BANG!
As the gunfire rang out, another running Heretic fell backward, struck in the head.
Barrett didn't even bother to look as he pulled the trigger; he knew the outcome. He just casually notched another tally with his fingernail on the musket's forestock, murmuring softly.
Thirty-five.
Then he swiftly picked up a pre-packed cartridge, quickly reloading while his eyes continued to scan ahead, selecting his next target.
One could say he was born for this. The musket in his hands behaved entirely differently than in others', obeying his commands as if it were an extension of his own body, hitting wherever he aimed.
Others, even when confident, aimed for the torso. He preferred headshots.
When asked, his casual reply was always, "Why waste ammunition when one shot can finish the job?"
This wasn't boasting but a track record bought with the brains of Heretics—every shot precise, none wasted. At just fifteen, he had already earned the title 'Sharpshooter Barrett' at the outpost.
