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Compared to the shopkeeper's warnings about the gun's flaws, Trens trusted his own instincts far more.
That feeling, the surge that coursed through him when the weapon first touched his hands, he had never experienced anything like it before. The moment he gripped it, his very soul quivered, his focus sharpening to a razor's edge.
'This is it… the gun with a one-hundred percent bond with me.'
Trens had no doubt.
"You… actually want that gun?" The shopkeeper froze, staring at him blankly.
He was an honest tradesman; deceiving customers had never been his way. Over the past weeks, more than a few people had asked about this strange weapon. Each time, he'd given the same explanation. A handful of skeptics had even insisted on testing it, only to leave bitterly disappointed.
"Do you want to try it first?"
"No need. How much?" Trens's answer was curt, resolute.
That sensation in his grip, that harmony, he knew this gun held something unique.
"Three thousand belly," The shopkeeper said hesitantly.
Without haggling, Trens pulled out the money, placed it on the counter, and hefted the rifle onto his shoulder before walking out.
He found a deserted clearing. There, he began his inspection.
As a seasoned marksman, Trens knew guns inside and out. With practiced ease, he disassembled and examined every component. When he was done, a smile curved his lips.
"All the parts are brand-new. Not a single flaw in the weapon itself."
The gun's barrel was a deep, lustrous black, carrying an air of mystery. The sniper scope mounted on top elevated it even further, transforming its potential into something extraordinary.
Though it resembled a lightweight rifle, Trens quickly realized otherwise. This was a new type of heavy rifle, its firepower alone was three to four times greater than an ordinary gun.
As for the scope, he pressed his eye against it, running test after test until he confirmed it.
"Incredible… this scope can pinpoint a target five thousand meters away."
Shock rippled through him. His respect for the weapon grew deeper still.
"The gun and the scope are flawless. Then what's the problem?"
His eyes narrowed. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"It must be the people."
He scoffed inwardly at the so-called sharpshooters the shopkeeper had mentioned. To Trens, their supposed talent was laughable. When it came to firearms, he could not believe there were many in this world who could surpass him.
It was the unshakable confidence of a master in his craft.
Raising the gun, he set himself. After the inspection, he already had a solid grasp of its handling.
"Test shot. Three hundred meters, to start."
His confidence brimmed.
Without even using the scope, he fixed his gaze ahead and squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
Three hundred meters away, a bird startled and took flight from a tree trunk.
Trens's eyes gleamed with thought. He checked the weapon again, carefully, but found no issue. This time, he pressed his eye to the scope. In three seconds, he had calibrated the reticle, adjusted for elevation, and measured the range.
And he fired with no hesitation.
Bang!
A leaf drifted down from the canopy above, and Trens's lips curved into a smile. At last, he understood.
Once more, he pulled away from the scope, judged the distance with his naked eye, and squeezed the trigger.
Crack!
Another leaf fluttered down.
Bullseye.
Rising to his feet, Trens wore a calm but certain grin.
This rifle was no "failure" as the shopkeeper claimed. It wasn't five hundred percent inaccurate; it was the opposite. Its accuracy was absolute. Not only was its raw performance superior to any ordinary firearm, its precision was unparalleled.
"The secret lies in the scope. Every shot must be calibrated through it. As long as you set the mils correctly, accuracy reaches one hundred percent."
His conclusion came swiftly, a testament to his mastery.
He ran further trials, each one confirming his theory. His smile widened with every test.
"One thousand meters, confirmed."
"Two thousand meters, confirmed."
"Three thousand five hundred meters, confirmed."
Breath steadying, Trens went prone, pressing himself against the earth.
"Next… the true test. Maximum range, five thousand meters."
It was a terrifying figure. Few weapons in the world could even hope to achieve such reach while still maintaining lethal force.
But this was only a test. Could the gun truly deliver at that distance? He wasn't certain. Even if the scope locked on, would the bullet still strike with killing power? That remained to be seen.
His expression hardened. This was no longer casual experimentation, it was focus at its sharpest edge.
He found a high platform overlooking the distance and set the rifle down. Carefully, painstakingly, he adjusted the sniper scope, calibrating it to the five-thousand-meter mark.
Through the glass, the far-off world was as clear as if it lay just steps away.
Trens drew a long, deep breath. He slowed his heartbeat, steadied his muscles, controlled every exhale. For a full minute, he adjusted his posture and breathing until body and weapon became one seamless whole.
Three minutes passed. Every fiber of his being was aligned, honed, perfect.
Then, silence. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Bang!
The shot boomed. Through the scope, a plume of dust erupted from a rock. A flower a full meter away trembled in the shockwave.
Trens exhaled and shook his head. He wasn't disappointed.
"Off by one meter… As expected, it's not easy."
After all, five thousand meters was a near-impossible challenge. To reach the gun's ultimate potential on the very first attempt was asking too much. Holstering the weapon, he turned back with a satisfied expression. Today's harvest had been more than enough.
Meanwhile, at Water 7's harbor, a ship drifted slowly to port.
A squad of men disembarked, faces cold, postures rigid, clad in sharp black suits that radiated menace.
At their head strode a man with cropped purple hair, a sharp nose, and heavy black rings under his eyes. His chin lifted arrogantly, as though the entire world were beneath him. Behind him, his subordinates matched his stride, all grim, all dressed in black.
The group halted the moment they touched land.
"Where is Tom?" The leader barked the question.
"At the shipyard, Commander Spandam. He hasn't left." A voice answered from behind.
Spandam snorted, disdain twisting his lips.
"Hmph. At least he knows better than to run. If he had, I'd be bringing back a corpse instead."
With that, he motioned, and his men led him toward the shipyard. But as they passed a flight of steps, a massive man came tumbling down, having slipped mid-bite on a chicken leg.
Spandam caught sight of him by chance, and his face instantly froze, contorted in shock.
(End Of This Chapter)