Infinite Range: The Sniper Mage

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“Alert canceled.”

Dozens of soldiers in Infinite Dimensions battle armor emerged from the dense forest edge. Heads held high, eyes cold and unwavering, they stared straight at the distant figure.

Most of them were around level 30 to 40, rolling in on Lynx infantry fighting vehicles, helmets mounted with thermal scanners, each carrying heavy anti-materiel rifles or RPGs. But there was not the slightest fear in their bearing.

It was the perfect blend of old-world steel discipline and modern heavy firepower.

Clearly after these days of fighting monsters, the military had refined highly effective tactics.

Melee adventurers wove Infinite Dimensions combat skills into close quarters assaults, while ranged troops doubled down on the US tradition of devastating long-range precision fire. The two complemented each other, magnifying combat power.

US soldiers were famous for their rigorous training.

Even after becoming adventurers, they stuck strictly to their duties. None of the carefree, cocky style typical of many adventurers.

These were silent iron warriors.

A sharp-eyed officer marched over, posture ramrod straight, and snapped a salute.

“Sir!”

“Just call me Orgod,” Orson said, slightly embarrassed. That title still made his head throb.

“Iron Wolf. We’re your men now. If you need reinforcements, just give the word.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just take me to the tomb entrance.” Orson let out a dry laugh.

“Right this way, sir.”

Iron Wolf’s expression stayed stern, but his eyes burned. The soldiers around him wore the same look.

They were soldiers, yes, but also adventurers—long since familiar with the legends.

US Number 001. Lord of Forever City. The unrivaled juggernaut of all adventurers worldwide.

To see the Mage God of Infinite Dimensions in person—and even assist him—what an honor.

Iron Wolf waved him over to a Lynx IFV. Orson glanced around the towering trees and gestured for Aeloria to shift into her human form and come along.

“That tomb’s something unique—basically a secret realm. Here’s the mapped terrain we’ve scouted so far. It should lead you to the core chamber.”

Iron Wolf handed him a device that looked like a wristwatch. When Orson powered it up, a 3D holographic map hovered above it, marking each twisting fork where someone might get lost.

It showed Tomb 1 plunging nearly 10 kilometers underground—but ironically, the deepest point was just the threshold.

They’d tried sending teams in before. Always they were blocked by an enormous bronze door.

Efforts to drill in from the sides failed too, rebuffed by an invisible energy barrier.

Only after the world fusion began did the expert teams stationed here finally piece it together.

That bronze door was an ancient device—something close to a divine artifact—that required a special key inserted at precisely the right time.

“A key?” Orson muttered, puzzled. He checked his Heavenly Spirit’s Heart quest log. Not a word about any key.

“Are the Soul Seal eyes the keys?” he wondered.

He asked Iron Wolf if they had a picture of the bronze door.

Iron Wolf shook his head. Cameras simply wouldn’t capture it. It wouldn’t appear in any images.

Fortunately, someone had sketched a meticulous drawing by hand.

Orson studied it. The door’s centerpiece was a crouched bronze lion, muscular and full of power. Its head lifted proudly, eyes wide, exuding regal menace, as if ever watchful.

In the lion’s open jaws was a narrow slot, about the width of a hand.

Orson frowned. If the Soul Seal eyes were the keys, surely it wouldn’t look this archaic.

No—this was definitely some sort of slot mechanism. But was he supposed to gouge out his own eyes and cram them in there?

The Lynx IFV rolled to a stop at a military outpost. Tents were scattered about, along with heavy missile trucks.

At the base of a cliff sat a 10-meter-wide alloy gate, freshly constructed by the look of it.

Probably where the Ocular Demon had busted out.

Wait…

Orson’s brow twitched. “So if that giant eyeball Heaven Demon came out of here, shouldn’t there be a straight tunnel to the main tomb chamber?”

“That’s what we thought,” Iron Wolf said with a bitter laugh. “But nope. That direct path still leads right to the bronze door.”

A chill crawled up Orson’s spine.

Iron Wolf clearly guessed his thoughts. He gave a grim nod.

“If it had just smashed its way out, there’d be obvious signs of forced entry. But there aren’t. Someone—or something—let it out. This wasn’t random.”

Orson sucked in a cold breath.

“You’re saying…”

“Yes. This was deliberate.”

He raised a hand radio. “Open the gate.”

Dammit. Something still alive in there?

Was it possible that cunning old ancestor was still kicking?

As the alloy gate parted, a cold wind gusted out, raising goosebumps on Orson’s skin.

Someone had freed the Ocular Demon, luring it to join Orson’s side. That had obviously been part of a plan.

Meaning Sienna’s near-death quest for the Prismatic Gem, too, might’ve been orchestrated.

All to push Orson into smashing the Golden Divine Pillar and bringing the merged world early.

And since he carried two Super God-grade Soul Seals, his own ambitions would drive him to complete the Heavenly Spirit set—forcing him here, into the final trial.

If all that was true…

Then every step he’d taken, every thought he’d had, had already been dancing on someone else’s strings.

Orson didn’t believe in destiny. But what the hell was this crushing sense of inevitability?

He used to think the BlazeKings and gods were just strong lifeforms. They bled. They died.

Now that idea wavered.

He felt like a puppet with some vast hand gripping his head, pushing him forward.

“BlazeKing puppets,” Orson whispered, teeth chattering. His face drained of color.

The seraph had been right. They were weapons. Slaves to different factions.

No fundamental difference at all.

He sucked in a long breath and stared into the abyssal dark.

But it was too late to turn back. He had no other path.

“Captain! Drone recon just picked up a massive magical lifeform inbound!”

A panicked voice crackled over the radio.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

Anti-air cannons thundered overhead, lighting up the sky with blossoms of fire.

Orson reflexively looked up.

A Domain Lord-class chimera shrieked and spiraled out of the air, smashing through swathes of trees.

“Out of the way, idiots! If this thing squishes you it’s not my problem!”

A manic voice rang out. Orson blinked, stunned, as a scruffy middle-aged man came skidding along the ground.

“Who goes there?!”

Iron Wolf and the soldiers bristled, heavy weapons raising as a giant Vilitian beast barreled right into their perimeter.

“This guy… I think I know him.” Orson gaped.

The chimera wheezed, half riddled by heavy gunfire.

Off its back jumped a bearded man who immediately launched into a tirade.

“Barbarians! Blind sons of bitches! You dare shoot at your own ancestor?! I ought to tan every last one of your hides!”

Orson stared, dumbfounded.

Wasn’t this Wesley—the so-called “Fourth Saint Swordmaster of Pondenorlin City”?!

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