"The elimination round of the Marksman category is about to begin in five minutes. All participants, please proceed to your positions."
As the head judge announced the regulations, Quint, along with the other participants, walked to their assigned spots, a Beretta firmly in his hand. It was a Christmas gift from his father, given after he mastered all the basic shooting techniques in just six months.
"Why do you want to learn how to shoot?" His master had asked after his first weekend of training with his father.
Quint shrugged, casually cleaning the rifle—well, technically, it was Mr. Rauss's gun, lent to him for practice. "I just think it's an amazing skill. I mean… we can kill our enemies from afar," he answered matter-of-factly.
The teenage boy then looked up at his master with calm certainty. "Besides, you told me before to pick my weapon," he said, patting the gun in his hand. "I pick this. I thought it would be the best fit for my profound power too. Don't you think so, Master?"
His master nodded. "It is," he admitted.
Quint was right—his profound power played a significant role in making him a formidable sniper. His father had merely taught him the mechanics—how to hold the weapon properly, how to absorb the recoil, how to calculate wind speed and target movement, how to control his breathing, and so on. Most of it was just math and physics.
Fortunately, Quint was naturally good at math. For the first time, he actually found a practical use for all the calculations he had learned.
With a strong body, a sharp mind, and an innate ability to anticipate movement, Quint's progress was astonishing. Not only could he hit targets with pinpoint precision, but he could do it fast—so fast, in fact, that his father was left stunned.
Of course, Quint never told him the real reason.
He also never told his master that part of him just wanted to be closer to his father.
For years, Quint had longed to bond with him, but he never had a good excuse. Until now.
What Quint didn't realize was that his father also wanted to be closer to him. Since childhood, Quint had spent nearly all his time training with his master, leaving little opportunity for his father to connect with him. That was why, despite his tight schedule, Mr. Rauss made time to personally train Quint every weekend.
Every Saturday and Sunday, they drove to the hills outside the city for target practice. On weekdays, his master took him to the shooting range downtown, where Quint trained with unwavering dedication.
Yet, unbeknownst to him, his mother and master were uneasy about it.
They worried that Quint's focus might shift. If that happened… their plans for his future could be ruined.
"May I register for the Marksman category as well?" Quint had suddenly asked when his master was about to finalize his registration for that year's prodigy competition.
The man paused, his gaze thoughtful. "Sure. But participating in two categories will drain your energy… why would you want to do it?"
"If I can excel in more than one category, wouldn't that make me a better candidate for a soldier?" Quint replied.
His master considered this for a moment, then nodded. "True." But then, he turned to Quint and looked him in the eyes.
"Tell me, what kind of soldier do you want to be?"
Quint frowned, the question catching him off guard. "How many kinds of soldiers are there?" he asked. After all, he had only ever known military soldiers like his father.
His master smiled faintly. "Let me tell you…"
-
Unlike the Close Combat category, the Marksman category had no grade divisions—all participants competed in the same tier. There were only three rounds: the elimination round, the semifinal, and the final.
The elimination round was skeet shooting. Participants were divided into ten groups, each competing against the others by shooting as many airborne targets as possible. Some targets, however, had an X mark—shooting those would subtract points. Only the highest-scoring participant in each group would advance to the semifinal round.
It was Quint's turn now.
Three launch machines were positioned around the field—one on his left, one on his right, and one in the center. Each machine would fire targets at random heights and intervals.
Quint rested his Beretta on his shoulder. What he loved about this rifle, aside from how easily adjustable it was, was that it could fire two shots per cocking—giving him a better chance of hitting multiple targets in rapid succession.
The competition began.
A whirring sound came from the left machine. Quint immediately pivoted, aiming his rifle in that direction. A target—a stuffed bunny—was launched into the air.
His profound power activated instantly, marking the optimal hit point.
BANG!
Quint's shot struck the target just a meter from the machine's mouth.
+90 points.
The closer the target was hit to its launch point, the higher the score.
Quint remained calm and composed. His movements were smooth and precise, his steady breathing in sync with his rifle's rhythm. While his eyes tracked his profound's target marks, his ears 'saw' the next machine preparing to fire, detecting the faintest mechanical shifts.
With his enhanced spiritual power, he had trained his profound ability to recognize the X-marked targets as non-threats. Two weeks before the competition, he had specifically practiced filtering out anything marked with an 'X', ensuring he wouldn't accidentally shoot an incorrect target.
Then—two machines activated at once.
The difficulty had increased. Several competitors faltered, struggling to keep up with the escalating speed. But Quint remained unshaken.
He fired at the center target first. The moment the bullet hit, he shifted seamlessly, cocking his rifle, and shot the second target mid-air before it could descend.
A small section of the audience clapped instinctively, impressed by his effortless precision—but they were quickly hushed by others, afraid of disrupting the shooters' concentration.
The final two minutes.
At this stage, all three machines could fire simultaneously at any given moment.
