Raymond activated Basic Sneak before he started the descent.
The skill settled over him like a second skin—an awareness of every sound his body might produce, every scrape his boots might make against stone. His weight distribution shifted automatically, finding the quiet paths down the cliff face.
A flicker of astonishment crossed his features. Raising his limb, he noticed an indistinct veil shrouding him—barely visible to unaided vision—that enabled him to merge with his surroundings.
I hate to admit, this bloody skill works like magic.
The rock was loose in places. Fragments that would normally clatter and bounce sat stable under his careful footing. He tested each handhold before committing his weight, moved when the wind picked up to mask any residual noise. The darkness helped. His Night Vision skill painted the cliff in shapes and outlines, enough to navigate without stumbling.
The descent took eight minutes.
At the base, twenty meters of open ground separated him from the warehouse's back edge. Exposed. Visible if the tower sentries turned at the wrong moment.
Raymond dropped into a crouch and waited.
The two figures on the tower shifted positions. One gestured toward something in the distance. The other leaned against the railing, attention following his companion's pointing hand.
Raymond moved.
He kept his body low, knees bent, crossing the open ground in quick strides. His boots found the packed dirt, avoided loose sand that might shift audibly. The warehouse's corrugated metal roof loomed larger with each step. Fifteen meters. Ten. Five.
He pressed his back against the rear wall, breathing controlled, listening.
Voices drifted from the front of the warehouse. Casual conversation. Someone laughed. Footsteps moved between the garage and the main structure, crunching on gravel.
Raymond edged along the wall toward the back corner.
The cigarette glow appeared first—a small orange point suspended in the darkness. Then the figure materialized in his enhanced vision. A man standing alone, facing away at a slight angle. His posture was relaxed. One hand brought the cigarette to his lips. The ember brightened with the inhale, illuminating his profile for a moment before fading back to a dull glow.
Isolated. Distracted.
Raymond closed the distance.
Five meters. His footfalls made no sound. The skill worked exactly as advertised—his weight distributed perfectly, his movements muffled.
Three meters. The smoker exhaled, a plume of vapor drifting upward into the night air.
One meter.
Raymond moved fast.
His left hand shot forward, palm clamping over the man's mouth before any sound could escape. His right arm locked around the throat simultaneously, forearm pressing against the windpipe in a controlled hold. Pressure measured—sufficient to choke off breath and stifle any shout, but not to kill.
The cigarette dropped from the smoker's fingers, hitting the dirt with a soft scatter of ash.
The man's body went rigid. His hands came up instinctively, grabbing at Raymond's forearm, trying to pry it away. Muscles tensed. A muffled grunt vibrated against Raymond's palm.
Raymond tightened his grip.
The struggle lasted three seconds. Then the man's movements weakened. His fingers stopped clawing. His weight sagged backward into Raymond's hold.
Raymond loosened his grip—not fully, just enough to keep the man conscious.
He began dragging the smoker backward, away from the warehouse corner. His forearm stayed locked across the throat, his other hand clamped firm over the mouth. The smoker's boots scraped against dirt, heels digging shallow furrows as Raymond hauled him into deeper darkness. The man's eyes widened, whites visible even in the dim light. His breathing came in rapid bursts through his nose, hot air hitting Raymond's knuckles.
Twenty meters. Far enough that the men at the garage wouldn't hear.
Raymond released the throat hold but kept his palm sealed over the man's mouth. His now-free hand clenched into a fist. He drove it into the smoker's gut from the side—a measured strike that targeted the solar plexus.
The body jerked violently in his grip. Muscles spasmed. The man tried to double over but Raymond's hold kept him upright. A muffled sound vibrated against his palm, choked off before it could form into anything recognizable.
Raymond hit him again. Same spot. Same controlled force—enough to flood the nervous system with pain without causing serious damage.
The smoker's eyes went glassy. Tears welled at the corners, spilling down his cheeks. His hands clawed at Raymond's forearm with renewed desperation, nails scraping fabric. His legs kicked weakly, feet scrambling for purchase against the ground.
Raymond leaned in close. His mouth moved near the man's ear, voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
"I am going to ask you some questions and you shall answer them truthfully. No funny business. Do you understand?"
The man's head bobbed up and down frantically, a desperate nod constrained by Raymond's grip. His eyes pleaded—wide, wet, desperate.
A small prompt flickered at the corner of Raymond's vision—pale blue text, barely noticeable.
[ Basic Interrogation Technique - Successful ]
Raymond's jaw tightened. The skill had done something. He could feel it in the way the smoker's resistance crumbled, in the shift from defiance to pure survival instinct.
Sometimes a threat doesn't need to be spoken out loud.
He shifted his hand, releasing the mouth and sliding his arm back into a chokehold position. His forearm pressed against the windpipe—enough pressure to remind the man what could happen if he screamed.
His lips moved close to the smoker's ear again.
"How many people are there in the outpost?"
