Gun’s name was well-earned.

Technically, he was Gunnar Lindstrom, but even going back to his middle school days when he’d preferred to spend his days out in the woods and hunting whatever he could find, everyone had called him Gun. It was fitting, considering his immense talent as a marksman.

Or obsession, as had been the accusation from almost every girlfriend he’d ever had. They would complain about the hours he spent at the range, all the times he’d leaped at whatever opportunity the Corps dangled in front of him, and the days he spent in the dark thinking about all the people he had killed in the line of duty.

One-twelve.

And that was before the world had changed. Since then, the toll had grown much steeper – to the point where he’d lost count. Four digits, certainly. Maybe five. For the most part, they’d all been bad people. Or that was what he’d been told, at least. As far as he was concerned, it was easy to disconnect himself from the act. It was just a job, and one at which he had always excelled. In that way, he was no different from a carpenter who took pride in the things he built. Or an electrician who enjoyed the feel of a perfect circuit coming together.

In short, he was a professional, and that was the case even before he’d joined the Marines and started getting paid to shoot people.

So, the shortened version of his given name was more than appropriate.

Of course, when the world had changed, things had initially looked bleak. He’d eagerly taken the Ranger archetype, thinking that it would only assist him in his role as a rifleman. If there was any archetype that fit a Marine Scout Sniper, it was the Ranger. However, he was quickly annoyed when he’d found that his trusty rifle had been seriously depowered. Sure, because of its high-powered nature, it could still penetrate the thick hides of the monsters that came with the world’s transformation. But that wasn’t saying much, given the stopping power of a Mk13.

Even when he’d gone to the armory to retrieve the Barrett M107 he used for specific missions – usually when the task called for equipment destruction or for incredibly long-range shots – he’d found that it wasn’t much more effective than the Mk13. And that was a rifle meant for destroying engine blocks and shooting through concrete walls.

Still, it gave him a leg up on most people, and the M107 lasted him until he reached level ten and received his Marksman class. That, in turn, allowed him to infuse each round with extra power via a handful of skills. Even then, it worked better with a crossbow or bow, which he later learned was due to firearms’ reliance on combustion, which was far weaker than it had been before the world’s transformation.

He continued to use his rifle, though. It got the job done, which was all that mattered. And he’d be damned if he switched over to using a bow like some of the men in his platoon. That had turned out to be a mistake, largely because it ignored much of the training they’d received.

Most of them had died.

Gun mourned them like the brothers they were, but in his experience, death was just a part of war. Gut-wrenching when it happened, but unavoidable. He’d developed coping strategies to deal with the aftermath of losing his brothers-in-arms. Those were put to the test as, one after another, his entire battalion fell until he was the only one left.

It had taken a year.

A single year to completely obliterate one of the world’s elite fighting forces. That, more than anything, told Gun just how much the world had changed, and he’d been forced to use every skill he’d learned in his youth as well as during his military training to survive.

Still, even then, he knew he was hamstringing himself.

He clung to the old ways well into the forties when he realized that his firearms just couldn’t keep up. If he kept at it, he knew he’d end up just like all his brothers. That was when he received his first system rifle.

It was a reward from a completed tower, and it had changed everything. He still remembered it fondly even though he’d long since moved on to better versions. Black Death, it was called, and it was like something out of a science fiction move. And not a good one – the sort that valued realism – but rather something far less concerned with plausibility. As a result, it was sleek and rounded and only vaguely resembled a real rifle.

Yet, once Gun got used to using it – channeling ethera through it rather than squeezing a trigger – he became deadlier than ever before. Back then, he’d been on the cusp of the top ten, but that weapon sent him surging ahead. He never climbed higher than number nine on the power rankings, but he didn’t concern himself with that.

Much.

Sure, his competitive nature told him it mattered, but what counted even more was his effectiveness on the field of battle. And while the range of Black Death left a lot to be desired – it wasn’t much use beyond a hundred yards – it had plenty of stopping power.

That wasn’t the real value of the item, though. It wasn’t just a weapon. It was an example, which became abundantly clear when he met the leader of Seattle. Back then, Isaiah Roberts was struggling to keep order in a city on the verge of collapse, but that didn’t stop him from seeing a vision of the future. He studied Black Death and a few weeks later, came to Gun with an improved prototype.

He called it the Mark 1 Ethera Rifle.

Gun called it perfect.

Certainly, it wasn’t a flawless creation. It had so many issues that it was only barely better than Black Death, which had progressively become more and more outdated. But it felt right in his hands. Like having his old service weapon again.

Gun took that weapon into the Trial of Primacy, and it proved just as much of a game changer as he’d hoped it would be. With it, his range was improved as well as his stopping power. He never concerned himself with the challenges, preferring to leave that nonsense to others. Instead, he focused on killing as many powerful creatures as he could find.

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So, he didn’t get any system rewards, but he didn’t really need them, either. He gained quite a few levels along the way, and what’s more, he came back to Earth with a bunch of ideas about how to improve the rifles. Together with Isaiah’s Engineers, they came up with one iteration after another, constantly refining the rifles until they’d perfected a design.

That was when Isaiah implemented his plan to arm the entire city’s guard. Barely any of them had appropriate classes, but there was enough variability in the modular design to accommodate Sorcerers and Rangers. For the latter, they were basically just wands with a more familiar casing, meaning that they shot a bolt of ethera that could be modified to epitomize any of the four elements or more neutral ethera. But for Rangers, the guns shot actual projectiles.

For his part, Gun could use either to decent effect – an advantage of his class and, eventually, his specialization. And when he finally reached the point of evolution, his new class – Arcane Assassin – meant that if a weapon shot, he could use it. He was even handy with a wand if the need arose.

