Chapter 37
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 37
Chapter Title: The Little Prince of the Columbarium
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A despairing soldier threw himself off. A thirty-meter free fall. To the ones waiting below, he was manna from heaven. Two died from the impact, and the rest began to feast. It seemed the soldier had pulled the pins on a few grenades as he fell. A deafening explosion followed.
“Fisher Three down. Fuel depleted.”
The first drone to launch had crashed. Its fuel had been running critically low for a while.
The string of misfortunes convinced the platoon leader. Radio chatter from company HQ kept urging retreat as well.
The mission reached a fork. Retreat was safe; advancing was dangerous.
Winter agonized over it.
“Insight” recommended acquiring a new skill. With a genius-level minimum grade 11 “Movement,” there was a chance to turn the tide. It meant punching through this chaos with extreme obstacle traversal and evasion bonuses.
Grade 10 skills were the maximum limit for an ordinary human through effort alone. Beyond that lay genius territory—realms unreachable without innate talent. Thus, even with “Talent Advantage,” experience costs past grade 11 were burdensome. That was why Winter only had one grade 11 skill: “Personal Firearms Proficiency.”
It was possible. If he used everything he had, even up to grade 14. Beyond what he’d held in reserve, he’d accumulated no small amount of experience from interpersonal evaluations.
So Winter’s dilemma wasn’t investment, but the odds of success.
Then came another warning chime.
“Platoon leader! Weird ones just showed up!”
They were indeed weird. Scars maybe, but unlike the others, they weren’t rotting. They’d overcome immune rejection. Like fully cured leprosy patients. Bodies packed with muscle, yet sleek. Skin so pale it was nearly gray, veins visible beneath.
Winter thought:
“Right. Enhanced variants after the specials.”
Enhanced variants, commonly called “Ghouls.” Easier than specials, but tricky in packs.
They charged in perfect form. While ordinary ones flailed wildly, spraying uncontrollable madness, these clenched their jaws and sprinted like pros. Arms pumping front to back. Eyes unmoving. Unnaturally thick thighs.
Drdrdrdrdr!
Machine-gun fire toppled the enhanced variants. Those that missed vitals sprang back up. The platoon leader made his call. And the boy steeled his resolve.
“Damn it... Retreat! Retreat!”
The Rangers and Winter moved in opposite directions. The platoon leader freaked.
“You! What the hell are you doing?!”
Winter kicked off a house wall, ran vertically up it, grabbed the eaves, and launched. Flipped once and landed on the roof. All in one breath. Advanced “Movement” synced with “Insight” calculated the optimal path, overlaying it as augmented reality filling his vision. Dozens of lines updating every instant with the shifting situation, colors shifting by probability.
The flashy moves drew eyes, it seemed. The enhanced variants targeted Winter first. They leaped from the ground, grabbed the roof edge, and sprang higher using arm elasticity alone. Before it could land, while still airborne, Winter booted it hard.
Its solar plexus caved under his combat boot. Clutching the dented chest, it flew back and slammed into the ground. Convulsions and spasms.
Five more Ghouls climbed after.
Drdr!
One down by gunfire. Overlapping blind spots cut firing efficiency; the second charged, bleeding. Winter thrust his bayonet. The blade fixed under the barrel sliced up through the chest, pierced the lower jaw, and reached the brainstem.
A new threat from behind. He dodged the gray grasp, spun, dropped the rifle, swapped hands as he turned, yanked it back, and spun-kicked the shin with rotation. Crack! Bone snapped. The third, balance shattered, tumbled off the roof slope.
The fourth grabbed him. Arms locked, rifle gripped backward, a test of strength ensued. Meanwhile, the fifth lunged from behind. He jammed the rifle stock into the fourth’s mouth as they collided, twisted sideways in the tangle. The bitten rifle, the muzzle—both now aimed at the fifth. Winter’s left thumb slipped into the trigger guard. Fired. Until the magazine ran dry.
The fifth’s ribs shattered—crunch crunch. Rough aim, rough death. Lungs gone, it spewed blood and collapsed. Twitching as it died. The roof stained crimson.
Now just the fourth left. Winter crushed the Ghoul with pure strength. Slowly, but surely. High-grade combat skills’ strength bonuses made it possible. The Ghoul’s knees buckled. Pushed back until it lay flat. Winter pinned both arms with his knees, sat on the pale chest. Freed hands gripped the rifle tight, yanked it toward him.
Rriiiip—
Jaw dislocating, flesh tearing. The Ghoul’s hollow scream. Now Winter held the rifle two-handed, upright. Buttstroked the head repeatedly. Savage pounding to pulp it. Blood and flesh sprayed; those sharing the experience cheered. Each strike fueled a hot stone surging in his chest, violence responding to violence. Growing disconnect from reality.
The scream before him slowed to a halt. Like a cicada’s final cry at summer’s end.
Meanwhile, the Ranger platoon had pulled back far. They’d at least secured the wounded. Sergeant Perry couldn’t tear his eyes from the boy. Ordinary variants piled into living towers toward the boy on the roof. Building, collapsing, repeat.
