Infinite Range: The Sniper Mage

“We really hit the jackpot.”

Even Orson was stunned by the sheer haul.

Loot drops from NPCs were significantly more lucrative than those from monsters—but the difficulty of killing them was in a whole different league.

And this time, the Empire army hadn’t come from just one faction—it was a mix of the Ghostfang Frostwolf Clan, the Barbarians, the Holy Church, and Imperial Nobles. That meant armor and weapons were easier to piece into 3-piece or 6-piece sets. Even among hero- and legendary-grade accessories, there were hundreds of complete collections.

“All of these are Forbidden Magic-tier, level 70 and above,” Madman muttered, eyes gleaming green. “Two per guild? Giving them 20% of the spoils is already being generous.”

This batch alone was conservatively worth one to two hundred million gold, even accounting for the fact that the massive gear drop would cause market prices to tank across the board.

“No, it’s not excessive. But look further ahead. You’re good at managing loyalty, aren’t you?” Orson said, smiling faintly.

Madman gritted his teeth, clearly still frustrated. “We agreed Godslayer gets 40%, and the other guilds split the remaining 60%.”

“But you saw it yourself. Our guys carried the whole thing. We took down almost every boss.”

Orson understood the implication. And honestly, even if Godslayer took 80%—or 90%—of the loot, the other guilds wouldn’t dare complain.

But this… this was just crumbs.

Besides the King Family and Moonlight Guild, their long-time allies, most of the other guild leaders had joined Orson’s suicidal raid without any guarantee of survival. That alone was a show of respect.

If they had lost, those guilds would’ve faced total collapse. Funding—gone. Members—scattered.

Orson wasn’t some bleeding-heart philanthropist. Of course he wanted Godslayer’s core to grow stronger.

But the guild had always operated under an elite-unit model. With limited manpower, they couldn’t possibly hold off the Empire’s millions alone. Strong allies weren’t optional—they were essential.

He needed those other guilds to taste success. To feel like following Orson meant fortune and glory.

Fear could only control people for a while. Real loyalty came from shared spoils.

At its core, this war wasn’t just Godslayer versus the Empire.

It was all US players versus the entire Empire.

“Steady gains, brother. We’ll earn far more in the long run.” Orson clapped Madman on the shoulder with a grin.

“Earn your ass! I quit! I’m done!” Madman immediately collapsed onto the ground, looking totally defeated.

“Unfortunately, your resignation has been rejected.”

“Bullshit! You call this leadership?! I’m literally dying here.”

“I’ll find you some assistant waifus. Deal?”

“Done!”

The moment he heard the word waifu, Madman sprang to his feet, shooting Orson a suggestive wink. “Pick some pretty ones, alright?”

“You’re unbelievable…”

Orson shook his head with a chuckle. “Distribute loot based on performance and battlefield merit. Skill books—you guys pick first, then the rest.”

“But all gear handed out to guild members is not allowed to be resold. Anyone caught selling it… well, they’ll handle it themselves.”

“What do you mean?” Madman frowned, puzzled.

“If players can just go buy gear off the auction house, who’s going to bother crafting it anymore?” Orson smirked.

Madman’s eyes narrowed. He dropped his voice. “Something big’s about to go down in the UJ zone, isn’t it?”

“What else?”

Orson nodded calmly. In the UJ zone, under Naoko’s leadership, the local resistance had been brutally dismantled by the player alliance.

At this point, UJ had effectively become Godslayer’s private mining colony.

Three allied guilds served as its enforcers. Any disobedience was met with swift, merciless punishment.

The hardworking UJ locals? Perfectly suited for the role of elite miners.

By hoarding all the Empire’s dropped gear, Orson could rapidly boost the alliance’s power and prevent a market crash.

And with the World War phase about to begin, massive shipments of soul crystals from UJ would see their prices skyrocket. Just from trading those alone, they’d rake in a fortune.

Skill books were a different story. They weren’t restricted.

Leveling up skills cost absurd amounts of gold. Most players, even if they got a high-grade skill book, couldn’t afford to max it out quickly—so it wouldn’t disrupt the market too much.

Also, since learning skills didn’t require a level cap, the books could be absorbed within the guild instead of flooding public channels.

Madman passed on Orson’s plan to Magical Fiancée and the other guild leaders.

All loot was temporarily stored in Godslayer’s guild warehouse, to be distributed when time allowed.

