Chapter 175
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 175
Chapter Title: Union and Vertical Alliances, San Francisco (10)
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Gunshots echoed through the air.
A single shot aimed at the sky signaled the start of the public execution.
Winter swept up the row of live rounds with one hand. With his other, he gripped the magazine. As his hands overlapped, the aligned bullets were pushed in all at once. Five on the first push, four on the next. Just two pushes to load the magazine. It was a speed rivaling the use of a loading assist tool.
He set down the prepared magazine and began assembling the pistol. His hands moved faster than the eye could follow—beyond the perception of audiences from both worlds, and even Winter himself. Weapon maintenance under constrained conditions was the perfect showcase for technical prowess.
*Click.* The magazine locked into the frame. *Clack.* The slide racked back and released.
No soldier could mistake the meaning of those overlapping metallic sounds. Already? A few pale-faced condemned men trembled as they glanced at their executioner. The table was cleared of parts, save none. A perfectly assembled pistol, gripped in his right hand, steadied by his left, hanging low by his waist.
*Snap.* The safety disengaged. *Click.* The hammer cocked back.
The faint sounds that followed were enough to send convulsions through the condemned. To nerves frayed by desperate survival instincts, they must have roared like thunder.
Meanwhile, half of them sweated coldly as they fumbled to assemble their weapons. Their minds were locked on the table—oblivious to any noise or event beyond it. Or desperately trying to be. Or perhaps completely severed from the outside world.
Mentally resilient, despite their twisted paths.
Winter watched them calmly.
Waiting until the final moment could be seen as cruel mockery.
But given the nature of this event, a public execution called for drama. A necessary evil.
The condemned were confused. Yet one woman reached for her abandoned weapon, clinging to a shred of hope. Her resolve pulled the hesitant along.
Objectively, it should have been humiliating. But with life hanging by seconds, who had room for such feelings?
*If anyone did, they'd be no ordinary soul.*
Right now, their vision must be blacking out in the literal sense. Irregular breaths, racing heartbeats. Surging blood flow overheated and pressurized their skulls, paralyzing thought. No different from combat tension. The reason battle-hardened soldiers' hands shook for hours.
In any case, their odds of survival had improved, however slightly.
However...
The prisoners' weapon assembly took far longer than usual. Dropping parts, spilling them, sobbing as they recovered. A scene hard to surpass in tragedy.
Military training's mechanical repetition ensured mechanical performance even here.
Being former high-ranking officers, their ingrained habits had dulled. Or never truly formed. In their frantic gestures, Winter read the authority, sloth, and comfort they'd enjoyed. In any organization, the lower ranks clung to basics.
*Clack.* For the first time since Winter, someone chambered a round.
The culprit was the one calm from the start. Finishing with eerie focus, he finally looked up at Winter. The flickering flame of survival in his eyes was striking.
He was cunning, too. In this situation where Winter deliberately waited, he didn't aim immediately. He must have known it would make him the first target. Winter, who had finished assembling leisurely far ahead, would surely outpace him in aiming and firing.
*Good situational judgment.*
Winter stared at him impassively. The middle-aged man glaring back, sweat beading on his forehead, had unkempt hair matted like icicles from lack of grooming. Even his bald crown seemed grotesque rather than comical. Like a monster mimicking a man.
The cool-headed prisoner waited for another to fire. He'd aim and shoot during the gap when Winter executed the sacrificial lamb.
If Winter changed his mind now, the plan would crumble—but it was his only shot. Failure meant death anyway. No point dwelling on or fearing it. His sunken, ragged eyes betrayed that resolve.
The exam hall buzzed with the bizarre standoff.
Other prisoners who finished assembly caught on. Those not aiming at Winter hitched onto the bald man's scheme.
Not everyone was so clever.
"Uwaaaah—!"
*Bang!*
Faint smoke rose from Winter's muzzle. How long from aim to fire?
Captain Fowler had assessed he could handle five head-on. Those five: trained veterans.
The prisoner with a hole in his heart dropped his rifle first. He clutched his chest in agony, a tear falling, a gurgling death rattle escaping as he knelt. *Thud.* The weight of life hit the ear. His diagonally collapsing corpse convulsed at length.
Winter swept his gaze over the three in awkward stances.