Of course, the real benefit of the rifles was that anyone could use them to at least a minimum degree of effectiveness. Even non-combat classes could channel ethera, which meant that the size of Seattle’s Militia had grown by leaps and bounds. Certainly, a Tradesman would never stand up to a Warrior of equal level and cultivation, but the rifles certainly stood to even the playing field.

Warriors could even use them, though they were also armed with cudgels that were effectively a combination of bludgeoning weapons and shock batons. They also got heavier armor and riot shields, meaning that they could serve their purpose quite well by fighting on the front lines.

In all, the shift to technological weaponry – as they referred to it – was a great boon to Seattle’s climb to the top.

Not that Gun really cared about that. Once, he might’ve been afflicted with the disease of patriotism, but the United States of America no longer existed. And thus, his loyalty was entirely up for auction. So long as someone paid him – which Isaiah always did – then he was entirely devoted to the mission. If they failed to remit payment, then things would get ugly.

Things were much simpler that way.

The last thing he wanted was to grow attached to another ideal that would shatter the second the world changed. He’d been there once, and he had no interest in revisiting that reality.

Of course, a lot of time had passed since the flurry of innovation around the rifles. Years, in fact. And since then, Gunnar had continued to climb the ladder, reaching level one-sixty-five as of only the week before. In addition, he’d managed to make progress with his cultivation, reaching tier two in every category – an unheard-of amount of development that he knew put him in the realm of elites.

It wasn’t enough, though.

Gun had always been the most effective predator around, and if he wanted to stay that way, he needed to continue pushing. After all, there weren’t just powerful beasts afoot. There were also monsters in human form like those who’d stood atop the power rankings so long ago.

Gun had memorized their names. Oscar Ramirez. Elijah Hart. Sadie Song. Hu Shui. Niko Song. Davu Adebowale. Anupriya Pandey. Benedict Emerson. And Ram Khandu.

Doubtless, some of them had fallen since then, but Gun wouldn’t be happy until he’d surpassed them all. He knew he had a long way to go, but he also knew he had the wherewithal to manage the journey. He was special. He always had been. And it was up to him to work hard enough to ensure that he reached his potential.

That was why he was lying atop a sandstone boulder in the prone firing position, his rifle pointed at what looked like a barren stretch of desert. It wasn’t. There was more going on in that small half acre than anyone else could have imagined.

Not only was the ground covered with the blood of desert lizards, but there were plenty of surprises for the unwary.

Like the monster lurking beneath the ground.

Gun had been tracking it for weeks. He’d come upon the caravans it had destroyed, the towns it had terrorized, and the herds of hardy desert goats it had devoured. From all reports, the thing wasn’t just a singular threat, either. If it was allowed to reach full maturity, the pest – called a thumper, according to the guides he’d read – would rapidly multiply until one became thousands. If left unchecked, the entire desert would be overrun by the creatures.

That was why he’d been sent to hunt it.

He didn’t move a muscle. Thumpers were incredibly sensitive, and if he shifted even an inch, it would know. And that might ruin the trap he’d laid. Worst case scenario, it would flee, and all his effort would have been wasted. He’d prefer if it attacked. At least then he’d have a chance to end it without spending more time stalking the damned thing.

So, he remained motionless.

Hours passed. Then, just before the sun started to set, he saw motion. It was a shift in the sand, but it was precisely what Gun had been waiting for. At first, the rippling earth was subtle. Exploratory. But soon enough, the thumper took the bait.

It erupted from the ground in all its insectile glory. Resembling a mole cricket, the creature was a horrifying sight to behold – largely because it was the size of an African elephant. It was also equipped with huge, shovel shaped claws that, from the stories he’d heard, Gun knew could bisect a person without issue.

The thing whipped around, clearly confused by the lack of prey.

Then, Gun’s trap activated. He’d meticulously laid the groundwork in the form of nine portable nodes that, when combined, would create a domain-like effect. They weren’t perfect, and they didn’t even come close to rivaling even the lowest level domain. However, the field of weakness they created was just the edge Gun needed.

He took a deep breath, sighting in. With Sense Weakness, he knew precisely where to aim – just behind the thing’s thorax, where its armored chitin wasn’t as thick. And because of his long experience, his hands were steady.

He used Ethereal Shot, sending energy surging through the latest iteration of the rifle. The Mark Seventeen. Then, he used Armor Piercing. Crippling Shot. And then, at last, Assassinate.

Together, the layered abilities created a truly devastating level of power.

He squeezed the trigger.

The weapon kicked hard enough that it would have dislocated a mortal’s shoulder. He absorbed it easily, watching through his scope as the discharge – a huge round that weighed at least half a pound – slammed into the thumper, obliterating the thing’s thorax and nearly ripping it in half.

Calmly, Gun mentally triggered Reload, conjuring another round into the weapon’s chamber. A second later, he activated Ethereal Shot – the other abilities were on cooldown – and fired again. This time was far less effective, due to a combination of problems. Not least of which was the thing’s thick armor, but his weapon’s inferior stopping power was an issue as well.

For the next five minutes, he put one round after another into the creature.

The first might have killed it – eventually. But it would have taken hours for it to die. And he wanted to end its suffering well before that. So, he kept going until, at last, he felt a surge of experience.

Not as much as he might have liked. The system didn’t seem to care for him using traps he didn’t make himself, which cut down his reward. However, it was still enough to send him closer to the next level.

More importantly, he’d fulfilled his contract. So, he picked himself up, dusted himself off, and headed to the site of execution. As he did, there were only two things on his mind – reaching the top and getting the next version of his rifle. Everything else was just noise.