"Inhale... Hold... Don't shake, John. By God, don't shake."

  John Foster chanted his personal mantra. Not a magic spell like Lord Rajendra’s, but a nerve-calming mantra he learned while lying prone for three days in the mud of the Fog Swamps.

  Name: John Foster. Rank: Sergeant. Age: Just turned 24.

  In Fort Rivermarsh, his name was respected—or rather, feared—among enemies. They called him the "Ghost of the Fog."

  His record was clean and terrifying.

  He was the man who shot dead a Southern Rebel General from a distance of two and a half kilometers during a sandstorm.

  He was the man who could shoot the wings off a dragonfly mid-flight without damaging its body.

  The modified long-barreled Bolt-Action rifle on his back was an extension of his life.

  But now? In this Sagara Temple courtyard?

  He felt like a child lost in a lion's den.

  "Excuse me... Sorry... Permission to pass, Sir..."

  John walked through the crowd of Black Keep and Fort Rivermarsh Knights. His slender body, devoid of thick armor, looked starkly contrasting amidst the iron-clad giants.

  He had to step carefully, avoiding explosion craters and puddles of black void fluid.

  His heart pounded fast, not from fear of monsters, but fear of who stood before him.

  He reached the front line.

  There stood Lenn Dyora. His commander.

  The woman stood tall with twin rapiers still hissing blue energy. Her gaze was sharp as a razor.

  When Lenn turned and looked at him, John felt his knees go weak.

  "Sergeant Foster," Lenn called flatly. Coldly.

  John instantly straightened his back, performing a military salute with movements so stiff and locked they looked ridiculous.

  "Y-Yes! Present, Commander!" his voice cracked slightly at the end. Nervous to death.

  Lenn Dyora was a goddess of war for Fort Rivermarsh soldiers. Receiving a direct gaze from her was enough to make John want to faint. He was afraid of disappointing the woman. He feared one missed shot would shame the entire battalion.

  "Focus," Lenn ordered briefly, then looked back ahead.

  "Y-Yes!"

  John exhaled, trying to calm himself. But his mental trial wasn't over.

  Beside Lenn stood a more intimidating figure.

  Wang Leiyin.

  Heir of Black Keep. The Northern Serpent.

  The man was large, holding a giant Karpharah sword still dripping black blood. The aura radiating from him was so hot and dominant, as if he were a small sun in the middle of a cold night.

  Wang Leiyin turned slowly. His sharp eyes met John’s.

  Thump.

  John held his breath.

  Wang Leiyin’s charisma was so heavy. There was an authority of high noble descent making John, a swamp-edge farmer's son, feel incredibly small. It felt like an ant being stared down by a dragon.

  "So this is the sniper?" Wang Leiyin’s voice was heavy, rumbling in John’s chest.

  John could only nod stiffly, his mouth locked tight from nervousness. His hands holding the rifle strap sweated cold.

  "Don't miss, Kid," Wang Leiyin grinned thinly—a terrifying yet motivating grin. "Or I will throw you into that monster's mouth myself."

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  John swallowed. "Y-Yes, My Lord!"

  He hurriedly averted his gaze forward, avoiding the stares of the two giants.

  In front of him, the five-handed Alpha monster was frozen stiff, plastered with dozens of Rajendra Sagara’s yellow talisman papers.

  John’s task was simple. But crucial.

  The sword knights couldn't approach because the monster's void aura was too thick and corrosive in its dying state. They needed a long-range executioner.

  They needed a Karpharah bullet piercing exactly the heart core protected by shadow ribs.

  John lowered his long rifle from his back.

  When his palm touched the cold and familiar wooden rifle stock... a miracle happened.

  His trembling stopped.

  His nervousness vanished.

  The world around him—Lenn Dyora, Wang Leiyin, Arka Sagara, even the explosion sounds—faded into a mute background.

  John Foster was no longer a nervous farmer's son.

  He was a sighting eye.

  He cocked his rifle.

  Click-clack.

  John stepped forward, taking position right beside Rajendra Sagara.

  The old man didn't turn, but John could feel the calm aura radiating from him—like standing next to an old banyan tree in the middle of a storm.

  John knew, his naked eyes wouldn't be enough.

  His scope lens was indeed the best Carta make, capable of seeing a fly from a kilometer away. But this monster... this creature was made of Void. Its heart didn't beat physically. Its life core was hidden behind dimensional layers invisible to ordinary eyes.

  He had to see "deeper."