Winter swapped magazines, scanned around. Helicopter airspace overhead. Survivors hiding below, no doubt. Comms hadn’t revealed their stealth. Western Motel, was it?
Amid it all, the receiver blared. The platoon leader calling Winter since earlier.
“Clown! Clown! Hey, jester! Respond!”
Winter transmitted.
“Yes, your fool here.”
“What the hell are you doing?! Trying to get yourself killed? Huh? Don’t you know you gotta follow orders?!”
Worry, irritation, anger—all equal parts in his tangled voice. Winter replied.
“Sorry, but my chain of command’s different. No need to strictly follow your HQ’s orders, right?”
“You sane saying that?!”
How to respond? Winter used keywords from “Insight.”
“My commanding officer’s the Camp Roberts commander, and his only order was one: ‘Handsomely kill the Santa Maria monsters.’ No mention of delegating to Major Maguire either. So I’ll complete the mission. And handle a side task while I’m at it.”
Using provided keywords added system correction even without acting skill.
“You joking too...”
“Gonna be busy a bit. Understand if no response.”
Winter pulled a grenade pin and rolled it. Roll roll. The cute little bomb tumbled. Hit the first one atop the finally completed tower square on the forehead, bounced. Then—boom.
Bang!
Blood and flesh sprayed into the air. Shredded guts rained down on the street.
Winter ran. Stepped over writhing human piles, back to the roadway. Black specks on dust-caked asphalt. Moving. Cockroaches heralding disaster. Crushed under combat boots—squish squish.
Reluctant, a drone hovered nearby. Its lens on the boy.
Ammo depleted, it seemed. Gunfire from the chopper ceased. Both helos turned toward HQ.
Now the fight was purely the boy’s. Destination: about two hundred meters. Every variant between locked onto Winter. Charging boy-soldier. Onrushing variant horde.
No matter the numbers, uncontrolled mobs always had gaps. Winter exploited them. Narrow paths between flailing arms and lunging bodies, sloppy instincts.
No path? Make one. When it felt blocked all around, he grabbed a frontal one’s wrist, pulled to disrupt balance, toppled it, rolled spherical through the sparse cage of legs and legs and legs.
Rose at running speed. Enhanced variant five meters dead ahead. Winter kneecapped it. Lower body crumbled, upper hit the dirt. Used the prone Ghoul like stairs, leaped over more.
Now pinched front and back. Winter mounted an abandoned camper on the shoulder. Ran its broad roof, hit the edge, max jump. Wingless flight. Hungry things below yowled. Winter toed a roadside tree branch. Bent wood’s spring launched him farther. Skill correction. Landing shock never reached his knees. Rolled once more, converting fall to forward momentum.
Two leaps covered fifteen meters.
No need to stick to streets. Scaled walls, ran roof to roof like flat ground.
At last, “Boogie One,” the first Grumble, took interest. Abandoned hunting hidden civilians, turned. Dead-and-dying filled the space between monster and boy, but the beast’s yellow eyes missed nothing. Locked predator gaze.
[Graaaaaawr!]
Charge pattern primed at Winter.
He’d waited for this. At current evasion, it was certain.
Veins bulged on the Grumble’s thick legs. Massive bulk, terrifying acceleration. Every variant in the straight line between boy and beast trampled. Perfect timing—Winter launched. The swung fist whistled past, a hair’s breadth.
The Grumble plowed ten meters more, churning flesh-and-bone bloody pavement. Psssh—steam snorted from nostrils as it slowly turned. Winter baited another charge. Savage ground-shaking. Asphalt spiderwebbed. Overwhelming power and mass. Swept variants flew, limbs torn.
“Watch it, Clown! Six o’clock! Boogie Two’s got eyes on Clown!”
He’d sensed it already. Marrow-prickling feel plus AR warning. Another Grumble. Synergy of “Combat Sense” and “Survival Instinct.”
Winter dropped to a knee, aimed steady. Needed to stagger their charges. Ragged breath, heaving shoulders. Sight wobbled, but grade 11 marksmanship. Drdr! Three semi-auto rounds burrowed into the gaping throat. Then Winter dove aside. The unchecked one thundered past. Hit roar sounded. Immediate second dodge. The other halted only after smashing a house.
How many repeats? Downtown variant cluster massacred. Mountains of corpses, seas of blood. Ammo-resupplied helos joined in. Animal cunning foreseeing death? Distant variants still many, but scattering.
Winter finally moved to take the Grumbles. Herded both to one flank, alternating shots as they roared, closing in.
Three grenades left. Couldn’t kill both. Took one down first, left the other vomiting blood. Chopper dove on the halved-combat-power one. Ultra-low flight. Grenadier aimed thick muzzle at the growling beast.
Thung—
Light report. Heavy result. Grenade blew before jaws clamped. The monster’s last exhale: fiery blood.
Winter scanned. Found it. Western Motel. Footsteps crunched as he approached. No need to clean up lingering variants himself. That was for the troops rappelling from the chopper. One hesitated before Winter. Wanted to say something, didn’t know what. Settled for a salute.
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