Counterfeit Hero

Whether in movies, in life, or in real war, a sniper is always a term that makes people shudder and is filled with fantasies.

These mysterious killers in the eyes of ordinary people are the lone falcons of the battlefield. They stay away from the battlefield, scrutinize everything with sharp eyes, select a target, and strike with deadly precision.

Whether it’s a high-ranking officer or a cigarette glowing on and off in a trench at night, they all become just a name on the casualty list or a star on the sniper achievements leaderboard after a finger gently tightens in the depths of the smoke.

A sniper is the cold-hearted reaper in the void. They are shrouded in a fog that is difficult to dispel. They silently swing the scythe that reaps lives in the void, and then silently leave.

Very romantic, isn’t it? Unfortunately, all of this is bloody legends.

Fatty lay prone in a pile of decaying soil crawled with dead leaves, sticking his butt out. Stiff-necked, his eyes scanned back and forth through the scope. Among all the skills he painstakingly studied, conning people was his favorite. If being a pervert counted as a skill, Fatty would choose that too. Anyway, being a sniper was what he hated the most.

The reason why he practiced sniping so hard back then was that he was fooled by the legends. Because in his impression, a sniper didn’t have to hold a gun and stupidly charge forward. Hiding in a safe place, only shooting others. Such a good deal had enormous appeal to the Fatty who did not understand much and was scared to death.

In fact, unlike most people’s romantic imaginations, a sniper is perhaps the dullest, loneliest, and least romantic job in war.

No powerful advancements and collisions like the Mechanical Warrior. No thunderous charges and close combat like the infantry. No boiling blood, no sharing life and death. The sniper always changes positions repeatedly, selects targets, endures monotonous gunfire and explosions, endures hunger and cold, endures scorching sun, endures mosquitoes, and rats. All just for the moment of pulling the trigger.

Ancient snipers often had spotters. Modern snipers are lonely; they must find targets and make judgments by themselves. Their only partner is the sniper rifle that has replaced the spotter.

In sniper training, they often stand under the scorching sun or in the cold wind aiming for several or even dozens of hours with heavy training rifles. Their eyes are trained not to blink for long periods, and their arms must be steadier than a gun stock.

They spend their days dealing with environmental recognition, wind direction and speed, light, angle, stealth, firearms knowledge, timing, and listening. Many of them completed their training and went to the battlefield, dying in utterly obscure corners without firing a single shot.

That’s because they hide so well that no one knows where they are hiding.

Through the scope, the electronic identifier was already on, and Stephen’s height, weight, and appearance characteristics had been input by Fatty. Once a matching target appeared, the scope would automatically lock on and signal. This was the ultimate target. Among the secondary targets, Fatty had set the Gazalin shoulder insignia above Major General.

This sniper rifle, shaped like a Garand and made by Milan, used the most advanced scope that Leray could get. The Chuckna ’Eagle Eye 1300E’ with dual optical and electronic modes. In terms of value, this scope was twice the price of the sniper rifle it was mounted on.

And this sniper rifle was not cheap either. In fact, it was better than most top-notch sniper rifles used by the universe’s best snipers. Milan-made products never considered cost.

Thinking of Milan, Fatty squinted his eyes and rubbed his cheek against the Garand. The smooth gun body felt like Milan’s cool skin. After a moment of indulgence, he continued looking down through the scope.

At the south gate of Christers Base, dozens of heavy transport trucks were lined up to pass through several sentry posts. The Sentry Captain on duty was holding an electronic identity card handed over by the driver, checking fingerprints. Other sentries were climbing onto the trucks for inspection. Two old Gazalin Standard ’Holy Sword’ 14 Mechas stood on either side of the sentry post with energy cannons pointing straight, staring menacingly.

A truck that had passed inspection drove into the base. A squad of patrolling sentries marched in a straight line past the truck from opposite directions. On the left side of the patrol soldiers, in the parking lot, were several training mechas even older than the ’Holy Sword’ 14s at the gate. A maintenance team was crawling over several mechas doing repairs.

Not far away, on the east side of the oval training field, dozens of soldiers were gasping for breath as they trained on obstacle courses. A soldier with a body shape similar to Fatty’s was stuck on a six-meter wall and couldn’t get down. The officer below was shouting in anger. Another slim soldier was wading through knee-deep water, struggling to hold a heavy energy rifle while crying.

In the corridor beside the training field, two Colonels were talking. When they saw a Vice Admiral approaching, they quickly stood at attention and saluted. The hurried Vice Admiral did not know that his head was being aimed at by a sniper rifle from three kilometers away. He returned the salute perfunctorily, transferred the electronic folder in his right hand to his left, quickly crossed the steps to the small building door, and disappeared into the doorway beside the saluting sentry.

”Phew.” Fatty let out a soft breath. Finding key targets through related individuals was a common method for snipers. And this Vice Admiral, under Fatty’s surveillance, was already the seventeenth officer above Major General to enter this tightly guarded small building. From this, Fatty could be sure that even if Stephen was not there now, he would definitely appear at some point.