Chapter 5

Drake’s advance guard was three hours later than I’d anticipated. They came from the abandoned industrial zone nearby; ever since the power grids failed, they had turned looting and slaughter into their only industry. In my memory, the name "Drake" represented countless razed survivor outposts.

I lay prone in the dense woods five hundred meters from the fence, my reticle trained on the four shadows creeping along the forest path. They were staggeringly careless—despite carrying automatic rifles, they moved with the casual arrogance of people strolling through their own backyard.

This was exactly how I’d predicted them: arrogant. Raiders who hadn't yet been crushed by "dimensional warfare" always assumed they were the master of this scorched earth.

I didn't open fire immediately. In a hunting ground, bullets are the cheapest chips; layout is everything.

The lead brute—nicknamed "Iron Hook"—tripped the first trap. It was a pressure-sensitive plate I’d buried three hours ago. The moment the plate depressed, it triggered a spring-loaded array of jagged, rusted nails that punched straight through his lower leg.

"Aargh!" The scream shattered the forest's silence.

The remaining three fell into immediate chaos. Instead of taking cover, they instinctively clustered around their wounded comrade. This tactical stupidity was exactly what I wanted.

My sniper rifle remained silent—not out of mercy, but out of psychological warfare. Using electromagnetic coils I’d pre-installed on the surrounding tree trunks, I detonated a bundle of high-voltage battery packs I’d scavenged from the server room. They turned the wet earth into a massive, conductive electrode.

Violet-blue arcs surged through the underbrush, the ozone smell of burnt air filling the woods. Because the rain-soaked floor served as a perfect conductor, the three men were instantly caught in a monstrous electric field.

Their movements locked in terrifying synchronicity, their bodies seized by spasms that would curdle your blood. I didn't need to check if they were dead. I knew the price of being ruled by fear.

"Over there! In the trees!" One survivor finally spotted my reflection in the scope and sprayed a volley of frantic, blind gunfire toward my position.

But I was already gone. I’d set up a decoy using tree branches and camo netting precisely to lure them into the real fire pit. I shifted positions effortlessly, slithering through the mud like a viper in the pre-dug trench.

I had already mapped out their retreat route. They would naturally fall back, and I was already waiting for them there.

I flipped the switch in my hand. Dozens of canisters filled with a homemade mix of fertilizer and diesel ignited. The explosion wasn't a sharp pop, but a deep, oceanic roar that erupted into a five-meter-wide curtain of fire. It wasn't just flame—I had laced it with magnesium powder. The blinding white light rendered them visually incapacitated in an instant.

"Who’s there?! Come out!" Drake’s men stumbled through the inferno, overwhelmed by the sudden, suffocating heat.

I stood up, stepping out from the shadows like a phantom behind them. No shouting. No bravado. I simply pulled the trigger. The first shot shattered their leader’s communications headset; the second broke the wrist bone of the bastard trying to cycle his bolt.

This entire battle had unfolded exactly to my script. Their breathing frequency, their movement patterns, even their hesitation born of terror—everything was under my control.

In this wasteland age, if they were fighting with weapons, then I was passing judgment with the blood-soaked lessons of a lost generation.

Ten minutes later, the silence of the forest returned. All that remained were the crackling embers of the fire and the stomach-churning stench of gunpowder, charred flesh, and rust.

I walked up to "Iron Hook." He was still alive, staring at me in sheer terror. I crouched down, stripped the ammunition pack from his chest, and said coldly: "Tell Drake—you come within five hundred meters of this ranch again, and I won't be playing with fire. I’ll be harvesting souls."

I crushed the last ember near him under my boot and vanished into the darkness. Grandfather was already waiting for me at the secret tunnel entrance. He looked at me, covered in mud and the acrid smell of gunpowder, and in his eyes, there was no surprise—only a profound, solemn validation.

We had won. But this was only the beginning. I knew that the lunatic Drake wouldn't stop because a scout team disappeared. He would bring even more madness, and he would bring it directly into the heart of my fire.