“I trust your guild’s reputation. No problem at all.”

The other guild leaders agreed without hesitation. They’d only expected to nibble on scraps—but Godslayer had given them real meat.

Why complain?

Orson smiled silently. He could see the hunger in their eyes.

Even billionaires couldn’t ignore temptation on this scale. With just a bit of careful networking, the number of guilds joining the alliance would only grow.

Where else in the world could you mass-plunder NPCs like this?

Nowhere.

Orson instructed Madman to lead a squad to Riftrock City to reinforce Bradley’s team.

Meanwhile, the Crimson Lizard King’s duel with two tribal monarchs was reaching its climax.

Their battle was no less earth-shaking than the war against the Empire’s army.

Mountains crumbled. Land split open. An area over a hundred kilometers wide had been turned into scorched earth.

The Lizard King stood tall, bone sword soaked in blood, eyes sharp as blades. Her HP was down to one-third, but she still hadn’t played her last card.

The other two kings? Wrecked.

The Barbarian King, despite his Titan lineage, had half his body melted by dragonfire. His face was down to exposed skull, and he dragged his shattered form like a beast cornered.

The Ghostfang Frostwolf King had both arms severed. His Saint Lord mount had already been slain—its corpse devoured by the Lizard King, leaving only a massive, bloodied wolf head lying on the ground.

Eyes still open in death.

“Was it really worth it—becoming Jenonis’ lapdog?”

Orson walked up slowly, a wry smile on his face. His eyes glowed as Bright Galaxy shimmered around him.

The Lizard King shifted into her dragon form and flew to Orson’s side, shedding blood and scales along the way. He winced, visibly pained by the sight.

He reached out to pat her head, but she turned away, clearly annoyed. Those blood-red eyes glared at him with a tsundere level of pride.

“Don’t get cocky just yet, Kingslayer,” the barbarian high priest growled, black light pulsing from his battered body. “Even if our vanguard falls, our true power will rise—and that’ll be your end!”

“You didn’t win with honor,” the Frostwolf King spat. “Without the God-Emperor’s relics, you wouldn’t have made a dent.”

Orson didn’t flinch.

He looked between the two kings. Their King’s Authority boosted the combat strength of their tribes. Based on his past experience collecting King-class Laws, killing them wouldn’t yield much.

His Supreme Soul Disc could only hold a limited number of fragments. To unlock the War Supreme set, he needed six Demi-God Supreme-class souls.

Wasting slots on weak rules was pointless.

At best, killing these two would drop some gear.

And the Lizard King’s skill Picky Eater only worked on dragonkin, so letting her eat them was also a waste.

“You’ve got two choices.”

Riding atop the Crimson Lizard King, Orson hovered above the broken kings, voice cold:

“One—reveal your class awakening line to my allies and swear your tribes to serve me.”

“Two—die like the worthless failures you’ve become. Your descendants will rot as wraiths, bearing witness as we ascend the path of the Godslayer.”

“Ridiculous! I carry the blood of the Primordial Titans. You think I’d bow to some raiding scum like you?!”

The barbarian priest laughed maniacally.

Orson didn’t even blink. “Then tell me—why do you die in service of the angels? Are your giant knees just too soft, or does your faith mean nothing?”

That shut the priest up cold.

Three seconds later, he broke down and screamed, “I’ll kill you, you filthy mongrel!”

Orson’s grin never wavered. One sentence—just one—and he’d shattered the Titan’s pride.

Twelve Primordial Titans, the first gods of Infinite Dimensions, had once ruled all.

Their pets could go toe-to-toe with dragons. Their civilization was dazzling beyond imagination. They could mock the entire multiverse.

And yet, they’d ended up annihilated.

Now, their descendants survived by licking boots.

Orson had learned all this from the rule left behind by the half-beast high priest—Dragon God’s Library.

Thanks to the help of his guildmates, he’d finally had time to decode it.

“And you—Ghostfang Frostwolf Clan. Once called ‘Outlanders’ by the Empire. But once upon a time, didn’t you worship the Frost Wolf Spirit?”

Orson’s gaze sliced like a blade. “So even eternal faith can be worn away by time… what a pity.”

“Your words won’t sway us,” the Frostwolf King said softly. But his eyes flicked toward the sky—and there was fear there.

Orson’s eyes narrowed.

He saw it.

And he knew—

They were terrified of something.