Chapter 58: Long-Range Discipline (Part 2)
As Kian began his rhythm of execution from the shadows of the ceiling, the combatants below were thrown into total confusion. They assumed the crack of the sniper rifle was just the sound of their enemies using higher-grade firearms.
The Underhive dregs drew their own "weapons." Some were nothing more than iron pipes packed with black powder and rusted metal shards, ignited by a torch held to a touch-hole—primitive fire-sticks that could only be fired once. The better-equipped gangers carried makeshift stub-pistols, which required the user to manually cycle the bolt for every single shot.
Amidst the cacophony of popping fire-sticks and the rhythmic clack-thud of stub-guns, the thunderous report of Kian's precision rifle was surprisingly well-camouflaged.
He fired again and again. Every time he emptied the ten-round magazine, he swapped it with the speed of a combat-servitor and resumed the harvest. The rifle was a dream of ancient tech—stable, lethal, and perfectly zeroed. With every squeeze of the hair-trigger, his Tactical Cogitator updated.
[Ballistics Proficiency: 18... 19... 22...]
Kian didn't pick sides based on morality. He picked sides based on the "Game Balance." At first, the Alchem-Hounds had the upper hand, so he picked off their squad leaders. When the freelance scav-rats began to push back, he turned his barrel toward them. Experience points didn't care about faction loyalty; a headshot on a scavenger was worth just as much as a headshot on a junkie.
By the time twenty men lay dead from his invisible hand, the combatants realized they weren't alone.
"SNIPER! HE'S IN THE RAFTERS!!"
A scavenger pointed a trembling finger toward the flickering muzzle flashes in the heights. He had seen the brief spark of blue flame from Kian's barrel.
He didn't live to give a second warning. A Gristle-Hound lunged from the shadows, a rusted machete in hand. With a single, fluid stroke, the brute lopped off the scavenger's arm. As the man shrieked, the Gristle-Hound tackled him into the muck, its blade rising and falling until the scavenger was nothing but a red smear on the warehouse floor.
Morale was disintegrating. A third of the combatants were dead. The independent scavengers were breaking, looking for an exit, but the Alchem-Hounds were entering a stimm-fueled "Berserker State." They were slamming needles into their own necks, their brains dissolving into a soup of combat-rage. They didn't care about the sniper anymore. They only wanted to feel the wet crunch of bone beneath their boots.
The scavengers were trapped. In a tight formation, they could have held the line. But once they turned to run, the junkies hunted them down like dogs.
Kian watched through his optic, centering the crosshairs on a stimm-bloated junkie. He pulled the trigger.
The recoil kicked the scope upward. When Kian brought the crosshairs back down, his target was gone. Literally. The 9.9mm slug had hit the man's spine and the kinetic energy had simply torn him into two separate pieces. The upper half of the junkie was spinning across the floor while the legs remained standing for a gruesome second before collapsing.
Clack-shirr.
Kian leveled the rifle again. Ten more shots. Ten more confirmed kills.
His fire cut a temporary gap in the Alchem-Hound's perimeter. The surviving scavengers saw the opening and bolted, scattering like stars across the warehouse floor.
The Hounds, too far gone to maintain order, broke their own ranks to pursue the stragglers. One of the Hound lieutenants, frothing at the mouth, slammed a button on his remote-trigger.
The dormant Chem-Sow on the flatbed trolley shuddered. Its massive heart began to pump green, toxic sludge through its veins. It let out a deafening, metallic squeal and leaped from the trolley. It didn't care about friend or foe. It pinned the nearest junkie to the ground and began the "Sump-Slurp," biting into the man's abdomen and slurping up his organs like wet noodles.
Kian reloaded, his eyes scanning the chaos. "Throne, everything is moving too fast now."
The difficulty had spiked. Sniping a stationary junkie was easy; hitting a target sprinting through a maze of containers was a different story.
"Fine. Let's try some moving target practice."
He spotted a scavenger sprinting for a gap between two blue containers. Five meters behind him, a Gristle-Hound was closing the distance with terrifying speed.
Kian led the target, aiming a full body-length ahead of the running scavenger.
BOOM!
Miss.
BOOM!
Miss.
He hissed in frustration. The 9.9mm rounds were striking the plasteel containers behind the runners, sparking uselessly. He adjusted his lead, focusing on the rhythm of the scavenger's stride.
BOOM!
The heavy slug caught the scavenger in the lower back just as he slowed down. The man didn't just fall; he was launched forward by the impact. The Gristle-Hound behind him stopped, confused, and began hacked at the fresh corpse with its cleaver.
Kian smirked. "Target hit. Ballistics up."
He aimed at the Gristle-Hound, who was busy mutilating the dead scavenger.
BOOM!
The shot was a bit low. It hit the Gristle-Hound's thick thigh. The heavy round didn't just penetrate—it tore the entire leg off the brute's torso. The Gristle-Hound collapsed, let out a wet, guttural howl, and began dragging itself across the floor with its arms.
Kian cycled the bolt, preparing to put a bullet in the brute's chest. But then, a thought struck him.
The System granted proficiency for every effective hit. If he killed a target in one shot, he got 1 point. But if he shot the limbs...
He opened his System overlay and checked his Ballistics score. It was currently at 58.
He looked through the scope at the legless Gristle-Hound, which was still screaming and thrashing. He centered the crosshairs on the brute's other leg.
BOOM!
The second leg vanished in a spray of purple blood. The Gristle-Hound's howls reached a new, agonizing pitch.
Kian checked the HUD. [Ballistics Proficiency: 59].
"Holy Throne..." Kian's eyes widened with the realization. "It works! I can farm these things!"
He grinned like a madman and raised the rifle again, aiming for the Gristle-Hound's left hand.
"I'm going to be a Master Marksman by the time I'm done with you, piggy."
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