Gantzuke had chosen the HK416 rifle with an adjustable stock and six-position cheek rest.The 11-inch barrel was neither too short nor too long—perfect for urban combat.The front and rear sights were detachable, making it easy to install optics.
Overall, it looked like an M4, which made sense since the HK416 had been developed from the M16A4 platform.It was even more reliable, with far fewer chances of jamming.Thanks to Lemo—the wizard of gun modification—the gas system had been fine-tuned to work perfectly with a suppressor.The shots from this gun were so quiet that no one beyond fifteen meters would hear it.
Gantzuke had given it a nickname: Kūki—"Nail" in Japanese.Because firing it sounded no louder than a nail gun.
"Stop there," Lemo's voice came through the radio.He was watching the live drone feed on a massive fifty-inch screen.The black rooftop of the Hummer slowly crept around a curve toward a small dirt road leading down to the beach.
From the hovering drone's vantage, five men were gathered around a campfire in front of a thatched hut, facing the ocean.The hut was one among dozens scattered along the shoreline.Wooden fishing boats, painted in bright colors, lay strewn like beached whales where the sand met the sea.
Gantzuke's position showed on the screen to the right of the hut, about two hundred meters from the group.
"Five of them at twelve o'clock, two hundred meters out," Lemo's voice guided him through the earpiece connected to his radio.
Gantzuke flipped off the safety and pressed the stock firmly against his shoulder.He crept down the small, dusty red dirt path, hugging the palm trees to his left, moving past mud-walled huts scattered along the way.The salty ocean breeze carried the mouthwatering aroma of grilled lamb—and the incomprehensible chatter of Amun's men.
Stand by…The calm voice in his head spoke again as he ducked behind a thick bush next to one of the mud-brick houses.He leaned out carefully from behind the broad green leaves, rifle at the ready.
Fifteen meters ahead, five men sat around the fire, laughing, drinking beer, and roasting meat.One muscular black man had gotten up, walking away from the fire to piss on an overturned fishing boat resting on a cluster of rocks.
Two others stood at Gantzuke's eleven o'clock, AKs slung casually over their right shoulders, bottles of beer in their left hands.Two more sat across from them, chewing on hunks of lamb, dressed in ragtag clothes that looked stolen from a ransacked shopping mall.
Gantzuke lowered his rifle and leaned back against the bush.He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and imagined a voice whispering behind him:
Stand by...
He mouthed the words without speaking.Every sense in his body sharpened instantly.
During his time on Earth, he'd been in firefights before—but back then, he had comrades, squads, teams.Now, it was just him, a lone soldier, with nothing but a drone in the sky as his second pair of eyes.
He visualized the layout again—every man's position, their posture, their blind spots.
...The ball falls into the hole before you even swing the club...He recalled a legendary golfer's quote.
Shooting a rifle tactically wasn't so different from golf.You visualize the result first, then let the body—trained through thousands of hours of repetition—execute flawlessly.
...They were already dead the moment I saw them...The thought echoed in his mind.
TICK...
He imagined hearing the starting beep of a stopwatch.
Gantzuke spun around the bush and opened fire.
123... 12... 1... 1... 12...He counted each pull of the trigger for each body.
The first man, turned slightly to the side, took three rounds—to the arm, shoulder, and head.The second man, standing beside him, caught two—one to the chest, one to the neck.The two sitting men had no time to react—their skulls exploded mid-chew, before they even registered the gunfire.
The last man—the one pissing by the rocks—started running, pants undone.The first shot shattered his hip, dropping him to his knees.The second drilled through the top of his skull with a sickening thwap.
Gantzuke lifted his wristwatch.
...Eight seconds. Five dead.
Not bad.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He moved quickly, ducking behind an overturned wooden boat, using it as natural cover to scan for more enemies.
"Unbelievable, man! You're a goddamn war god!"Lemo's voice crackled excitedly over the radio.
He had seen Gantzuke kill zombies before, thanks to the security cameras.But this—this ruthless efficiency against armed fighters—was on another level entirely.