Infinite Range: The Sniper Mage

“Don’t know how to shut up? Then shut the hell up!”

Orson’s face flushed as he lashed out in the team chat.

Sure, his relationship with Blank was… complicated.

But it definitely wasn’t at the “alone in a room all night” level.

Even though… yeah, that had kind of happened before.

And okay, he’d admit it—the feel had been incredible. Really, top-tier.

Still, no matter how much in-game power bled into his real-life self, Orson was self-aware enough to know:

Being alone with someone like Blank—one of the Bruce Family—made his entire body instinctively tense up.

“The Spirit Tribe… born assassins,” Orson muttered under his breath.

In the world of Infinite Dimensions, two things defined top-tier rogues:

The Dark Spirit Tribe, and the True Spirit Tribe.

Both were pinnacle stealth classes—ruthless, elegant, and terrifyingly efficient.

[Spirit Tribe: Moonstep] – An A-rank movement awakening skill.

+100% Agility for 2 minutes, +100% Crit Damage.

[Shadowfang Assault] – An A-rank assassination awakening skill.

Auto-evades one attack, grants Ravage buff: next hit becomes a guaranteed Fatal Strike.

These were signature Spirit Tribe techniques, obtainable only via SS-class Phantomblade Assassin class quests or specialized assassination trials. No drop loot, no market listings—only earned through blood and blades.

In Orson’s past life, anyone with a shot at learning Spirit Tribe skills would’ve sold their souls to run errands, lick boots, or worse, for even the chance to access them.

And the US Bruce Family?

They were literal assassins in the real world—elite in ambushes, reflexes, nerve control, and kill efficiency.

This class wasn’t just designed for them; it was practically coded by them.

So it was no surprise that Blank, the most talented of them all—

The one who (on someone’s very specific suggestion) got her first PvP kill—

Would unlock the SS-Class: Phantomblade Assassin. It fit her like a glove.

6x Crit – 140,000!

Crippling Strike – 220!

Fatal Strike – 12,000,000!

True Bleed – 130,000!

…

“You Spirit Tribe bastards—cowards in the dark!”

Daloré’s voice thundered across the field, furious at being played like a fiddle by Blank’s Moonstep.

Normally, Orson mused, Blank wouldn’t have this kind of burst.

Her base agility, even with enhancements, should’ve kept her only even with Daloré’s slower, power-focused style.

But with Stewart’s buffs, the Spirit Tribe’s own movement perks, and her Soul Seal stacking…

She was breaking reality.

Even Orson couldn’t track her moves anymore.

Even Bradley, who had reaction-boosting buffs, was just barely managing.

What the others saw?

Blank dancing around Daloré’s massive body, slashing again and again—leaving the dragon king looking like a pincushion covered in crimson holes.

“1.26 hits per second?!”

Madman swallowed hard.

As one of the group’s two rogues, and someone with boosted stats, he could see her blades piercing over and over—

Which only made it all the more insane.

“This is starting to freak me out.”

Even Orson had to admit: Blank’s Soul Seal bleed damage was stacking so hard, it had already passed 300,000 DPS.

Daloré was being turned into a walking training dummy.

And still Blank moved like a phantom.

Her eyes gleamed with chilling calm.

“A dragon king… is not an untouchable god.”

That thought simmered in her eyes as she closed in once more.

Then, over team chat—

Blank: “Orson. This was meant for you.”

Orson: “Can’t we just… sit down and talk about this?”

Blank: “Not even a little.”

Everyone blinked.

Madman, Stewart, Bradley—they all stared blankly.

Did… did Orson actually do something to her!?

Was there some drama they didn’t know about?

Daloré’s desperate swings turned into wild arcs. But he couldn’t stop her.

And while he flailed, Bradley and the others unleashed hell.

In less than a minute, thanks to Denoka’s percentage-based Dragon Breath, Daloré lost 250 million HP.

“I’ll bury you all!”

Daloré bellowed, shifting into full dragon form.

He roared, trying to squash Blank with sheer size and mass.

“Now!”

Blank’s eyes sharpened. With just seconds left on her Moonstep, she leapt onto her raptor and vanished into the sky.

“Go go go! His Body Domination isn’t off cooldown yet!”

Madman shouted.

“No mana and you still dared to transform? You idiot. Take this!”

Bradley grinned, merging his twin blades. Magic flared around him as he activated the one thing they’d been holding in reserve—

Light-Dark Arcanum: Dimensional Rift Slash!

The bigger the boss, the easier it was to hit.

And Daloré was now massive.

Not only that, but transforming had a 30-second cooldown—

He couldn’t dodge this.

“Get in there!”

Bradley’s sword carved through the air, unleashing black-and-white light that tore open a 10-meter rift across Daloré’s back.

“You filthy insect!!”

Daloré roared, struggling as his enormous form began to collapse inward.

He tried to grab onto a nearby tower—

But the rift’s pull was too strong.

And just like that—

He was dragged in.

The void sealed shut.

The battlefield went still.

“Holy shiiit—if we just keep doing that, and he’s out of mana… we might actually kill him!”

Madman shouted.

Then—

CRASH!

The rift reopened.

Out came a mangled humanoid body—

Daloré.

Fatal Strike – 410 million!

Everyone stared in stunned silence.

“…Am I really that strong?”

Bradley wiped his face.

Stewart: “Money Traveler, bro… that was next-level.”

Blank: “Percentage-based skills hitting that hard?”

Madman: “Yo, Blank. You showboated for two minutes and barely got 100 mil. This is real DPS!”

Blank: “All I needed was enough to kill you.”

Her icy glare shut him up instantly.

Madman started whistling innocently. Bradley chuckled beside him.

Despite the banter, everyone knew the truth—

They were in sync. That hit only worked because their coordination had been flawless.

Without it, Daloré would’ve shrugged it off again.

Then—

Daloré, half-dead and sprawled on the ground, began to chant.

“Merciful Ancient Dragon God… I, your most humble child… bear your courage across the stars…”

“Forgive me…”

“Witness me…”

A sorrowful, ancient hymn echoed across the battlefield.

Orson’s heart seized.

The flowers were turning purple.

No—not just the flowers.

The entire Garden of Ten Thousand Flowers was morphing into a ghostly, violet domain.

Daloré’s lavender blood crawled outward like snakes, coating the entire palace in an eerie web.

Forbidden Curse.

Orson’s pupils contracted.

Daloré was going all in.

This was his final move.

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