Chapter 238
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 238
Chapter Title: Does That Mean You Don't Want to Die?
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Maya wrinkled her brow.
The reason she'd ordered Rimon to track down and capture Antonio, the boss of that gang, was simple from the start.
To observe how he would find and capture Antonio.
No matter how hard Rimon tried to hide it, she figured he'd have no choice but to use his psionics—consciously or not—to take down a gang single-handedly.
But Maya had to admit that assumption was utterly ridiculous.
Right here, right now.
Rimon was annihilating an entire massive gang without so much as a hint of psionics, superhuman abilities, or any mystical power whatsoever.
Bang bang bang bang!
"Argh!"
"M-My hand!"
Two gang members who'd been firing submachine guns nonstop screamed and collapsed.
In that gap, the sniper aiming at Rimon from a second-story window didn't even get a chance to line up his shot before his gun shattered, leaving him clutching his bloodied hand and howling.
The gang members who'd circled around to hit him from behind met the same fate.
The two pistols in Rimon's hands spun gracefully, spitting fire, and they dropped without firing a single round.
Click, click.
"He's out of ammo!"
"Kill him, kill him now!"
Perhaps God took pity on them and granted an opportunity.
The moment they saw Rimon's pistols go silent, emitting only empty clicks, the gang flew into a frenzy and unleashed a hail of bullets at him.
But that wasn't divine blessing—it was the devil's temptation.
The moment Rimon rolled aside with a cold smile, dodging the barrage—
His hands were already gripping the two submachine guns from the gang members he'd just dropped.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
"Gaaah!"
The gangsters crumbled like dominoes under the storm of bullets.
But Rimon's sleight of hand didn't end there.
He tossed the now-empty submachine guns aside in a flash, kicked a gangster who'd been shot off the roof to snatch his shotgun midair, then spun it one-handed to reload without even glancing sideways before firing.
Click, boom!
"Gurk!"
A gangster hiding behind a steel door got blasted out by the shotgun's impact, crushed beneath the flung-open metal.
Like a relay runner grabbing the baton, Rimon scooped up the dropped rifle and casually fired one shot, taking out a sniper hundreds of meters away.
He was the incarnation of war.
A cyborg soldier blessed by spirits couldn't have looked more formidable.
'...Impressive.'
Maya, watching Rimon all the while, murmured to herself.
It wasn't just because he handled firearms with the effortless mastery that might fool someone into thinking he was from the Golden Dragon Clan.
As the world's greatest pharmacist and physician, she'd noticed two crucial facts amid the chaos.
'Not a single fatality.'
One was that Rimon's marksmanship produced only severe injuries, never deaths.
Controlled shots with rubber bullets were tricky enough.
Yet he relentlessly sprayed lethal weapons while artfully avoiding vital spots.
A feat no ordinary gunman, not even a Golden Dragon gunner or high-level player with firearm skills, could replicate.
Even more terrifying was the second fact Maya had spotted.
'To achieve this using only the physical abilities of a normal human, without any mysticism or superpowers...'
He wasn't accelerating time or curving bullets.
On the contrary, Rimon's movements were deliberately slow, while several gang members wielded player-enhanced physiques and skills.
Yet it was always the gangsters who ended up shot and down.
His sharpshooting and battle sense—precise enough to hit a target blindfolded from a hundred paces—overwhelmed their speed advantages.
'Like watching a battle-hardened veteran.'
Just as a seasoned chef crafts the fastest, tastiest dish with leisurely motions.
Rimon's graceful domination of dozens of foes exuded the dignity of a master who'd spent a lifetime on the battlefield.
At this rate, she'd learn no secrets—just spectate an action movie blockbuster.
But Maya wasn't disappointed.
She merely wore a chilly sneer.
'Your skills are impressive, sure. But how long do you think you can hide your true power?'
It happened right then.
As if answering her mocking gaze, something crashed down in front of Rimon.
Thud!
"Who the fuck dares start shit in my turf?!"
A massive crater formed alongside that booming roar—from a hulking brute.
The thick-mustached giant glared at Rimon with bulging eyes, about to unleash a torrent of curses.
Bang!
...If Rimon hadn't shot him in the shoulder first, denying him even the chance to speak.
The hit was dead-on, as expected.
Any ordinary gangster would've clutched the wound and crumpled.
Ting!
One problem.
The bullet pinged harmlessly off.
His clothes tore slightly at most—no blood from the impact point on the giant.
Antonio smirked openly.
"You idiot. Think some peashooter bullet's gonna work on a level 75 player like me?"
"...A marquess-rank player. No wonder regular guns won't cut it."
Rimon nodded thoughtfully.
The reason players above level 60—earl-rank and up—were classified as high-level.
Standard firearms barely fazed them.
You needed anti-materiel rifle penetration or rocket launcher firepower for real damage; even that waned past duke-rank.
Players became superhumans just by leveling—cheat codes in human form.
Of course, armor-piercing rounds existed.
But those were cutting-edge weapons held by advanced nations and top guilds.
Facing a high-level player with cheap gangster guns was near impossible.
'Hm, cornered, huh.'
Rimon glanced back briefly.
Seeing Maya watching with a cold sneer, he clicked his tongue inwardly.
He realized this was exactly the "test" she'd prepared and waited for.
'Interesting.'
So Rimon grinned instead.
