'It's a sniper countermeasure strategy.'
Close combat for melee, mid-range for shooting, and anti-magic to neutralize long-range sniping. It was a tactical system that gave him the advantage at any distance.
Freeman examined the crater and calculated the bullet's trajectory before turning his gaze toward the forest.
Freeman: "Over there?"
He kicked off the ground and entered the forest, prompting Amy to hastily relocate.
A chase ensued.
Amy desperately tried to maintain a 300-meter distance, but Freeman persistently closed the gap.
Amy exhaled heavily.
'What do I do?'
As long as the enemy had anti-magic, deviations would occur no matter how carefully she aimed.
The only way to offset that deviation was to close the distance, but at mid to long range, subduing Freeman was difficult.
'I have to fight at my range.'
Amy continued to attempt snipes, but no matter how she adjusted for deviation, hitting a small target 300 meters away was nearly impossible without sheer luck.
'This is maddening.'
Leaning against a tree, Amy's mind was utterly exhausted.
The concentration required for a single shot in Sniper Mode was on a completely different level from ordinary attack magic.
Freeman's voice echoed from nearby.
Freeman: "Are you tired?"
"...."
Amy held her breath.
Even so, as the distance closed, his sensory schema would detect even her heartbeat, but she needed to buy as much time as possible.
Freeman: "If you don't want to fight, that's fine."
Amy's brow furrowed.
'What's with this guy?'
Throughout the battle, Freeman hadn't shown any particular aggression.
Considering most gunners were battle maniacs, he was clearly a unique individual.
Freeman: "I'm going to the captain. If you don't interfere, I'll do my best to spare your friends. But if I see you again, I'll kill them all."
It wasn't a bad offer. Amy was exhausted and needed time to recover.
But at the end of such self-rationalization lay defeat.
Above all, she didn't want to entrust her friends' lives to the enemy.
'Are you underestimating me?'
Amy revealed herself and unleashed a barrage of Flame Strikes.
At a distance of tens of meters, the anti-magic deviation was negligible, but Freeman had Compound Eye.
Dodging the attacks with insect-like precision, he twisted his body and saw Amy's retreating figure fleeing into the forest.
Freeman: "...A suicidal move."
Knowing the mountain's terrain, Freeman calmly pursued her.
The forest ended, and an open field appeared. Amy stood in the center, with nowhere left to run.
Freeman: "Sniper tactics are useless here."
Even without anti-magic, if he could see the bullet's trajectory, he could dodge it with his eyes.
Amy strained her mental energy.
Amy: "Fire Call."
A floating stone caught fire, but Freeman remained calm.
As long as her Spirit Zone was focused on him, her aim would be off.
Freeman: "I respect your determination."
Even now, not begging for her life was her last shred of pride.
Freeman lunged to take her life.
At the same time, Fire Call surged toward him.
'You're wrong.'
In that split second, Freeman realized the impact point was slightly off.
As his gun aimed at Amy and his finger tightened on the trigger, he saw her crimson eyes flash at a terrifying speed.
A dull impact struck the back of his head.
Freeman: "...How?"
It was impossible unless the bullet had suddenly curved.
In his narrowing vision, he saw Amy panting, blood dripping from her nose.
'Ah.'
A single possibility flashed through his mind, but his consciousness was already slipping away.
Freeman's stiff body hit the ground, and Amy knelt down, gasping for breath.
Amy: "Haa. Haa."
What had taken down Freeman wasn't Sniper Mode but a detonation-type attack.
If she had been throwing stones to hit targets before, this time it was like hitting him with her bare hands.
However, the detonation-type was extremely advantageous for those in a special mental state, and maintaining it at sniper range was a life-risking gamble for Amy, who specialized in offensive magic.
Amy: "Huuuu…"
Wiping the blood from her nose, Amy stood up, steadying her breathing.
Amy: "Shirone."
Freeman's words about Marsha lingered uncomfortably in her mind.
More than her strength, it felt like Marsha herself was a trap.
'Just wait a little longer.'
Without time to fully recover, Amy limped toward the cliff.
"Ugh."
How much time had passed?
Freeman, who had regained consciousness from a headache, turned his body over.
His vision was blurred from the concussion, but his mind was focused on one thought.
'Marsha.'
He tried to lift his body, but before he could even halfway sit up, he fell back to the ground.
"Ugh!"
Moving was impossible for now, so Freeman relaxed and waited for his condition to improve.
"..."
In his still-blurred vision, the image of Marsha from his childhood appeared.
Kid 1: "Huh? It's Freeman. Coward Freeman."
Kid 2: "Really? Hey, Freeman with the droopy eyebrows! Come here. Today, I'm in charge of you."
Freeman, who was always timid and couldn't even look people in the eye, was a constant target of ridicule.
Of course, no one is born a coward. He believed that his severely drooping eyebrows were the root cause of his miserable life.
Freeman: "S-stop it. It hurts."
Kid 1: "That's why I'm telling you to cry. If I make you cry, Marsha will come. Pretty Marsha."
Even as he curled up, Freeman shouted.
Freeman: "Don't bully Marsha!"
