash as he sped toward the exit.

But just as they were about to escape into the night, Aurora’s sharp eyes caught a group of figures standing near the entrance—armed, confused, and frozen in shock.

It was Alexander... and his men.

Their faces were a mixture of disbelief, horror, and anger as they took in the scene—the smoldering ruins, the corpses, the blood... and Aurora standing tall and proud in front of it all.

Bishop’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his grip.

His smile vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, merciless expression. He turned his head slowly, fixing Alexander with a glare so dark it could freeze blood.

The easygoing mask was gone, revealing something raw and dangerous beneath. His entire body tensed, radiating silent threat.

One wrong move, and Bishop looked ready to unleash hell without a second thought.

If he didn’t know that Aurora was just pissed off and probably had a plan in mind, he would have blown Alexander into pieces without thinking twice.

He shot a quick look at Aurora, but she merely tilted her head slightly, calm and indifferent.

Without slowing down, without giving them even a single glance of acknowledgment, Bishop pressed down harder on the gas pedal.

The car shot forward like a bullet, tires screeching on the blood-soaked asphalt