Chapter One: Prologue

The weather was clear, with no wind; sunlight streamed down, and visibility was excellent.

Morning in S City was just as usual, with nothing out of the ordinary. Office workers went about their daily routine, numb from the relentless nine-to-five grind, yet unwilling to embrace any change in their lives.

Please, let it be clear: there is no magic here, no cultivation of immortality—just the mundane reality of the world.

No one noticed, as the city bustled with the morning rush, a black sedan quietly slipped away from the busy streets and turned into a shadowy alley. The car came to a halt, several burly men emerged, and finally, a middle-aged man stepped out, carrying a pitch-black case in his hand.

Deeper in the alley, five or six people were already waiting. They quickly gathered together.

“Lust, are you sure the Hunting Squad isn’t on to us?” a voice asked from the darkness.

The middle-aged man with the case spat on the ground. “Damn it, the ‘Godslayer Division’ almost had me. If they hadn’t messed up our route, you wouldn’t be seeing me now.” He glanced around. “Looks like we’re on the ‘Doom Crew’s’ turf. Best be careful.”

“All right, enough talk. Let’s hurry up with the exchange. If the Hunting Squad shows up, we’ll be in trouble. This time—”

A muffled sound broke the tension. Before anyone could react, Lust collapsed into a pool of blood, a bullet hole clean through his head.

“Damn, it’s the Hunting Squad!”

…

Five minutes earlier.

A black-haired young man lay prone atop a building, a sniper rifle at the ready.

He gently tapped the trigger, then released it, peering through the scope as a black sedan slowly turned off the street.

“Changed your mind about taking the shot?” a voice echoed in his mind. The young man seemed used to such sudden intrusions, showing no surprise.

“Tsk.” He removed the lollipop from his mouth and said calmly, “Only a thirty percent hit rate on a moving target, and in such a crowded district, the risk of collateral damage is too high. Even if there’s none, it would cause a commotion.”

“Still,” another voice chimed in, “if you give up the best vantage point, you’ll lose your chance.”

“Even so, I won’t shoot from here. Organization rules are clear: avoid unnecessary chaos.” He looked through the scope again, watching as the black sedan slipped into the dark alley. “We’ve already missed the optimal window. The odds of a hit now are less than one percent.”

“You’re such a pain.” Under the overhang of a tall building, a brawny young man stood, patting a steel beam beside him on a bustling construction site. “Want me to take care of it?”

“Absolutely not. If you do, we’ll have even bigger problems. I’d rather the report say he died from a gunshot than by a steel beam hurled from two kilometers away.” Not far from the sniper, another slender figure—boy or girl, it was hard to say—leaned listlessly against the railing, bored. “Are we giving up the mission?”

“Not yet.” In a side street near the main road, a sleek black BMW idled. Its window slid down, revealing a young man with glasses, his expression as impassive as ever.

He adjusted his glasses. “The target has stopped in the alley. I’ve calculated the coordinates. ‘Deadeye,’ consider a new plan. If you’re sure you can’t take the shot, ‘Flashblade’ will handle it.” He typed rapidly on a laptop, his tone unchanging.

“Fine by me. If the shot’s impossible, I’ll handle it,” said the figure at the railing, lips curling with an otherworldly smile.

“Thanks, ‘Electrofox.’ I have the coordinates. One question: if I shoot through the walls, what’s the kill rate?” asked the one called ‘Deadeye.’

“Let me check—wait, okay, got it. ‘Specter,’ send over the visuals.”

‘Electrofox’ turned to the back seat where a boy was reading a comic. The boy nodded solemnly as he closed his book—he must be the ‘Specter’ mentioned earlier.

A fully three-dimensional scene materialized in their minds.

“According to the imagery, ‘Deadeye’ is two hundred and forty-two meters from the target, at a 27°3′ angle of depression, and a vertical distance of one hundred and eleven meters. There’s a building in the way; to hit the target, the bullet needs to penetrate four walls, including the floor, with resistance—”

“That’s enough. Just say if it’s possible or not,” Deadeye interjected.

There was a pause. “No. Not unless you go around the building. The bullet can’t punch through that much.”

“You guys are so much trouble,” the brawny youth on the construction site grumbled. “Let me, ‘Titan,’ handle it. One H-beam, and he’s squashed.”

“Barbarian.” “Violent brute.” “No sense of finesse.” “Go back to Mars.” The chorus of complaints rang out.

“Come on, you all add an extra word every time, and in perfect order. Are you trying to write some kind of epic poem?” Titan clutched his head, weeping.

“Since you can’t snipe, I’ll take the shot,” said Flashblade, straightening and unhooking a metal rod from his waist. With a hum, a pink beam extended a full meter and twenty centimeters.

“A lightsaber wielder, huh?” Deadeye sucked on his lollipop, smirking. “But that color… oh well.”

“Shut up,” Flashblade snapped, face darkening.

“I’m going in,” Flashblade said, swinging the glowing blade, the air buzzing.

“Wait.” Deadeye spoke up. “Specter, show everyone my plan—see if it works.”

…

“Deadeye, do you see the sign at your two o’clock?”

“I see it.” Deadeye eyed the huge yellow M of McDonald’s, and the kindly smile of the Colonel across the street.

“When I count to three, shoot in that direction—specifically, angle right 57°34′, angle of depression 27°3′. Good luck.”

“Got it. Bank shot, is it?” Deadeye sneered, crunching his lollipop.

“Three, two, one—fire!”

Bang—

…

“Once fired, the bullet will first hit the McDonald’s sign, ricochet at a certain angle to the KFC logo beside it, then deflect again. As it crosses the intersection, it will strike the steel beam hurled by ‘Titan’ from two kilometers away. The recoil will send the beam flying into the lake at Central Park nearby—no harm done, except for a few soaked bystanders. The bullet will ricochet again, this time intercepted by Flashblade’s lightsaber, whose spatial manipulation abilities will ensure perfect alignment with the coordinates I’ve provided. He’ll have to find his own way down from several stories up. (Bastard, someone muttered.) The final bounce will be off the alley’s mirror, turning the bullet one last time to strike the target’s head. Deadeye, you’ll need reinforced rounds and triple shot force to pull this off. That’s the plan. Ready? Let’s go.”

…

“Confirmed. Target eliminated. Mission complete. We’re leaving,” said Glasses, watching the chaos in the alley as he rolled the window up.

On the rooftop, Deadeye stood, swiftly dismantling the sniper rifle and stowing it in a guitar case. At that moment, Flashblade appeared behind him.

“My, you’re not dead yet?” Deadeye slung the guitar case over his shoulder, half-jesting.

“From this height? Hardly enough to kill us,” Flashblade replied, placing a hand on Deadeye’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Without warning, the two vanished from the rooftop.

“Let’s move,” Deadeye said, settling into the driver’s seat. Four were already inside.

“Aren’t we waiting for ‘Titan’?” Flashblade asked coolly, arms crossed.

“One, he’s two kilometers away. Two, if we don’t hurry, we won’t make the cafeteria before class ends. If class is over, we’ll have to queue.”

“Hm?” The three others in the car all brightened, exclaiming in unison, “Let’s go!”

…

Two kilometers away, someone was waving his arms and cursing, “Bastards! Scoundrels! May you all die slow deaths! How dare you leave me behind!”

“This is outrageous…”