The smoker swallowed hard. The motion traveled through his throat, pushing against Raymond's forearm. His body trembled—pain, fear, both feeding into each other. When he spoke, the words came out in a stuttering whisper that barely qualified as sound.
"S-seven people. Two in the warehouse. One mechanic in the garage. Two sentries in the tower and... and our vice leader in the bunker."
Raymond's eyes narrowed.
He'd expected a number. Maybe an evasive answer he'd have to extract through more pressure. Not a complete breakdown of personnel and their locations delivered in one terrified confession.
Is this due to the effect of the skill?
Wait, so no captives? Is this not the outpost of Sand Rats Gang? Or is this a different group entirely?
Raymond's grip remained steady, but his mind worked through the inconsistency. The sub quest specifically mentioned rescuing Rakheel from the Sand Rat Outpost.
"Do you have any captives?"
The smoker's answer came immediately.
"We... we do. We captured two fat sheep from the desert last week. One of them was taken away by our boss today... to the main den. The other one is still in the bunker."
So that's how it was.
The pieces aligned. The buggies that had left earlier—they hadn't been a routine patrol.
"So the convoy that went out earlier was...?"
Raymond let the sentence hang, dragging out the pause.
The smoker flinched, words tumbling out in a rush—terrified that any delay might bring more pain.
"Yes! That was our boss taking that wealthy merchant for demanding ransom. The one in the bunker is the mercenary leader who was protecting him. Our boss wants to break him and have him join our gang."
Mercenary? Could it be... Sayeed?
Raymond's grip tightened—just a fraction. The smoker squirmed, a whimper catching in his throat.
Raymond forced his thoughts back to the present. The mercenary's identity mattered less than what he could extract from this interrogation.
"When will your boss be back?"
The smoker hesitated. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. The words came slower this time, resistance creeping back into his voice despite the fear still painted across his features.
"I... I don't know. Boss said he is going back to the main den to give the Big Boss his baksheesh. He didn't say anything about when he will be back."
So the boss of this outpost went out to give his tribute to the main gang's boss.
Raymond watched the man's body language shift—shoulders tensing, breathing steadying. The skill's effect was fading. Whatever psychological leverage it had granted was slipping away. Further interrogation would yield diminishing returns.
He activated the combat skill silently.
A faint yellow mark appeared on the back of the bandit's neck—a glowing spot visible only to Raymond, pulsing softly against the man's skin. His instincts sharpened, focusing on that single point. Strike there. Precise angle. Controlled force.
Raymond released his grip.
The smoker stumbled forward, relief flooding through him as air filled his lungs without restriction. His hands came up to his throat, massaging the bruised flesh.
Raymond's hand came down in a chopping motion—edge of palm striking the yellow mark with surgical accuracy.
The bandit's eyes rolled back. His mouth opened in a silent gasp, then closed. His legs gave out. He pitched forward, hitting the dirt face-first without even attempting to break his fall.
Raymond knelt beside the motionless body. Two fingers pressed against the carotid artery, feeling for the pulse. It beat steady beneath his touch—unconscious, not dead.
He stood, his gaze shifting toward the outpost.
Raymond crouched beside the unconscious bandit.
A submachine gun hung from a strap around the man's waist. Raymond unclipped it and turned it over in his hands.
The moment his grip settled properly around the weapon, text materialized across his vision.
A window—pale blue, semi-transparent—hovered before his eyes. Clean formatting. Organized information. Nothing like this had appeared during the tutorial when he'd handled weapons.
[ Name: Raptor-9 ]
[ Type: SMG - Light ]
[ Description: A compact, blocky SMG designed for close-quarters engagements, featuring a magazine-in-grip layout for rapid reloading. Its utilitarian design prioritizes reliability and a high rate of fire over long-range precision. ]
[ Ammo: 9mm Parabellum (30x1) ]
Raymond's tongue clicked against his teeth.
How convenient.
He dismissed the window with a thought.
Then, as if testing something, Raymond pictured the SMG being stored and the handgun in his inventory being retrieved.
The submachine gun vanished from his grip.
The handgun materialized in its place—the same one he'd carried since the tutorial. Weight settled into his palm, familiar and immediate. A new window appeared before his eyes.
[ Name: Vector-7 ]
[ Type: Handgun - Light ]
[ Description: A handgun defined by its sharp, angular lines and a unique synthetic-weave grip. Its slide features an uncommon machined pattern, contributing to its distinct, if atypical, balance. ]
[ Ammo: .357 SIG (7x2) ]
So this is how 'INVENTORY' works. This is pretty useful.
Raymond dismissed the window and sent the mental command to store the handgun. It disappeared from his grip, leaving his hands empty.
He turned his attention back to the unconscious bandit and continued the search.
Two spare magazines sat in a pouch at the man's belt—nine millimeter, matching the Raptor-9. Raymond stored them in the inventory with a thought. A pack of cheap cigarettes occupied the breast pocket, crushed from the earlier struggle. Beside it, a metal-cased pocket lighter—simple construction, scratched surface showing years of use.
