The metal catwalk splintered and collapsed, sending a cloud of dust and debris into the stormy air.
Even the roaring wind and torrential rain couldn't fully mask the sound. All around, the Iron Cross instinctively turned their heads. Some of them began moving directly toward the noise, drawn to investigate.
Rast let out a quiet breath when he glimpsed a flash of red and white—the unmistakable shape of Hiltina—already slipping into the factory under the cover of chaos.
His gaze swept across the factory grounds. Dozens of Iron Cross were now converging on his position, drawn by the commotion.
It wasn't nearly enough. His goal wasn't simply to survive—it was to control the entire harbor district, to ensure that every Iron Cross remained within the blast radius when the bombs went off.
The ones he had herded around the harbor earlier were already losing interest, wandering aimlessly. Without careful timing, some could drift away, leaving the bombs vulnerable to tampering. Rast had to make sure that when the explosives detonated, every last Iron Cross was inside the kill zone.
He set up the tripod for his sniper rifle, using the broken catwalk as an elevated position to create a makeshift firing platform.
During their escape, he and Hiltina had been forced to stay constantly mobile. That heavy weapon had been far too cumbersome to carry during flight, a liability compared to his pistols. But now, mobility didn't matter—interception was the goal, and there was no better weapon for it than a sniper rifle.
Rast set his pocket watch to timing mode and pulled out the Eldritch sculpture.
Whoosh.
The diamond-shaped bayonet gleamed as he slashed his own vein, letting black-and-red blood spray onto the bound humanoid sculpture. With a powerful throw, he sent the sculpture soaring through the air, then raised his pistol and took aim.
The contaminated sculpture traced a perfect arc. At its apex, Rast's bullet struck true. The bloodied effigy trembled violently midair, emitting a low, resonant hum.
From it radiated invisible waves—biological pulses that extended outward, reaching across the harbor, across Deep Blue Harbor itself.
Ordinary humans and animals couldn't perceive them. But in the minds of every Iron Cross, these waves carried an unspoken command.
Every Iron Cross that received the pulse froze in place. Then, as one, they surged forward toward the heart of the harbor. Their movement was so synchronized that the pounding of their boots shook the ground, like a stampede of a thousand horses.
Click.
Rast pressed the button on his watch, and the second hand began its deliberate tick.
The twenty-five-minute countdown had begun.
The rain intensified, each droplet mingling with the sound of approaching footsteps and the maniacal laughter of the Iron Cross.
Rast remained crouched behind his sniper rifle, motionless. The diamond bayonet, smeared with his blood, lay beside him. He no longer wrapped his wrist wounds—the veins were visibly knitting themselves together, a product of the serum coursing through him.
The mixed serum he had injected gave him rapid regeneration, allowing him to approach Iron Cross at close quarters. The price, however, was fatal: in two hours, organ failure would claim him. His accelerated circulation raised his body temperature, causing raindrops that landed on him to vaporize instantly, drifting away like white mist in the storm.
Through the scope, the world was a blur of rain and water spray. Even thirty meters away, a human figure was reduced to a shadow. Visual aiming alone was near impossible; optical scopes could hardly pick out targets at a hundred meters in these conditions.
But Rast's hands never wavered. His eyes measured distances, calculated bullet drop, and micro-adjusted the rifle's aim.
He loaded a pointed armor-piercing round into the single-shot chamber.
This rifle required manual reloading after each shot, sacrificing rate of fire for devastating single-shot power. Each bullet could fell an adult bull. Only such a weapon, paired with these rounds, could penetrate the steel diaphragms protecting the Iron Cross's vital organs at a hundred meters.
As the bolt closed with a crisp click, Rast fell silent.
His internal temperature rose in perfect proportion to his focus. His vision narrowed. The storm seemed to freeze, the rain ceased, and the world itself slowed to a crawl.
In these moments, Rast's mind merged entirely with his surroundings. Every raindrop, every shadow, every subtle vibration of the harbor—all of it became one with his consciousness.
This was the flow state, the same transcendence Hiltina had experienced with her Night Blade. But whereas Hiltina's mastery relied on supernatural control, Rast relied purely on centuries of experience, honed skill, and unerring precision.
He had partnered with this rifle for over two hundred years. The earliest sniper rifles in human history weren't even that old.
Because the cycles reset, Rast couldn't improve his body through conventional training. He could only refine his technique and mind, elevating them beyond any normal limits. For centuries, he had perfected skills to a level no ordinary human could hope to reach.
To a normal person, entering this state of absolute control might be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. For Rast, the mere sound of the chamber closing was enough to trigger it.
The rain fell silently. Time slowed. The rifle, the terrain, the world within his scope—all were extensions of his own will.
Trigger pulled.
The bullet left the barrel, a flash splitting the gray storm.
There's no hit marker in real life, no "ping" from a screen. Yet Rast knew. A sniper Iron Cross, somewhere in the rain at a hundred meters, had its heart pierced. The dull thud of a heavy body hitting the ground followed faintly through the downpour.
He rotated the rifle, reloaded the single-shot chamber, and fired again.
Six rounds passed like clockwork. Each one took down an Iron Cross sniper. Their screams echoed in even intervals, a chilling symphony in the storm.
After the sixth, Rast pivoted suddenly. A steel-core bullet tore through the plate behind him, missing by mere inches.
But mid-roll, he fired again—the seventh sniper was dead.
This wasn't a fair duel. The torrential rain had turned scopes into blindfolds. The seventh Iron Cross had relied on the sacrifices of the previous six to even locate him by sound.
Rast knew the rain would ease in a minute. Those remaining snipers would then become his deadliest threat. So he acted preemptively.
If this were a typical FPS game in his past life, such blind shots without visible targets would be flagged instantly as hacks. But Rast didn't rely on cheats. He relied on experience.
In previous cycles, he had reached the harbor over 8,000 times—and died over 8,000 times. This infinite repetition gave him knowledge of every weapon each Iron Cross carried, their movement patterns, and even the subtle effects of wind and rain on sniper ballistics at various times.
Though his scope seemed to see nothing, every detail of the harbor—every shadow, every obstacle—was etched into his mind. One bullet, one kill.
Rast had no supernatural "wallhack," yet in effect, he was far deadlier than any cheat could allow, because he calculated every trajectory, every wind drift, every drop of rain.