The fool's gift of time was far too brief. The three reacting reflexively hadn't even raised their muzzles fully. Faces twisted in horror. Barrels lowering amid conflict and fear. After watching to the end, Winter lowered his own.
The standoff resumed.
Now they knew one sacrifice wasn't enough.
Seven remained. To challenge Winter, they needed a simultaneous assault. Barely creating a chance. Amid hostility, they eyed each other fiercely. Glances conveying efficient communication—though emotions overflowed.
The man claiming half the standoff's stake, hair tangled wildly, ground his teeth. The freeloaders irked him like enemies. To him, the rest were disposable pawns to die for his idea. Stolen initiative fueled his rage.
All weapons in the exam hall were complete.
Taut silence prevailed.
Winter thought of a Western showdown. Purely in setup, it was gunslingers' duel—testing reaction speed and precision. Tension fitting the general's intent. Just Winter's guess, but unlikely wrong.
*Even if not, the outcome will be the same.*
None of the seven raised a muzzle first.
But their twitching hands brimmed with malice, feigning intent to fool Winter and the others. Bluffing to mimic firing. Lacking boldness, it fell flat. Too scared a big move would make "Kurt Lee" shoot first.
Time to end it.
Resolve turned to action at lightning speed. *Bang-bang!* Two merged shots: two executions in succession. Shocked prisoners reacted in unison. Ammo plentiful, bullets sprayed wildly at the floor in panic.
But Winter saw the lines of fire. Red warnings never touched him. Their aim lines rose from far below.
Error margins blurred it sometimes, but their skill made it moot.
*Bang! Bang! Bang-bang!*
Death proliferated with the gunfire. All but one prisoner slain.
The woman spraying full-auto took a round through forehead to occiput. Toppling, blood and brains trailing like tears. Beside her, the screaming man had a bullet lodged in his throat's rear; another's skull burst brains to mush inside; one flipping the table for cover exposed his thigh, severing an artery. He flailed to stem the bleed, but two hands weren't enough. Winter had no mercy bullet for his pain.
With one round left, the last prisoner broke into sobs. His muzzle still angled low. Frozen like a statue.
None had matched half Winter's reaction speed.
Winter executed the final one.
*Bang!*
Head snapped back. Strength fled his body. He toppled backward. *Clank.* Chains on his ankles clashed. Eyes glazing milky, he died staring at the cloudy sky.
Winter holstered his pistol and flexed his hands.
*Clap, clap, clap.* Applause from behind. From Major General Sieru. Her face beamed with elation. Each clap overly forceful.
Where the head went, the tail followed. Cheers swelled.
Hearing it, Winter reflected on his ingrained reaction speed.
Like TOM aptitude, innate? He recalled a manual from long ago in memory. System buffs were electric, chemical, acting on neural units—increasing physical reaction time.
Surely limits existed.
*Still, feels faster than before.*
Comparisons: past apocalypses.
Mere familiarity? Or illusion?
As he pondered, the hall cleared. Validating a second "Han Gyeowol" was just beginning. To convince inept subordinates and sell the future Chinese community's viability in America, no mere farce would suffice.
Major General Sieru was cool-headed. She'd expect value matching her investment.
Her one-sided appraisal evoked someone.
Winter consciously suppressed the rolling stone of past-life memory.
Redirecting thought. Like report content upon return.
His evaluation of Sieru would be key CIA intel for strategy. Ill-fitting "Kurt Lee," but pre-exam talk with the general would yield vital data.
*Her words might be self-aggrandizement. But she seemed to truly believe them. Or perhaps unconscious desire leaking through.*
Then, decent enough. Winter's conclusion.
Final judgment post-review by intel, but field agent's opinion attached to report.
Winter dryly eyed the dragged-out corpses.
Long blood trails stained the hall. Their iron tang mixed with existing stench. Dim light and chill spring breeze poured through the pierced ceiling; furious birds drawn by blood scent cried—a sensory flood fitting the worldview.
============================ Author's Note ============================
# As of 17:06, some content has been deleted due to description errors.
Q. [反]Kid: @Author, did you use ancient power to make Trump pay-to-win!? The secret to the US election is here...!
A. No. Trump pay-to-winned on his own, nothing to be done. Accept reality.