He pocketed the cigarettes and lighter after confirming neither would disappear into the system inventory.
So only weapons—or maybe only certain 'things' recognized by the system—can be stored in the inventory.
Raymond nodded to himself, the logic settling into place. He reached down and tore a strip of cloth from the bandit's garments, the fabric ripping with a soft sound. The piece came free in his hand—roughly two feet long, frayed edges still connected by loose threads.
He turned and moved toward the garage's back entrance, Basic Sneak still active.
The door wasn't locked. He eased it open, hinges silent, and slipped inside.
The mechanic lay beneath one of the buggies, his upper body hidden by the vehicle's undercarriage. Tools clinked against metal. A wrench scraped. The man muttered something under his breath—frustration or concentration, impossible to tell.
The door's movement must have registered—a change in airflow, a shift in ambient light—but the mechanic didn't react. His legs remained visible, boots planted flat. His work continued without pause.
Raymond crossed to the buggy in three quiet steps. The fuel tank sat mounted on the vehicle's side, cap accessible at waist height. His fingers worked the lid, twisting it counterclockwise. It came free with a soft click.
He fed one end of the cloth strip into the opening, pushing it down until the fabric soaked through. Fuel wicked up the material, darkening it. He left several inches hanging outside the tank, the strip dangling like a fuse.
The mechanic's wrench clanged against something. A curse followed.
Raymond's eyes tracked the man's position. Still under the buggy. Still focused on whatever repair consumed his attention.
Raymond pulled the lighter from his pocket. His thumb struck the wheel. Spark caught. Flame bloomed—small, steady.
He touched it to the hanging cloth.
The fabric caught immediately. Fire crawled up the strip, moving toward the fuel tank's opening.
Raymond turned and walked back to the door.
"Hey Chuck, why the hell are you going out again? Give me a hand, will ya?"
The mechanic's voice cut through the garage—casual, annoyed, expecting compliance.
Raymond didn't respond. Didn't slow. He wasn't Chuck, and what came next would draw every person in this outpost into the open. The diversion would force them out where he could see them, where he could act without fighting through enclosed spaces and unknown corridors.
He bolted through the back door.
Behind him, confusion colored the mechanic's next words.
"Chuck? What the—"
The sentence died as the man slid out from beneath the buggy. His boots hit concrete. His body twisted, half-sitting.
Then he smelled it. Burning fabric. Fuel vapor.
His head snapped up, nostrils flaring as he tried to identify the source. The smoke was faint but wrong—sharp chemical bite that didn't belong in a garage unless something had gone very wrong.
His eyes went wide.
The explosion tore through the far side of the buggy.
Fire and pressure erupted outward. The blast lifted the vehicle, flipping it toward the mechanic—two tons of burning metal rotating through the air. Metal fragments scattered like shrapnel, some pieces still glowing orange.
The buggy crashed down on top of him. Twisted frame and ruptured fuel tank crushed the man beneath its weight before he could even attempt to roll clear.
No scream. No movement. Just the roar of flames consuming what remained.
The explosion rocked the outpost.
The force traveled through concrete and metal, a sharp crack that rattled the tower's framework. The two sentries jerked upright from their casual lean, hands scrambling for weapons propped against the railing.
Flames erupted within the garage—visible through the open bay, contained but bright enough to paint the immediate area in flickering orange light.
The sentries grabbed their rifles and ran for the stairs, boots hammering down the metal steps. From the warehouse, two more figures burst through the entrance, sprinting toward the garage. The first one reached the opening, momentum carrying him forward—
His companion's hand shot out, fingers closing around the man's collar. The grab yanked him backward just as the second buggy's tank caught.
Fire flared again inside the garage. Smaller than the first blast but enough to spread the flames across the interior. Heat pushed outward through the bay opening.
The men stumbled back half a step.
For several seconds, no one moved. Six figures stood frozen, staring at the fire consuming the garage interior. Flames licked at remaining fuel, eating through metal and rubber, sending dark smoke up toward the roof.
A door slammed open.
A figure emerged from the bunker entrance, his face twisted in rage.
"You fucking idiots! Why are you all standing here gawking at the fire?"
His arm shot out, pointing toward the base of the lookout tower.
"Go get the hose and douse the flames! Make sure it doesn't spread to the goods!"
The lackeys snapped to attention.
"Yes, boss!"
Their voices overlapped as they broke into a run, converging on the fire hydrant mounted at the tower's base. Hands worked the valve. The hose unwound in jerky loops.
The vice leader's eyes stayed fixed on the burning garage. His jaw clenched, muscles working beneath the skin. The flames reflected in his pupils—contained but destructive, consuming equipment and vehicles they couldn't afford to replace.
Several meters behind him, at the corner of the bunker, a figure stepped into view.
Raymond raised the handgun.