Candidate: R@mb0_ELIMINATED
[Achievement: First Blood]
120 XP Acquired
A lone gunshot. One life taken.
The bullet went clean through the sniper's head, forcing his neck to jerk backward violently from the impact’s whiplash. Blood splattered in a wide arc, painting the air red alongside Stellan's face, who stood frozen, yet to process the shock rippling through him. He'd had no intention to shoot, nor any belief that the revolver chamber held a bullet, but the probabilities he'd calculated did not align with reality, creating a point-blank shot that reverberated through the wide interior like thunder.
The sniper's body crumpled to the dusty floor in a heavy thud; motionless, lifeless, settling into death. His expression remained one of struggle with eyes wide and unseeing, but the hole in his forehead proved otherwise. Stellan felt his grip on the revolver loosening, his fingers going numb, leading it to fall to the floor with a metallic clack that made him wince from the disgust of his unintended action. He covered his mouth with his trembling palm, whether it was to shout for forgiveness or to suppress the rising bile in his throat was unclear even to him. He couldn't believe what had just happened.
He'd killed someone, and no amount of remorse could change that.
But he had no time to recover, no time to grieve or think.
Upon hearing the gunshot echo, the two raiders who'd been waiting near the entrance hurriedly ran toward his location, boots pounding increasing louder the more they closed in. He then scrambled, dropping to his knees to grab his revolver, but his shaky hands fumbled with the grip, making it difficult as his heartbeat thundered louder from the guilt, pounding in his ears, almost deafening the gunshots that blared above him.
He had no time. He had to move, and eventually he did.
He lunged forward and dashed in a straight line, his eyes never wavering from the path ahead. He didn't check corners, didn't scan for threats, he just ran and ran, trying desperately to outrun the consequences of his actions, to discover a mental escape.
He wasn't far from where the two remaining pursuers were, but fear gave his legs unnatural speed with terror fueling him. He lunged and dashed in cowardly desperation, ignoring the bullets that were whizzing past him, grazing his legs and sides with burning stings. It didn't matter, didn't register, since his mind was consumed by the weight of the sin he'd committed.
"He got Rambo!" the dual-wielding raider shouted, skidding to a halt where the corpse lay sprawled, his face contorting in disbelief with shock and horror mixing. Unable to comprehend that his comrade who he'd shared rations with just a few hours earlier, was now wallowing in a growing pool of his own blood, lifeless.
The rifleman was different, however. He passed by his comrade without breaking stride, barely glancing at the corpse of his friend as he gave chase with a determined focus. Firing several rounds in the perpetrator's direction, muzzle flashes lighting up. The bullets hit only rusted metal and empty air, ricocheting off appliances.
Stellan still ran, the blood in his legs pumping. Fortunately, the room seemed neverending, it was an odd circumstance to be grateful that his memory had betrayed him, that reality was warped. But his thoughts remained muddled with guilt, the image burned in his mind, until one of the shots from the rifleman found its mark, slamming into the back of his shoulder.
Candidate Name: Castellan Moss/_Dandy628
Gray 1-Star ★
Health: 24.9/50
Mana: 25/25
Essence: 10/100
Experience: 145/100 [ Promotion Available! ]
Status:
→ Bleeding (5:32 minutes left)
Health will continue to decrease until the timer counts down.
Immediate aid is recommended.
The sensation was excruciating, hot. The bullet lodged deep underneath near his left armpit, sending waves of agony radiating through his chest. The reminder of his character panel floating in his vision did nothing to ease his predicament, just blaring cold winding numbers. Yet he continued to run despite the bullets barely missing him in the background, before he started to slow down, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he barely regained some semblance of focus. He twisted his footing sharply, bending toward another corner of lined fridges that provided enough cover to shield him temporarily from view.
He couldn't cover the bleeding with his right hand since it was still clutching the recently fired revolver.
So he pushed through the pain.
It was the most intense agony he'd experienced in his lifetime, weakening both his body and his resolve, making him search desperately for a better location to hide, somewhere safe. He jerked his neck left and right frantically. The gunshots were still echoing, and the pounding footsteps and shouted threats grew nearer and nearer. Deciding that he couldn't run anymore due to his wound, that his body was failing, he made the only choice he had.
And that was to make a last stand, hoping that his dwindling luck was still enough for him to pull through somehow.
He then jogged unsteadily to one of the fridges. It was modern, sleek, the kind he'd seen in TV commercials back home. The design was mostly made out of plastic, showcasing the pride of modern appliances in its glossy finish. But it was the only cover he could reach, a far better option compared to the Victorian-styled toilet that was oddly placed nearby, its vintage porcelain looking absurdly out of place in this surreal landscape.