  John’s left hand reached into his tactical vest pocket. His fingers found the cold object.

  A small metal black box.

  Click.

  He opened it with one hand. Inside lay fine gray powder. Kala-Ra Tushka Ash. Mandatory supply for snipers dealing with spiritual entities.

  John took a deep breath, trying to suppress his heart rate to steady his hands.

  He dipped three right fingers—index, middle, and ring—into the box. His fingertips felt the soft and dry texture of the ritual combustion residue ash.

  Then, with a firm movement, he smeared it onto his own forehead.

  From the point between his eyebrows, drawn straight up to the hairline.

  Swipe.

  The sensation was strange.

  His forehead was soaked in cold sweat and facial oil due to combat stress. When the dry ash met his damp skin, it felt like applying cornstarch or clumping baby powder.

  Sticky. Rough. And cold.

  "Ah..." he complained internally.

  An itching sensation attacked immediately.

  The coarse grains of ash rubbed against his open skin pores, triggering an annoying itch right at his aiming point. He felt an intense urge to scratch it right then.

  Not to mention the residue.

  Because he applied it hurriedly and his hand trembled slightly, excess ash powder fell downwards.

  Poof.

  Fine dust fell, landing right on the bridge and tip of his nose.

  John wrinkled his nose, holding back a sneeze. The tickling sensation of powder sticking to his nostrils seriously disturbed his concentration.

  "Damn it," he cursed inwardly. "Why does a sacred ritual feel like spilled powder?"

  But he didn't wipe it off. He didn't scratch it.

  He let the itch and dust on his nose become his physical anchor.

  Because a second later, the ash effect worked.

  The itch on his forehead skin turned into warmth spreading into his skull, penetrating the frontal lobe, and igniting his optic nerves with spiritual fire.

  John opened his eyes again.

  The physical world in front of him dimmed. Colors became monochrome.

  And there, in the center of the monster's chest pinned by yellow mantras... he saw it.

  The ash effect worked instantly. And John regretted it.

  His inner eye forced open.

  The surrounding physical world dimmed to gray, but the Shade Walker figure in front of him exploded in horrifying high-definition detail.

  John no longer saw a blob of black smoke.

  He saw the texture.

  The monster's body turned out to be composed of thousands of human faces melting and screaming in eternal silence. The torn rag robes were woven from peeling pale skins. And those five hands... oh God... he could see black veins pulsing behind the dry bones, pumping pure hatred throughout its body.

  In the center of its chest, the heart core wasn't just a red dot. It was a lump of living flesh beating fast, surrounded by maggots of void energy writhing disgustingly.

  "Ugh..."

  John felt his stomach twisted.

  His hands trembled violently. Uncontrollable trembling.

  His pride Bolt-Action rifle, usually a stable extension of his body, now shook in his hands. The barrel tip danced wildly, unable to lock the target.

  Cold sweat flooded his back. His legs weak as jelly.

  He couldn't. He couldn't shoot a creature this evil. He was just an ordinary human. He wanted to run. He wanted to throw his rifle and hide behind a trench.

  PAT.

  A touch landed on his right shoulder.

  Not heavy. Not gripping. Just a light pat, steady and warm.

  John jerked in shock, breath caught in his throat.

  He turned stiffly sideways, neck creaking softly.

  Welcoming him was a wrinkled old face. The face of Rajendra Sagara.

  Amidst the storm of killing intent, in front of a three-meter monster capable of slicing souls, the old man... smiled.

  It wasn't Arka’s cynical smile, not Wang Leiyin’s arrogant smile.

  It was a peaceful smile. Serene. Like a grandfather watching his grandson learn to ride a bike. Those old eyes radiated deep ocean calm, as if saying silently:

  'It's okay, Son. This is just a shadow. You are more real than them.'

  Magical.

  Instantly, the cold freezing John’s bone marrow evaporated.

  The pat on his shoulder acted like a grounding wire, channeling excess electricity of fear from John’s body to the ground, and replacing it with a steady flow of warm strength.

  The trembling in his hands stopped completely.

  His knees firm again.

  John stared at Rajendra’s peaceful face for one more second, then nodded slightly. Respect and courage welled up in his chest.

  He faced forward again.

  John closed his eyes for a moment.

  Inhale... Cold air mixed with ozone smell entered his lungs.

  Hold... Heartbeat slowed, synchronizing with the universe's rhythm.

  Exhale...

  He opened his eyes.