Quint waited patiently, listening. He blocked out all distractions, tuning into the subtle mechanical signals of the launchers.
Then—all three activated at once.
Quint pivoted right first.
Three targets soared into the air.
BANG!—his first shot took down the right target.
+90 points.
BANG!—he swiftly turned to the center and fired again, this time hitting the target from the front.
+50 points.
The third target was seconds from hitting the ground.
BANG!—he cocked his rifle one last time, squeezing the trigger just in time to clip it before impact.
+10 points.
But then—a bonus notification flashed.
+100 points for a Clean Sweep.
The final buzzer sounded.
At the end of the elimination round, Quint's total score was 1,820 points—the highest in his group.
He was through to the semifinals.
-
It was the semifinal round. The ten participants who had made it this far were now competing in sniping. Each contestant had to shoot five objects, but before taking their shot, they had to determine the distance from which they would fire.
The scoring was simple:
If they hit the target, their score would be the distance × 100. If they missed, the penalty was distance × 200, doubling the risk.
The first target was a sack filled with an unknown material. It was large, making it an easy shot, so all participants confidently chose a distance of about 0.3 miles. As expected, every shot landed.
The second and third targets were progressively smaller—a baby doll and a book. Some participants reduced their shooting distance, playing it safe, while others—including Quint—maintained 0.3 miles. A few who had taken the risk missed, groaning in disappointment as their scores plummeted.
The fourth target was a beer can.
Now, almost everyone decided to shorten their range. Shooting something that small at 0.3 miles was nearly impossible—at that distance, a can was no bigger than a speck of dust.
Except Quint didn't move.
His refusal to shorten the range had the audience gasping. Some whispered that he was either bold or insane.
Then, the head referee stepped forward.
"There's a special surprise for this round," he announced.
Almost as soon as he spoke, a violent gust of wind howled through the field—followed by a torrential downpour.
The sudden artificial storm drenched the participants in seconds.
Quint barely twitched. His only response was a slight shake of the head before he turned his attention back to the target.
Since he hadn't changed position, he didn't need to readjust his rifle's alignment, but the wind and rain altered everything—the bullet's trajectory, velocity, and impact force would all be affected.
Quint adjusted his rifle's settings, attaching an extended barrel to stabilize the shot. He then lowered himself into a prone position, rifle pressed firmly against his chest.
His profound power locked onto the target, but the marker wasn't on the can itself—instead, it hovered a few inches above and to the left.
The wind was erratic but patterned—it stopped for precisely one second every 147 seconds.
Quint timed his breathing, waiting.
145... 146... 147...
BANG!
The bullet cut through the storm, slicing through wind and water droplets before piercing the beer can's body.
A direct hit.
The field erupted with reactions—some gasped, others shook their heads in disbelief.
Many of the other participants missed. The wind and rain had devastated their accuracy, and the frustration was clear on their faces. Worse yet, they all knew what was coming next—and their failures had left them at a disadvantage.
The final target was revealed—not an object, but living men.
Ten men were bound to poles at the end of the field, restrained but visibly struggling.
The head referee addressed the participants:
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you our final targets. These men are traitors, already sentenced to death. Your mission is not just to hit them—but to ensure a clean execution.
"If your shot fails to kill them, they will be executed immediately by our officers. So please, do not hesitate."
Some participants visibly recoiled, their expressions ranging from disbelief to regret. A few cursed under their breath, realizing they had miscalculated their shooting distance—if they had known, they would have chosen closer positions.
Others were frozen, hesitating at the reality of taking a life.
Quint's reaction was different.
His eyes narrowed slightly, but his lips curled into a faint smile.
Killing a man meant nothing to him.
It hadn't meant anything when he did it for the first time, and it certainly didn't now. However, even he was surprised that the competition was bold enough to openly order executions.
Quint lay flat on his chest, adjusting his rifle.
The surest way to kill a man was a headshot—but the bound prisoner knew that too. He was thrashing violently, shaking his head back and forth, making it difficult to aim for the kill spot.
Instead of wasting time waiting, Quint adjusted his focus.
The heart.
A single bullet to the chest would stop it instantly—quick, clean, efficient.
His breathing slowed.
His profound power marked the precise kill spot—right between the fifth and sixth rib, where the heart pulsed beneath.
BANG!
The man's struggles stopped instantly. His body went limp, head slumping forward.
Dead in one shot.
The referee confirmed the kill, marking Quint's score.
He was through to the final round.
-
The final round would be held the next day, but before that, all five remaining participants had to gather in the hall for the lottery draw that would determine their base locations. The final match would take place in a forest, where there were ten designated bases. Each participant would occupy one of these bases, while the other five locations would remain idle.
Quint drew Location F for his base.
The mission was to accumulate the highest number of points by shooting designated targets in the forest's center. However, there was a strict rule—participants could only shoot from inside their assigned bases. Any shot fired outside a base would be invalid. While switching bases was allowed, it had to be to one of the ten designated locations.