He leaned heavily against the back of the fridge for cover, using it for support. His breathing became ragged and torn, each inhale sending fresh spikes of pain through his shoulder. His mind was ringing with alarms, warning signals firing, and his emotions warred with each other, unable to decide which to feel first; fear, guilt, or desperate determination.
But there was one sensation that cut through the chaos and forced him to focus; the pain, sharp and unrelenting, as blood gushed even more freely, soaking through and staining his corporate sleeves dark crimson.
Candidate Name: Castellan Moss/_Dandy628
Gray 1-Star ★
Health: 24.9/50
Mana: 25/25
Essence: 10/100
Experience: 145/100 [ Promotion Available! ]
Status:
→ Bleeding (4:49 minutes left)
Health will continue to decrease until the timer counts down.
His panel continued to blare its warning, the numbers steadily ticking downward in a spiral. He had no first aid equipment in hand, no supplies, nor anything suitable to use as a bandage to stop the flow. But soon enough, his eyes darted to his shaky hand that was gripping the revolver, slowly focusing on the ring Terry had given him, the one from the execution he'd witnessed earlier, the metal catching dim light.
He tried to remember the sensation, how it had felt before. His life depended on it. Then he remembered Terry's advice, to visualize the right words for his inventory to appear, to focus. Upon doing so, the ring activated with a faint hue of light, pulsing gently as it showed him his options slowly, the interface appearing.
Candidate_Dandy628
Gray 1-Star ★
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Inventory:
→ Lesser Mana pill 3x
→ Newbie handbook 1x
→ Lesser Health pill 3x
→ Poor man's rations 2x
He hurriedly summoned the only thing he thought would help him in his dire situation, focusing his will.
[ Summon → Lesser Health pill 1x ? ]
Instantly, the item appeared in his palm, materializing out of thin air in defiance of gravity, its weight settling gently. It was a pill, an unassuming one, lightly tinted in red with a circular shape, slightly bigger than his thumb.
Its surface was grainy with a rough texture, and it smelled like a pungent mixture of herbs and spices that was just pleasant enough to tolerate. He didn't know how to use this item properly. For a brief moment, he considered whether to grind the pill with his revolver's handle and apply the particles to his oozing wound, or pop it whole like a capsule in the hopes that it would help.
But seeing that his situation didn't allow him the luxury of experimentation, he instinctively popped it into his mouth, grimacing as the horrendously bitter taste flooded his senses, coating his tongue. Yet the result was almost immediate and desirable, warmth spreading through his chest, making him feel mildly better than before as the edges of pain slowly dulled.
Candidate Name: Castellan Moss/_Dandy628
Gray 1-Star ★
Health: 24.9/50
Mana: 25/25
Essence: 10/100
Experience: 145/100 [ Promotion Available! ]
Status:
→ Bleeding (14:58 minutes left)
Health will continue to decrease until the timer counts down.
Consumed:
→ Lesser Health pill 1x
→ Health + 20
Caution: Visit a healer for full treatment.
Low grade pills are not recommended for curing status ailments.
His problem still persisted, far from being solved. He did feel that his pain was lessening, the sharp edge dulling to a manageable throb, but he still needed something to cover his wounds properly, to stop the bleeding that continued seeping through his fingers. But he had no time for that. As soon as he'd fully digested the pill, he heard the commotion and footsteps, deadly close to where he hid, the sound of boots ominously crunching on debris.
"It's no use hiding!" shouted the rifleman, his voice ragged, breath tested from the relentless chase. But it had yielded a result.
He was unknowingly close to Stellan, who pressed his back harder against the fridge and kept his breath muffled, trying not to make a single sound that would give away his position.
Yet even with his attempt at concealment, it was no use once the raider who wielded dual pistols arrived, his footsteps heavy and confident.
"Find him!" the rifleman ordered sharply, which was quickly followed by the dual wielder, who raised one hand and activated his skill with a whispered incantation.
< Tracks & Prints >
A non-offensive skill that belonged to the Emanation genus. Able to recreate the last moments of a location for the past thirty seconds, projecting ghostly images of recent movement. It was a limited-use skill since most well-trained trackers based their deductions on keen insight and experience, so it was better suited for those who had no tracking knowledge at all. It was also a costly skill, expending a decent amount of mana for relatively little return, making it one of the outdated and underused skills from this genus.
Though as inefficient as it was, it was enough for the dual wielder to locate their intended target. Once his eyes swept across the modern fridge where Stellan was hiding, the vision replayed in his mind like a spectral recording, showing Stellan's desperate dash and his dive behind cover in a slow mental replay.