He slung his rifle over his shoulder and crooked a finger at Antonio.
"Enough talk. Come at me. I'll show you how a 'peashooter' catches scum like you."
"You motherfucker?"
Furious at the finger from a mere gunman.
Face flushed beet-red, Antonio gnashed his teeth and bellowed.
"Fine! If you wanna die that bad, I'll rip your limbs off and feed 'em to the dogs!"
"Don't worry. I'm planning to take you alive."
"Raaargh!"
Provoked beyond endurance, Antonio charged in a berserk rage.
Even in his frenzy, his lightning-fast movements befitted a high-level player ruling a massive gang.
But Rimon didn't twitch an eyebrow.
His response was simple.
Standing stock-still, he shouldered his rifle and took proper aim at Antonio.
For the first time, the man who'd fired without aiming—hitting every shot—lined up a true sight picture and pulled the trigger.
Bang, ting!
Nothing changed, of course.
Unlike a sword you wield directly, guns don't shift power with posture.
But Rimon showed no disappointment at the ricochet.
He just pulled the trigger again, unmoving.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Once.
Again.
And once more.
In the blink of an eye, the bullets struck the exact same spot without deviation.
For a target charging faster than most vehicles, it was terrifying precision—enough to dent armored plate.
"Pathetic!"
The issue: Antonio had the Steel Skin skill.
Not just high-level—his body, further hardened by the skill, shrugged off the barrage.
Thus, barreling through naked, he sneered at Rimon's folly and swung to crush that head with his fist—
Thump!
"...Urk!"
His fist sliced empty air.
A laughable whiff unworthy of a high-level player.
Unable to handle the recoil, he staggered, fell on his ass, and started retching.
Rimon kicked his jaw, sending him sprawling backward.
Then pinned his chest with one foot, jammed the rifle barrel into his mouth, and grinned.
"How's it feel, Mr. High-Level Player, brought low by 'pathetic' bullets?"
"Wha... wha... wha trick...?"
"What trick? Just some shooting."
Rimon shrugged at the wide-eyed disbelief.
Then added with a wicked smirk.
"Except I aimed for your brain, not your body."
"...!"
Antonio finally got it.
Why Rimon targeted only his jaw tip.
Not to pierce defenses, but to shake his brain with the ricochet shock.
'This crazy bastard!'
He could only gape in horror.
That level of precision made vital spots like eyes far easier targets.
Choosing the jaw meant absolute confidence his shots wouldn't miss—a madman's certainty.
"If you don't wanna test how many bullets your throat can take, quit squirming."
"Ugh... ugh..."
Only then did Rimon glance back at Maya.
"Ma'am, target captured as ordered."
"..."
"Anything not to your liking?"
"...Some marksmanship you've got."
Her tone dripped sarcasm, as if to say:
Your shooting's too good—I still haven't seen your real power.
"Fine marksmanship is a gentleman's accomplishment."
"Hmph, save that gunslinger crap."
She snorted at his brazen deflection, fully aware of her thoughts.
Maya approached slowly.
She stopped at a safe distance and spoke lowly.
"Release him and step back."
"Yes, ma'am."
No hesitation, despite the hard-won capture.
Like a loyal hound, Rimon withdrew the barrel and retreated.
Maya gazed down at Antonio like prey brought by her dog, her eyes dark, and spoke softly.
"One question for you. Answer, and I'll kill you painlessly."
"Fuck off, you psycho bitch! Like I'd answer that bullshit...!"
With the barrel gone.
Seizing his chance, Antonio lunged, thick hand reaching for Maya's throat.
But just before—
He froze stiff.
Face draining pale at her gauntlet, he recoiled instead.
"Y-You! No, are you...?"
Like facing the world's most horrific monster, he yanked his hand back in terror.
His fear was so raw, it bordered on insulting for a beauty like Maya.
"I'll ask."
She ignored it.
Dismissing his stare with a cold sneer, as if routine.
"Where does Ambrosia come from?"
Antonio's face went ghostly white—for a different reason.
So bloodless, he matched Maya's sickly pallor as he stammered.
"Wh-What're you talking about?"
"Playing dumb means you don't want to die, right?"
From anyone else, he'd scoff—who wants to die?
But now, he could only grimace.
He knew who Maya was.
And what she could do.
As boss of São Paulo's underworld, he knew too well.
Or rather, he couldn't not know.
Since that ancient incident, it was the first lesson for every South American.
"Ugh."
Antonio agonized.
No answer, and Maya wouldn't let him live.
Answer, and "that one" would exact revenge.
Either way, a gruesome end.
"...Goddamn it!"
After torment, he flung one arm high.
Cornered rat biting cat, he unleashed all his power into his fist.
The moment it swung—
Splat!
Antonio's head burst like a watermelon, body slumping lifeless.
Not Maya striking, nor Rimon shooting his skull.
Antonio had smashed his own head with his fist—suicide.
An absurd end for São Paulo's notorious gang lord.
But Rimon, witnessing it, stayed calm.
Just eyed the corpse curiously before asking casually.
"Gonna let him die just like that?"
"Any reason to save him?"
"If he dies now, you won't get the answer you want."
"No need."
Maya cut him off flatly.
Gazing at the twitching, then rigid corpse, she continued with a sneer.
"Only one person on this continent could drive someone who knows me to attempt suicide in my presence."