Miles' shooting skills?
To put it mildly, they could be summarized in four words: better left unsaid.
As Lisa put it, "Don't worry, Master. You're an ability user. As long as you continue enhancing your powers, you won't even need a gun."
Even Ryan couldn't suppress a laugh.
Miles' "random shooting" wasn't just random—it was the pinnacle of chaos. Aim east, hit west—he had redefined accuracy in the most hilarious way possible.
"I'm done with guns!"
Miles gritted his teeth, hung up the communicator, and pulled out another snow crawler from his spatial space. Ryan hopped in and drove toward Isaac's location.
On the way, Ryan familiarized himself with the new vehicle's controls, chuckling. "Miles, how much stuff do you even have stashed away?"
"I haven't really counted," Miles replied lazily, reclining in the backseat with his legs crossed. "But there aren't too many of these modified vehicles left—only about a dozen or so."
He wasn't lying. Back at the South Logistics Hub, he had stumbled upon a warehouse filled with modified vehicles. These snow crawlers were originally intended for northern expeditions, but fate had other plans—they ended up in his inventory instead.
After about half an hour, they arrived at the gates of a desolate factory district.
Isaac's vehicle was parked by the entrance, its body covered with deep scratches, evidence of being attacked with sharp objects. Thankfully, the vehicle was durable; an ordinary car would have been totaled.
"Miles, you're here!"
Isaac stepped out of his vehicle, followed by three others. Miles vaguely recognized them—they were likely residents of Cloud Top City as well.
Isaac's fatal flaw was his unrelenting compassion.
While the three men were robust enough, they'd likely be liabilities rather than assets in a confrontation with a super zombie. It was clear Isaac had brought them along to share food rations—a classic act of charity.
Miles didn't bother to comment. People made their own choices; his job was to ensure they didn't drag him down.
"Miles, sir," the three men greeted him with a respectful bow.
Clearly, Isaac had warned them beforehand. A few weeks ago, these same people would have rushed at Miles without a second thought.
"Where are they?"
Ignoring the trio, Miles scanned the area.
The factory was a large industrial complex housing two to three thousand workers and their families. He wondered how many had survived.
Isaac pointed toward a ten-story office building. "They're holed up in there. Besides the 'Thirteen Fiends,' there are over three hundred factory workers and their families still inside."
"Let's take them down!"
Without hesitation, Miles strode forward, Ryan close behind.
"Wait! Miles, be careful—they have guns!"
Isaac stomped his foot, rushing to catch up. The three men trailed reluctantly behind, their movements slow and hesitant.
Ryan glanced back and sneered, "Isaac, your bleeding heart is going to get us all killed. Look at them—they're clearly just here to freeload. Why even bring them?"
Ryan had once shared Isaac's idealistic views, believing himself to be a savior of the world. But after joining Miles, his perspective had changed. Seeing the ugliness of humanity up close had extinguished his misplaced compassion.
Isaac sighed, glancing at Miles' back. "They're neighbors, Ryan. If freeloading gets them through another day, so be it. Everyone's just trying to survive."
Who wasn't?
Miles smirked derisively, overhearing their exchange as they approached the office building.
The lower two floors were buried under thick snow and ice, with weak firelight flickering from a third-story window that had been broken and converted into an entrance.
Miles stopped at the entrance and turned to the three men. "You three, go knock."
"What?"
The men froze, instinctively stepping back, their faces pale with fear.
"M-Miles, sir…" one stammered, "they're ruthless. They've already killed one of us…"
"And?"
Miles' tone was icy as he stared them down. "The roasted chicken—did it taste good? The lamb? Did you enjoy having a full meal every day?"
Each question landed like a hammer blow. The three hung their heads in shame.
They knew full well that all the food came from Miles. Without him and his zombie-clearing squad, they would have starved long ago.
When Isaac joined Miles, the three had lost their primary source of labor. Desperate, they had shamelessly begged Isaac for help.
But Miles was no Isaac. He had neither the patience nor the inclination to coddle them.
"One word: go or don't."
The men exchanged nervous glances before reluctantly stepping forward. They knew angering Miles was a death sentence.
"P-people inside… come out!"
They stammered at the entrance, their voices trembling.
"Bastards! You've got a death wish coming back here!"
A voice roared from inside, and moments later, a group of burly men emerged.
Each was heavily bundled in thick coats and armed with gleaming machetes.
"Augus, don't kill them!"
"Augus" grinned wickedly, his blade flashing. "You're all dead meat for showing your faces here!"
The three men fled, screaming for Miles' help.
Miles ignored them, his attention on the man leading the group.
Augus sneered, pointing his blade at Miles. "You think being called 'boss' means something here? You're as good as dead. Get them!"
Miles stepped forward, brushing Isaac aside as he tried to intervene.
"Let him come."
Miles smiled faintly, his eyes never leaving Augus.
The man lunged, his machete swinging with deadly intent.
But Miles shifted ever so slightly, and the blade swished harmlessly through the air.
Off balance, Augus stumbled and fell, sprawling awkwardly in the snow.
He scrambled to his feet, glaring at Miles. "Not bad, but you're dead meat now!"
Miles crossed his arms, smirking. "Your mouth stinks—were you raised on garbage?"
"Die!" Augus roared, charging again.