Various handguns of different designs and highly personal styles were expertly held in their hands.
"Fire!"
Someone else shouted.
*Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!*
Deafening gunshots instantly tore through the peaceful atmosphere of Parents' Day, as bullets poured onto the mechanical puppets like a rainstorm.
What made the parents' skin crawl even more was that, with the precise ballistic correction assistance from a few Da Vinci Students—
Their fingers swiped rapidly in the air, and almost not a single bullet missed its mark!
Every attack slammed precisely into the mechanical puppets' joints, optical sensors, and energy cores, erupting into clusters of dazzling electrical sparks!
"What... what the hell kind of school is this?!"
A father in an expensive suit instinctively tried to pull his son behind him, only to find he couldn't budge him at all.
His son, who wore gold-rimmed glasses and was usually engrossed in Ancient Babylonian studies, was now kneeling on one knee, his hands as steady as a rock as he held a modified Glock, performing a textbook-perfect rapid-fire sequence.
Every shot precisely hit a puppet's head sensor.
Elsewhere, a mother in a Chanel suit watched in shock as her precious daughter—who usually only cared about tea parties and horoscopes—deftly swapped magazines, then performed a tactical roll behind a statue to continue firing.
Elite boarding school? This was clearly a special forces training camp! No, it was a terrorist crash course!
Dr. 077 saw this through the shared vision of the terminator, and the data stream almost suffered a glitch.
These students' tactical maneuvers... were too professional! They had even spontaneously formed crossfire nets and covering echelons! These were f*cking students?!
The parents suddenly turned their gazes toward the highest official on the scene—Principal Larissa Weems—hoping for an explanation.
Then they saw an even more breathtaking sight.
At some point, Principal Larissa had shed her elegant suit jacket, wearing only a white shirt and a tactical skirt.
Holding a custom pearl-white handgun with gold trim in each hand, she was firing alternately at an astonishing speed, precisely blowing up the mechanical puppets as they lunged forward.
Her free hand wasn't idle either, expertly pulling out tactical grenades, biting off the pins with her teeth, and tossing them precisely into the most crowded areas of puppets.
*Boom! Boom!*
The blast's shockwave ruffled her hair, but her cold gaze didn't waver in the slightest, filled only with a "I've had enough" towering rage.
Trouble at the Harvest Festival, trouble at the dance, and now they even dared to crash the weekend Parents' Day?
Did they really think Nevermore was a public restroom? That they could just come and go as they pleased?
Then fight! Fight to the death!
Watching the principal's fluid combat movements, only one thought remained in the parents' minds:
If the beam on top is crooked, the beams below will be too... So this was the source!
"Dad! Give me money, quick!"
A student who had run out of bullets anxiously fumbled through his empty pockets, then suddenly thrust his hand into his father's expensive suit inner pocket, precisely pulled out a crocodile skin wallet, whipped out a thick stack of cash, and waved it vigorously while shouting:
"Victor! Same as usual! Two more cases of 9mm Parabellum! Make them anti-magic enchanted! And some offensive grenades too!"
"You got it! Grand opening sale! Parents' Day special! All ammunition is half price! Buy ten cases and get one case of Sweetheart Grenades for free!"
Victor's voice rang out cheerfully.
He was seen pushing a cart from out of nowhere, laden with golden ammunition boxes and various grenades. Like a battlefield peddler, he dodged stray bullets while precisely tossing cases of ammo "whoosh whoosh" to the students in need.
He even had time to pull out a card reader:
"We accept cash, card, and collateral! New customers get a custom holster with their first top-up of over a hundred thousand!"
Ms. Joan and Mr. Eli turned their heads stiffly to look at their daughter, Enid, who usually only knew how to act cute and beg for chocolate.
"This is what you call 'handicrafts'?"
At that moment, Enid was hiding behind an overturned dessert table, both hands gripping a bright pink Desert Eagle, firing "bang bang bang" in rapid succession at a charging mechanical puppet.
The recoil made her wrists go numb, but her eyes sparkled with excitement, and she muttered under her breath:
"Hit its joints! Yes! Just like that!"
Feeling her parents' burning gaze, Enid took a moment to look back, giving a sweet, slightly embarrassed smile:
"Hehe, Victor made them all by hand—every single part has been polished! Purely handmade crafts! No lie!"
Ms. Joan: "..."
Mr. Eli: "..."
They looked at the pink Desert Eagle in their daughter's hand—clearly a firearm yet stubbornly called a "handicraft"—then at the principal and students engaged in frenzied combat, and finally at that arms dealer boyfriend gleefully peddling ammunition... The two of them silently exchanged a look, as if reaching some sort of consensus.
Mr. Eli silently pulled out his checkbook.
Ms. Joan began to seriously consider whether they should replace the family chef, who only knew how to make desserts, with a retired special forces operative.
Nevermore Academy certainly lived up to its reputation.
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