A grenade, carrying heat and fire, roared towards the sofa where Johnson had been. With a loud bang, flames shot skyward, and debris flew, blasting a large hole in the wall. One wall was almost instantly destroyed, and Johnson and Jimmy were thrown back by the immense Clash.
Shrapnel rained down on their heads. Johnson crawled out of the corner where he had been thrown, a large shard of glass embedded in his right shoulder. Intense dull pain radiated from his shoulder.
Because his adoptive father was facing outwards, his stomach was directly torn open, and his white and red intestines spilled out, causing him to curl up like a shrimp.
"Ya hoo!"
A grotesque, clear, and sharp child's laugh came from the window. A wooden doll stood on the flickering windowsill, holding a portable grenade launcher, radiating cruel terror.
With just a glance, Johnson determined it was a Stand attack.
Johnson was not a Stand User, let alone able to see Stands, but the doll holding the grenade launcher, bathed in moonlight and several meters away, still exuded an eerie sensation.
He recalled that his stepfather had also seen the red light in the puppet's eyes, completely ruling out the possibility of him suddenly awakening a Stand with a protagonist's halo.
This could be a Stand specialized in possession.
He glanced at the phone in the entrance garden, then thought about Kujo Jotaro's number, which he had put in his baseball uniform today, and somewhat regretted not memorizing it. That was the invincible Jotaro with Star Platinum, a life-saving phone number!
First, get the phone from the bedroom, then go to the entrance garden to call him.
But the distance was too far; the entire route was exposed within the enemy's line of sight.
— There's no hope; just wait for death.
The opponent is a Stand User; he can't even see the Stand. How can he fight?
At least the opponent's Stand should be some kind of possessing Stand.
Holding his breath, Johnson thought of this and quietly helped his stepfather up. As the smoke cleared, he secretly glanced at the puppet, observing its location.
But with that one glance, the puppet instantly discovered Johnson's position. The spent grenade shell hit the ground with a crisp sound, like the sound of death. Johnson watched as it cocked its wrench, and a red flash of fire shot out from the dark, double-sized barrel of the gun.
This was clearly not a villain who liked to talk and explain the whys and wherefores; otherwise, he probably wouldn't have shot so decisively.
Johnson's physical instincts far surpassed his brain; as if pulled by something, he yanked his stepfather, Jimmy, up and lunged away.
However, this time he was clearly not so lucky. The familiar heat wave surged again. Before they could completely dodge, they were thrown back by the Clash. Johnson felt the impact from behind, hitting the wall, and coincidentally falling into the basement. A huge piece of the ceiling then landed squarely on him. He spat out a mouthful of blood, his vision went black, and he lost consciousness.
"Ya ho ho ~" The puppet's laughter, filled with cruel joy, bounced around the entire house.
His will to live was too strong. Johnson felt the passage of time and awoke from his coma. Several bones in his body were broken, and his head was dizzy and nauseous from being hit by the ceiling on the back of his head.
"Ya ho ho ~"
Johnson heard the puppet's voice echoing throughout the villa. He couldn't help but force his sluggish brain to clear, knowing that the crisis was far from over.
He turned his head to look at the object clenched tightly in his hand: a pale arm, its fractured wrist shattered like a sponge, black blood still continuously flowing... Johnson paused, realizing that his stepfather had already departed this world. This middle-aged man in his forties had completely bid farewell to humanity.
There was no dramatic parting, no cheap trick of dying to save him; he just died, as lifeless as a falling autumn leaf... Although they had only known each other for less than four months, in Johnson's world, he was already a flesh-and-blood person. His heart would beat, he would cry, he would laugh, and he treated him as his true son... Johnson deeply felt and gazed into the abyss called death... He remembered watching golden wind when he first transmigrated, and Giorno Giovanna said: "What is called resolve is not the intention to sacrifice, but to carve out a bright path that must be advanced through the darkest wilderness!"
You sure talk big, Giorno Giovanna... In the despair of death, he thought, only you, the chosen one, could carve out that path... Not everyone who makes a resolve can carve out that bright path... He pulled his head from the rubble, dusted off the debris. His once golden hair was now messy and dirty, and his unique red eyes appeared exceptionally cold.
Johnson struggled to crawl out of the rubble, using all his strength to hide in his old, dilapidated wardrobe. Texas had a rat infestation one year, and this old cabinet had several large holes gnawed by rats, making it somewhat unfit for display, so it had been left to rest in the basement.
"Ya ho ho ~ Ya ho ho ~"
The puppet's laughter was incessant. It flew around the villa, meticulously inspecting every inch, and its laughter grew closer and closer.
Judging by the laughter, the puppet was still searching for Johnson's location but had found nothing. Finally, it landed in the basement.
Johnson's heart tightened; he suppressed his trembling body, covered his mouth, and cold sweat poured down him in large beads.
The pain from his broken bones and the deep, bone-exposing wound on his right shoulder were completely forgotten, replaced by an unprecedented tension.
Because he heard a distinct "kaba" sound of wood joints working from outside the wardrobe door.
Wooden hands touched the metal handle of the wardrobe door, a crisp sound echoed, and the old wardrobe door shrieked as it opened… In the narrow wardrobe, there was nowhere to hide.
Johnson was at a dead end; he was quite large and sat sideways in the wardrobe, his eyes tightly shut from fear, his mouth covered, completely exposed in the moonlight piercing the basement… and under the gaze of the puppet.
Death is instantaneous; there won't be some invincible Jotaro shouting "Diner Spicy Sauce! Za Warudo!"… Yes, life isn't a novel; how could so many miracles happen?
I'm not the first transmigrator, nor will I be the last… Johnson completely accepted death, his body stopped trembling, the hand covering his mouth dropped, his eyes were tightly shut, and he sank into the darkness.
Waiting for death.
Smiling in the face of life and death, he achieved complete enlightenment.
The puppet watching him remained motionless, its neck turning as if searching for something in the completely exposed wardrobe, and then… it closed the wardrobe door… The door closed… It closed… It closed… What??
You goddamn closed the door??
You're not going to kill me??
You goddamn weren't here to kill me, were you?
Ten thousand grass-mud horses galloped through his mind; looking at the wardrobe door that had been opened and then closed, Johnson was completely stunned…