Kid 2: "Idiot, Marsha is the boss of this neighborhood. Who would bully her? Besides, Marsha is fun. Just cry already. Come on, cry."
Freeman: "Waaah! Marsha!"
As Freeman couldn't hold back his tears and ran away, the kids laughed and shouted.
Kid 1: "Tell Marsha to come here! We're going to play war!"
Marsha was the popular kid in the neighborhood, but unlike the others, she rarely came out.
Only Freeman knew the reason, and he was the only one who could call her out.
Wiping his tears, Freeman arrived at Marsha's house and entered through the unlocked front door.
Freeman: "Marsha."
As always, the house felt lonely.
Her father, a mercenary, hadn't even bothered to furnish the house, and he often came home drunk at night, beating Marsha.
Freeman: "Marsha, I'm here."
Marsha was sitting at the end of the room.
The only things in the empty room were leftover bread and milk, but the short-haired girl never lost her smile.
In front of her, Freeman's heart raced again.
Marsha: "What's wrong with your face this time?"
Freeman: "Marsha, the kids keep hitting me."
She knew the reason.
Marsha: "That's why I told you not to hang out with them. Why do you keep going down that road when you always get hurt?"
Freeman: "No! They keep finding me!"
Marsha stood up.
Marsha: "Alright. I'll scold them. Where are they?"
Freeman shook his head.
Freeman: "Can't you just not go? Your dad might come back. He'll be really mad if you're not here."
Marsha: "It's the same even if he comes at night. Let's go. I'll tell them I won't play with them anymore if they keep bothering you."
Freeman: "No! You don't like playing with them either, but you do it because of me. I hate seeing you force yourself to smile for them."
Marsha pushed Freeman's forehead and said.
Marsha: "Oh, thank you. Then why don't you get stronger? You're the one getting help, yet you're talking big."
Freeman: "Anyway, no! Don't go."
Marsha: "Why are you like this today? Why don't you talk back to the other kids like that? Or what, do you like me or something?"
Freeman's face turned red up to his ears.
Amused by his reaction, Marsha waved her hand.
Marsha: "Hey, it's a joke, a joke. Anyway, your courage is as small as a bean..."
Freeman: "Yes! I like you! What are you going to do about it?"
Marsha: "Huh?"
Marsha's eyes widened, and Freeman poured out his words in a trembling voice.
Freeman: "What's wrong with liking you? Did I ever ask you to like me back? Liking you is my own feeling, so why are you telling me what to do?"
He knew he was bad at expressing emotions, but sometimes that made it even scarier.
Marsha held out both hands to calm him down.
Marsha: "Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Liking someone is your own choice. I won't say anything."
Freeman: "Ugh! Seriously! Even you're treating me like a fool!"
Freeman didn't know why he was angry. Or maybe he did but chose to ignore it.
Marsha sat Freeman down on the floor.
Marsha: "I'm not treating you like a fool, so don't get so worked up. You're overreacting because you keep bottling up your feelings."
'But I'm serious.'
It was still disappointing, but he thought it was better to leave it at that.
As Marsha wrapped herself in a tattered cloak and prepared to leave, Freeman asked.
Freeman: "Are you really going to play with them?"
Marsha: "No, I'll just give them a piece of my mind and come back. Wait for me. Let's play together."
Freeman's face brightened.
Freeman: "Really? Come back quickly."
Marsha: "Sure. If you're hungry, you can eat my bread."
As Marsha left, the house fell into silence.
Left alone, Freeman understood how Marsha felt.
'There's really nothing here.'
He took out a hand mirror from his pocket.
His plan to give it to her as a gift and confess his feelings had failed, but the thought of Marsha liking it made him smile.
Freeman: "Your dad is so weird. He has such a pretty daughter, but he doesn't buy her anything. He just hits her."
Looking into the mirror, he saw a boy with severely drooping eyebrows.
Freeman: "Sigh."
Because of these eyebrows, he got the nickname "Crybaby," and after living like that for ten years, he had truly become a crybaby.
Freeman: "Is it really that bad? It doesn't look so bad to me."
As time passed, Freeman turned seventeen.
Thanks to his hard work, he had a good reputation in the village, but his only friend was still Marsha.
As he grew older, his feelings for her deepened. The reason he worked day and night was because he believed he had to take responsibility for her someday.
Of course, Marsha seemed to think differently, but she was always happy whenever he gave her gifts.
At some point, she stopped smiling.
He couldn't pinpoint exactly when, but as Marsha grew older, her stepfather's abuse seemed to worsen.
At the time, he didn't think much of it. Most households were similar, and Freeman himself lived with a drunken father who called him useless every day.
As an adult, Freeman realized.
The reason he didn't notice until the incident happened wasn't because he was insensitive, but because Marsha was clever.
Freeman: "Marsha, are you home?"
That evening, deciding to risk being an unwelcome guest, Freeman went to find Marsha. It was fate.
He had noticed that her face was more flushed than usual when he saw her earlier that day.
Freeman: "It's me, Freeman. Is something wrong?"
No matter how much he knocked, there was no answer. Freeman's unease turned into certainty.
'This is....'
The smell of blood wafted through the open window.