He then gestured to his comrade, twitching his neck sharply in the direction, eyes gleaming as he signaled that their target was now trapped in a corner with nowhere to run.
The rifleman nodded curtly and proceeded to stride to the side, moving carefully as he positioned himself behind the arrays of furniture. This would give them an opening where they could pincer their target from both sides, a simple yet deadly tactical advantage. Intending to circle Stellan, who was still unaware of their coordinated plan.
But he was also brewing up a desperate tactic of his own even with his mind racing. He removed his corporate suit jacket, which had experienced more abuse and labor in these past hours than in its entire lifetime, crumpling the bloodied fabric in his trembling hands before steeling himself to take action.
The moment was tense, suffocating. Each side swallowed nervously in this standoff, muscles coiled tight like springs ready to snap.
The pursuers grew cautious toward Stellan, exchanging wary glances as the rifleman took position. They believed that he was more skilled than they'd initially thought him to be, reassessing him, since one of their comrades who was far more skillful than both of them combined,had been killed instantly right under their noses without them even realizing the danger until it was too late.
This in turn made them more anxious, their fingers hovering over the triggers of their weapons, both men waiting for the perfect moment to unleash hell.
The modern fridge, which stood as the only cover Stellan had, was the thin divider between his life and certain death. He then checked his revolver with shaking hands, his fingers still trembling but making quick work of inspecting the remaining bullets in the chamber, carefully lining them up so that by the time he needed to shoot, the hammer would fall on a loaded chamber. His crude improvisation was the only plan his panicked mind could conjure. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly, trying to better hear the scuffing of footsteps in the dust, to determine if his pursuers were closing in or something else.
He didn't know that the rifleman was also lying in wait, coiled and ready, just waiting for him to make the first move, to expose himself.
Which soon, he did.
He shoved the fridge with all his remaining strength, sending it toppling into a vertical fall. He timed his movement perfectly, using the crash as the plastic and metal hit the floor to cover his charge, the cacophony of noise surprising the dual wielder who hadn't expected such bold aggression was caught off guard.
But the next instant made the dual wielder's inexperience show in glaring detail. Stellan, with no other plan in mind and running purely on adrenaline, threw his bloodied corporate suit jacket high into the air like a matador's cape, a last method of improvising.
The dual wielder's frayed nerves betrayed him,he opened fire on the flying fabric at several intervals, bullets punching through the cloth uselessly. This was a fortunately foolish reaction that Stellan capitalized on immediately, seizing the opportunity.
He launched himself from behind the fallen fridge, lunging forward with desperate speed while the panicking dual wielder realized his mistake too late.
Mid-firing, the raider swung his aim toward the approaching Stellan, whose face twisted in a grimace of pain from the wound burning beneath his armpit.
Dual-wielding looked cool in the movies, stylish and badass, but in reality it needed someone with a deep understanding of gunmanship and countless hours of training to pull it off effectively; an understanding which the dual wielder clearly did not possess. When he frantically shot in Stellan's direction, his aim was wild and uncontrolled.
One of the bullets clipped Stellan's right earlobe, tearing through the soft flesh and creating a hole that his mother would absolutely scold him for if he ever made it home.
Another shot slid past his left side, grazing it with a burning line of pain as the bullet's path tore through the cloth of his shirt, leaving a scorched trail. This sequence of failed shooting was exactly the opening that Stellan needed, the break he'd been hoping for. In one fluid motion born of desperation, he hurled his revolver with every ounce of strength he had left, the weapon spinning through the air before connecting solidly with the dual wielder's chin with a sickening crack, bone meeting metal. The revolver then clattered to the floor near where the man stood, and he staggered backward, stars exploding in his disoriented vision.
Before he could recover, Stellan closed the distance and executed a single-leg takedown, strikingly similar to the one Terry had used on him earlier, the technique was seared into his memory, mimicking it. The mixture of shock, pain, and disorientation made the dual wielder easy to capture, his defenses completely compromised. Moving quickly, Stellan punched him hard in the jaw once more for good measure, feeling bone crunch beneath his knuckles.
He then grabbed the left pistol, wrenching it from the man's weakened grip. The handarm discharged a loose shot that punched into the ceiling, raining down dust and debris.
This was followed by Stellan seizing the right pistol, prying it forcefully from the raider's other hand with rough determination fueled by adrenaline. In one continuous motion, he slipped his right arm around the man's throat in a rear naked choke, applying pressure to cut off blood flow. His left arm, which continued to ooze blood, took the pistol and pressed the barrel firmly against the dual wielder's temple,. He lodged his unoccupied forearm across his captive's neck for extra leverage, the two of them locked together in a reckless, desperate struggle for survival.
