Infinite Range: The Sniper Mage

Chapter 718: 718: The Self-Proclaimed God-Lord

They drifted downstream for over ten hours before coming ashore, guided by an old Firevenom map passed down through generations. Darulunina led the way, while Orson guarded the rear.

On the road they met plenty of low-level beasts, but these tribal youths were born hunters. Traps, teamwork, and quick blades—none of the creatures posed a threat. They skinned and butchered their prey with practiced ease, roasted the meat, and ate it all before moving on.

After days of climbing snowcapped ridges, the mountains suddenly opened up. Before them stretched a plain scarred by smoke and ruin. Several large towns smoldered, reduced to rubble.

“Beasts?” Darulunina asked.

“No,” Orson frowned, eyes narrowing. He could feel the remnants of unleashed elemental energy clinging to the air. “This is magic. Wide-area, destructive spells. To do this much damage, you’d need at least a thousand-man battle regiment, or one King-ranked mage casting multiple S-class spells in succession.”

When they entered one of the towns, most of the inhabitants were dead. Only a few frail elders and women survived, clawing through debris for anything usable.

“Damn those rebels to hell!” Nuhachit shouted, dragging a woman from the flames. His father had been slain by rebels; his hatred burned hot and deep.

“Help them,” Darulunina ordered, and the youths scattered to assist. But an entire town was beyond what a handful of adolescents could manage.

Orson sighed. Destruction was always easier than creation. He raised his staff, switching his attack to a simple Water Bolt. Elemental streams poured down, quenching fires wherever he directed them.

He already knew a little about these rebels. Uprisings had broken out many times in this world, but the latest rebellion had grown to an unprecedented scale, sweeping across much of the Sunforge. What began as intimidation—smashing homes, then retreating—had become outright massacres.

Any settlement that refused their demands was burned. Entire tribes were crushed or assimilated. Yet nobody knew their leader’s true face. They only whispered a name: the God-Lord.

One thing was certain—this lunatic wanted to gather all the adventurers of the Sunforge and break through the prison that sealed the world. He wasn’t the first madman to try, and he would not be the last.

Darulubus had known this. That was why he hid his tribe in the mountains, avoiding conflict, hoping to weather the storm.

“You’re going to the Sacred Mountain, aren’t you?” The rescued woman asked, eyes brimming with grief.

Orson brushed his face with Phantomcraft, shifting his features to match the Fireborn. He nodded calmly. “Yes.”

Darulunina beamed. If Orson was already handsome in his human form, in this Fireborn guise he looked like the Sunforge’s Brad Pitt.

“Don’t go!” The woman wept. “They’ve begun capturing unawakened youths. That’s why our village resisted. We refused to hand over our children, and this is what they did to us!”

“Bastards! What do they even want with the children?” Nuhachit cursed.

“They say the God-Lord found a way out of the Sunforge. He needs the unawakened to pave a road to the heavens!” she cried.

Darulunina’s fists clenched. “Once I awaken, I’ll rip him apart myself!”

“Thank you. We understand,” Orson said softly, then turned away.

He wanted to tell Darulunina and the others to turn back, but deep down he knew their home was already lost to chaos. Returning would only mean death.

They helped the villagers as best they could, left behind supplies, and continued their march.

Over the following days, villages grew fewer. Nearly all had been looted or destroyed. Sometimes they crossed paths with small bands of rebels mounted on strange eyeless steeds, beast mounts forced into submission by blindfolds.

Orson captured a few alive, but interrogation proved useless. They fought and died like zealots, never breaking even under torture, all of them screaming the same words before death: “For the Awakened!”

The words chilled him. They reminded him of the orc high priest and Lord Kaine of Pondenorlin, NPCs who should have been mindless scripts, yet seemed to glimpse the world’s truth.

Could it be… the God-Lord was one of the Sunforge’s surviving NPCs?

Orson couldn’t be sure.

On the road to the Sacred Mountain, they met many other adventurers making the same pilgrimage. Nobody wanted trouble—not when rebels were slaughtering towns and seizing children—so groups kept to themselves.

“Look! The banner of the Wolf Kingdom. Must be a prince or princess headed for the mountain.” Nuhachit elbowed Darulunina, pointing.

Across the suspension bridge ahead, a cavalry unit of a hundred warriors rode up. Silver wolf banners flew as they escorted gilded palanquins, shoving everyone else off the path.

“Can’t crush rebels, but they sure know how to bully us,” Darulunina spat.

The so-called kingdoms of this world were little more than tribal coalitions, shadows of the empires that had stood millennia ago. Even the five strongest had failed to crush the rebels—three were shattered, and the survivors were rumored to be aligning with the God-Lord. The Wolf Kingdom among them.

“I heard from another group—they say the Wolf Princess is marrying that so-called God-Lord.” Nuhachit snickered.

“Out of the way, whelps!” a guard barked.

“Bah! Cowards,” Nuhachit spat back, refusing to move.

The youths grumbled, glaring, but were hopelessly outnumbered.

“Let them pass,” Orson said calmly.

“At least you know your place, peasant,” a guard sneered, sneaking a grin as he strutted past.

Nuhachit, unwilling to yield completely, edged halfway into the palanquin’s path, planning to dart aside at the last moment and give them a scare.

The guard raised his whip instead. Crack! Blood welled across the boy’s back.

“You bastard!” Darulunina stormed forward, only for Orson to catch her arm.

“We’re just letting this go? You could kill them all with ease!” she cried.

“My brother, you must avenge me!” Nuhachit wailed dramatically.

The kids clamored, demanding blood. Orson raised the Supreme Arcane Blade.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

A moment later, each of them had a swelling lump on their heads. They rubbed their skulls, wide-eyed, staring at him like betrayed puppies.

“Use your brains for once, will you?” Orson sighed.

“Brains?” Nuhachit blinked innocently. “Are they stronger than biceps?”

“Idiot.”

Orson yanked his ear, pointing at the bridge’s thick chains. “Don’t you see? Wait until they’re all on the bridge, then cut the ropes. One strike. No survivors.”

The kids froze, mouths gaping.

Wasn’t the Godchild supposed to be the noble, heroic big brother type?

Since when was his heart this dark?

Darulunina’s cheeks flushed red.

So dark…

So ruthless…

So perfect. She loved it.