One of the most interesting rules was the ability to eliminate opponents by hitting the target on their helmets. If a participant was defeated, half of their accumulated points would be transferred to their eliminator. However, covering the helmet's target or removing it was strictly forbidden—violating this rule would result in a 1,000-point deduction.
As the head referee explained the rules, Quint's eyes remained fixed on the digital map displayed on the large screen. He focused intently, memorizing as many base locations as possible. Something told him he would need every detail.
Unfortunately, the map vanished from the screen too soon. He hadn't been able to memorize all ten locations. Quint sighed, but even remembering a few was better than nothing.
With that in mind, he calmly stood up and made his way to the equipment shop.
Participants had the option to upgrade their gear using the points they earned in the elimination and semifinal rounds. Available items included rifles, helmets, extra ammunition, chameleon gear, and various survival tools like water bottles, maps, matches, and other essentials.
Quint had over 3,000 points to spend, but to his mild surprise, everything aside from the standard gear was ridiculously expensive.
He had already bought extra ammunition, leaving him with a difficult choice—should he invest in a high-end helmet, which was super lightweight yet durable, or a rifle upgrade, which offered better steadiness and night vision capabilities?
The chameleon gear was out of the question. Too costly. Not worth it.
Just as he was weighing his options, a voice called out to him.
"You're Rauss, right?"
Quint turned to face the teenage boy standing nearby.
"And you are?" he asked.
The boy, probably two years older than him, had a friendly air—the type of person who could make anyone feel comfortable. He introduced himself before getting straight to the point.
"I saw you staring at the map earlier," the boy said. "I know you were trying to memorize the base locations. But let me guess… you didn't get all of them, did you?"
Quint didn't answer. Instead, he simply asked, "What do you want?"
"A barter," the boy said casually. "I only managed to memorize four locations. How many did you get?"
Quint gave a small shrug. He grabbed the helmet and scanned his ID card to confirm his purchase. "About the same," he replied vaguely. In truth, he had memorized seven.
"So, do you want to trade or not?" the boy pressed. "I know A, D, H, and J."
Quint paused for a moment. He was only missing B, D, and J.
"I already have A and H," Quint pointed out. "So that only gives me two new locations."
The boy nodded. "Then give me two in return—that way, it's fair."
Quint studied the boy carefully. He seemed genuine, but trust wasn't something Quint gave easily.
Still, after a brief moment of thought, he decided it was worth the trade.
Quint grabbed two maps, scanned his ID card again, and led the boy to a nearby bench. They sat down, each unfolding their maps.
"We mark the two locations we're trading, then swap maps," Quint instructed.
The boy agreed. They worked in silence, carefully marking the new base locations before exchanging maps.
"Pleasure doing business with you," the boy said with a grin, folding up his map.
Quint remained silent, folding his own map and standing up to leave.
"Actually," the boy called after him, "I have another offer for you."
Quint halted. "What is it?"
"You know the other three finalists are siblings, right?" the boy said.
Quint remained silent.
"This is their fourth time making it to the finals," the boy continued. "And every year, one of them wins—because they team up. They always eliminate the other competitors first, then fight amongst themselves for the victory."
Quint listened without showing a hint of emotion.
"I have the best location this time," the boy went on. "From my base, I can see almost every other base."
Quint's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then why do you need me?"
The boy smirked. "My long-range sniping is still limited. My position is too far to hit the targets."
"So, you want me to focus on the targets… while you take me out?" Quint cut to the chase.
The boy didn't deny it. "This is my last year in the competition," he admitted. "I need to win. With your skill, second place isn't bad, right?"
Quint stared at him for a long moment, considering his words.
Then he made his decision.
"Thanks for the offer," he said. "But I'll have to decline."
The boy's brows furrowed slightly. "Are you sure?"
Quint nodded. Without another word, he turned away, lifting a hand in a small wave.
"May the best man win."
The boy watched him go, but Quint's mind was elsewhere.
The offer had been tempting—second place in his first year in this category was already an achievement. The Marksman category had some of the best prodigies in the country, and the final round was brutal—real bullets, real danger, real consequences.
But then—
A memory surfaced.
A clear blue sky. A warm summer breeze.
Quint lay beside Mila, his breath still uneven from release. She crawled onto his chest, licking her lips after swallowing his seed.
She kissed him, then rolled onto her back, stretching like a lazy cat under the sun.
Quint watched her. Admired her.
Sensing his gaze, Mila opened her eyes.
"What's up, Bro?" she teased. "You want another round?" She poked his nose playfully.
Quint caught her finger, kissing it gently.
Mila sighed in content, closing her eyes again.
"Mila," he murmured.
"Hm?"
"When will you let me go inside you?"
Mila's eyes fluttered open.
She stared at the sky for a long moment before turning her gaze back to him.
She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
"When you win the Marksman category…" she whispered.
"I'll let you have me."