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墨書 Inktalez
Upon reaching Hawkeye, one cannot help but mention his sidearm, which is surprisingly powered by an unusual energy source.
The young man who approached the door after knocking had a prominent nose and striking blue eyes. He was quite tall, standing at nearly six feet three inches.
He did not carry his own sidearm; as a Sharpshooter of the Black Armored Troop, he lived a nomadic life, and his weaponry lacked specialized equipment. After all, any materialized firearm could be handled with ease. Two or three Black Armored attendants entered through a narrow passage behind him, and they had already selected an older model Sniper Rifle for him. It appeared to still use single-shot ammunition rather than being fully automatic.
Many marksmen in the Black Armored Troop used such firearms. During his training as a Sharpshooter, an instructor once told him that as a sniper, one should always treat each shot as if it were their last and ensure that it hits the target; otherwise, the consequences could be dire. Consequently, whenever he missed a shot during training, he was required to run a kilometer while carrying extra weight. Naturally, this instilled in him the mindset to treat every bullet as a final mission.
One of the attendants carried a metal case containing prepared anesthetic rounds.
Loading the Sniper Rifle for firing should not pose much of a challenge for him.
A middle-aged man's voice echoed again: "The tranquilizer rounds are ready; it's up to you to handle this guy. We need to completely neutralize his speed."
Hawkeye responded straightforwardly, "I understand."
The three turned to look at him simultaneously. After a moment of silence, one waved his hand dismissively. He understood that gesture—it essentially meant for him to act quickly without further discussion. Hawkeye was the most unique individual among the Black Armored Troop members; his communication style was blunt and minimalistic. His most common phrases were simply "yes" or "no," along with "maybe" or "not," making any inquiries pointless.
The layout here was different; each member of the Black Armored Troop had their own dynamic password on their military tags. The walls were equipped with machines capable of decoding these passwords. After scanning, these walls could automatically open and allow movement; they were more akin to secret doors than mere walls. This building was structured like that—a mechanical bunker rather than just an ordinary structure.
Hawkeye proceeded alone, without any attendants, carrying the weapon equipped with anesthetic toward his target.
At this moment, aside from Aran, only Freyr remained. Both were visibly fatigued, their expressions showing signs of strain. Their actions reflected a sense of helplessness; after being weakened and then empowered again, their energy levels varied significantly, making it difficult to maintain such abilities. Yet Freyr constantly thought about breaking through the opposition behind him, and then his figure transformed into a series of afterimages as he charged forward.
"Isn't he getting tired? How can he keep going?" Aran swallowed hard, watching Freyr's movements with a mix of disbelief and envy. In terms of bravado, he felt superior; physically, however, Freyr seemed to be at an ultimate level. Why could he maintain such an active mode? It baffled him.
Freyr knew that if he did not take down his opponent, he would not be able to break through. However, through his ability's infinite amplification, his senses gradually sharpened. Now he finally understood the changes happening around him—he realized that from the beginning, he had been running in circles in this place rather than moving in a straight line.
The structure of this building was entirely mechanical, a so-called Alchemical Machinery. Even with his sensory abilities heightened to the Ultimate level, he remained oblivious to it, as the Alchemical Machinery effectively suppressed his perception.
It wasn't as he had imagined, running in a straight line. Instead, due to his movement patterns, the Alchemical module continuously morphed in response, creating what he perceived as an illusion.
Realizing this now was better late than never; it was evident that this Alchemical module was indeed a terrifying presence.
As an enemy, he hadn't anticipated such an effect. It was like being trapped in an iron cage, with no corners to exploit.
Just as Aran began to entertain such thoughts, he felt a wall of force rushing toward him.
It was indeed a figure, but his ability to weaken had already been rendered ineffective against the opponent. He was struck hard in the chest and immediately sent flying backward.
It had only just begun; his enhancement and reverse weakening had complemented each other, keeping their speeds relatively balanced.
However, once they reached a certain limit, the equilibrium between them suddenly became fragile. This indirectly led to a situation where one side grew stronger while the other weakened, resulting in a collapse of balance.
Aran's weakening had become ineffective. As his reverse ability faded away, Freyr unleashed his original speed—one that Aran could not withstand.
It felt as if he had been crushed by a heavy truck. He flew backward and crashed into the wall, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
“No one has ever been able to stop me, and you won't be the first,” Freyr responded just as he sensed a sharp glint of cold light sweeping from behind him.
Indeed, another figure had emerged from behind. Aran lay on the ground, gasping for breath, with no intention of getting back up to continue fighting.
Engaging in a futile struggle would only serve to harm himself further, and Aran realized he certainly couldn't manage that.
Freyr turned around, and the shadow was approaching him as well. He sensed that the person had a gun in hand, and their posture looked awkward. Those deep blue eyes, like sapphires, glinted with a cold light, as if they could see through his every move, showcasing an exceptionally unique dynamic vision.
"Who are you? Didn't you see what happened to him?" Freyr pointed at Aran behind him and continued to respond.
"I don't care about his fate; I only care about my own honor. You are my prey, and I have already locked onto you. Don't even think about escaping; stay here." The pale face, cold as ice, spoke with a tone that was neither warm nor cold.
He probably spoke very little, so his voice sounded extremely chilling, sending shivers down Freyr's spine.
"Then don't blame me."
Freyr felt the other's gaze fixed intently on him, and he was confident in his own actions as he charged forward.
On the other side, Hawkeye's lips curled into a smirk. The muzzle of the gun suddenly flashed with a dark cold light, and a jet-black projectile was violently fired at him.
It was a needle, and he instantly felt as if it had pierced his leg.
The sensation was quite subtle; in the next moment, he rolled on the ground, a tingling numbness spreading from the edge of his leg. In an instant, he lost consciousness.
Then he felt his body being dragged away, but after that, he felt nothing at all.
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