Steel-like arms stretched out from the crack in the sand, bracing against its edges. Every movement was light, deliberate. Fine golden grains trickled from his body, and the tightly fastened military boots landed softly on the dry ground, silent as a shadow.
The entire hunting team was fixated on the sniper atop the roof. With their protective goggles filtering the blinding early light, their vision had narrowed drastically. Sometimes, the breadth of one's sight determined life or death.
Kasiah had crawled out from the fissure; the air inside had been stifling. He had long sensed the tremors from the steam vehicles ahead, and only when the gunfire erupted across the station did he emerge.
As expected, everyone's attention was drawn to Kara. Under the black mask, Kasiah's lips curled into a faint, victorious smile.
Six preloaded double-barrel shotguns hung from his waist. He stepped lightly, moving past the twenty-some hunters still crouched behind the steam vehicles.
The sniper on the roof was too skilled. A single exposed head could be met with a lethal bullet. Their muskets, unable to aim accurately, could not create suppressive fire. They clutched their lives tightly, shrinking behind their cover. They were being controlled by a single unseen force, and their bullets could not even graze the sniper's clothing.
"Good grief!" one muttered. In all the years they had dominated this supply station, they had never encountered such a threat. Was there anything a magazine of bullets couldn't solve?
No. Even surrounded by wolves in the desert before, they had always returned, wielding flaming iron in their hands. This attack, however, left them utterly paralyzed.
A lean man finished emptying his musket's clip and, overwhelmed by the pressure above, turned sideways to reload and rest. But when he reached for another magazine, he noticed a pair of black boots in his line of sight.
His mind faltered. Could anyone still stand without being shot at?
His eyes traveled upward. Before reaching the owner's waist, he saw the muzzles of two double-barrel shotguns, each as thick as a baby's arm, pointed directly at him. Inside the barrels was a desert-like void—dry, lifeless, absolute.
"Hello," came a greeting from the darkness of the barrels—a call from Death itself.
High-pressure iron shot erupted in a circular arc. Huddled hunters behind the steam vehicles were defenseless. Kasiah, ready in both hands, tilted the shotguns and fired. The recoil was absorbed flawlessly by his steel-like arms.
"Round one: five down," he muttered.
Before the shotguns even settled, the next volley was ready.
"Boom… boom." The blasts were not loud; they sounded like steam valves releasing sudden bursts of high-pressure gas.
The hunters, realizing someone was behind them, were too late. Ten of their comrades had already been neutralized.
The large-caliber shotguns did not require precise aim. Even a rough direction was enough to pull the trigger. Iron shot sprayed along with glowing sparks from unspent gunpowder. Thick clothing offered no protection; the victims were shredded under the assault.
Embedded iron and bleeding ensured fatality unless the attacker moved closer, where a single shot could fracture a man's body.
When the last rounds emptied, a few hunters were forced out of cover, only to meet Kara's sniper bullets to the head.
"Show me what else you've got!" the remaining hunters snarled.
Kasiah's six shotguns were empty. Twenty-plus men lay in a blood-soaked cement tableau. He hurled the last two shotguns like iron clubs, each nearly seven hundred pounds of force propelled by his enhanced strength.
One chest caved under the impact; broken ribs pierced the heart, the body convulsing before going limp. Another attempted to resist with a musket, only to be crushed into unconsciousness.
Kasiah crouched, using the steam vehicles as cover, approaching two hunters still hiding. His hands struck like lightning, snapping their necks. No longer a lazy sunbathing cat, he was a bloodied, feral predator.
"Three left," his voice remained bright, but for the survivors, it rang like a death knell.
In mere seconds, the hunting team was reduced to three, bewildered. The black crow-masked figure's origin was a mystery.
Firearms continued to blaze, but none could hit Kasiah, moving like a shadow, his steps erratic and unpredictable.
"Stop! Don't empty all your ammo!" one shouted, recalling hunting discipline—the crossfire could not cease, or this man would close the distance.
But the three lacked formal training. Their nerves, honed on wolves, faltered under human malice. In their panic, all bullets emptied simultaneously.
Reloading would take precious seconds. As they fumbled with magazines and ejected shells, Kasiah swung a double-barrel shotgun like a sword.
Crack! Bone shattered, one neck twisted into a crescent. The other two, panicked, rolled away from cover, only to have sniper bullets whistle past, precisely timed and waiting.
Thus, Kasiah and Kara's plan did not require the sunrise. Their carefully laid strategy had unfolded perfectly—bloodied, lethal, and unseen until the last shot.