Counterfeit Hero

Fatty was all too familiar with these Generals and nobility of the Gazalin Military. The SkyNet images taken by the little kid, combined with the command forces of the Stephen Group, all pointed to the same place. At such a critical moment in the Jiacuo battle situation, who else besides Stephen could gather so many Senior Officers here?

Now, it seemed, all that was needed was to wait.

The crosshair gently moved. The small building was a typical Tanville structure, with slender windows and a heavy door. It stood three stories tall and was U-shaped when viewed from above. The gabled roof featured several windows akin to attic rooms. The entire building’s beige walls were covered in Evergreen Vine. Compared to other buildings in the base, this small building’s location and design were quite unobtrusive. It looked more like an old university library.

Fatty was naturally not deceived by the building’s exterior. Such buildings existed in almost every base in Gazalin. The Mythical Army’s North Building 2 was an example. When constructing bases, these buildings, used as gathering spots for military leaders and command ranks, typically had high-strength alloys as their walls. In other words, under the small building’s old exterior lay a skeleton of reinforced steel.

The several rooftop attic rooms were actually small anti-aircraft missile bases. At least one platoon of soldiers in there was responsible for aiming missiles at any aircraft entering the no-fly zone. The layout surrounding the small building was also well-thought-out, guarded by other structures and the Armored Camp, missile launchers, and fire points dispersed around. Impenetrable.

Entering the building was out of the question. Fatty believed that even if he could sneak into the base, the moment he approached that small building, at least a hundred pairs of eyes and a hundred guns would simultaneously lock onto him.

Fatty, like a plump earthworm, carefully shrank his body into the dirt covered with decaying leaves and twigs, exposing only his eyes and sniper rifle. Although he donned protective clothing, the biological detection radar in the enemy base was not to be underestimated. If exposed above-ground for too long, he could end up leaving his flesh behind here.

Two Warhawk armored fighters took off from the distant horizon of the base, soaring through the sky, roared past just above Fatty’s head. The mountain wind blew, rustling the treetops, sending a few startled birds flapping their wings into the air, circling a few times before returning to the woods.

A Mozrich-specific three-step viper slithered through the fallen leaves, came to a spot not far from Fatty, flicked its tongue, lifted its head slightly bobbing left to right, then changed direction and slithered away. Among the dried leaves, two faint noises sounded, then silence ensued.

Fatty disregarded everything happening around him. He pressed his face against the stock of the gun, eyes through the scope, resembling a lifeless stone sculpture. His body had thoroughly merged with the environment. Heartbeat, only forty beats per minute. Not more, not less. His breathing was long, even, and faint.

The sniper rifle remained ready to fire. The crosshair of the scope hovered over the doorway of the small building. Although ”waiting beside the tree” described a foolish strategy, for a sniper, it was a common approach. The difference between the sniper and the farmer was that the sniper was more patient and chose the tree most likely to encounter a rabbit.

In the scope, two Sentries standing to the left of the small building partially blocked the door. Descending the steps in front of the doorway, several large trees and the plants of the garden created a semi-obscure space. What seemed like a sizable gap could cause significant difficulty for a sniper kilometers away if the target was moving. If the target were accompanied by guards or others, the possibility of assassinating the target was virtually nonexistent.

The scope’s crosshair, synchronized with Fatty’s breath, swayed back and forth like a swing between the doorway and the few steps in front of the door. This distance was Fatty’s only chance to strike Stephen. Once Stephen moved past this position, the success rate of the sniping would diminish by eighty percent. Forcing a shot would be extremely unwise for any sniper targeting an important figure.

After being buried in the muck for so long, blood circulation was beginning to falter. Fatty adjusted his breathing pace. A thousand miles of airdrop, a long-distance raid—this entire journey led to this sole opportunity.

His finger rested half a centimeter from the trigger. Eyes and heartbeat were the only parts of his body still functioning.

The rest of his body felt no longer his. For a competent sniper, the body becomes one with nature, with the soil, trees, and mountains. After assuming sniping position, what a sniper needs to embody is greater composure and tranquility than the surrounding forest.

Before SkyNet, a deadly silence loomed. How SkyNet infiltrated the counter-detection systems and captured the footage was now irrelevant. Waiting was a torment. This torment mirrored the stone-like Fatty buried in the mud, highlighting its intensity.

The Christers Base remained bustling and busy. Convoys, Mecha, soldiers came and went. Training on the training ground had concluded; a chubby and a lean soldier were left behind by the training officer, scolded fiercely. In the distance, patrolling fighters took off, and landed. Yet Stephen still hadn’t appeared. Those Senior Officers who had entered the small building seemed to have vanished, too.