[Absolute Gunmastery][Danger Perception][Lesser Blade Sense]
They hovered in the darkness of his mind.
Not like gifts.
Like infections.
Two green. One white.
Silent. Watching.
Qin Tian didn't feel stronger.
Didn't feel faster.
But something inside him had changed—something subtle, invasive. As if invisible hands had rewired parts of him while he wasn't looking.
He tried to ignore it.
Went back to carrying corpses.
One after another.
Dead weight.
Cold flesh.
Split skin.
The smell seeped into everything—his lungs, his throat, his thoughts. It clung, refusing to leave, like the memory of something he hadn't experienced yet… but would.
No more light spheres appeared.
A quiet disappointment stirred.
Not fear.
Not relief.
Just calculation.
Still too weak.
Even with three talents, the conclusion didn't change.
On the battlefield, he would die.
The only uncertainty was how soon.
Metal wheels shrieked across the ground.
A transport vehicle approached.
Qin Tian didn't look up immediately.
He didn't need to.
[Danger Perception] pulsed faintly—like a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
Not danger.
Just… awareness.
Voices followed.
"…Golan Heights…"
"…heavy losses…"
"…retreat…"
"…three days…"
Fragments.
But enough.
Three days.
That was how long his life was expected to last—whether he survived them or not.
Then the bodies came.
Dropped.
Not placed.
Discarded.
The Green-skinned Orcs hit the ground like collapsing structures.
Even dead, they radiated violence.
Their muscles were grotesque, overgrown, like something that had forgotten its proper shape. Their skin—rotting, layered with scars and infection—looked less like flesh and more like something cultivated.
Artificial.
Wrong.
The smell—
Qin Tian's stomach convulsed.
For a moment, something human surfaced.
Disgust.
Rejection.
He crushed it immediately.
The others didn't react.
So neither could he.
"Groups of four."
Movement.
Mechanical.
Perfect.
Qin Tian stepped forward, already scanning.
Not consciously.
The decision had already been made somewhere deeper.
He chose the largest corpse.
More mass.
More potential.
His hand wrapped around its wrist.
Rough.
Thick.
Dead—
Something moved.
Not physically.
Internally.
Swoosh.
Two green lights tore free from the corpse and plunged into him.
[High-Tier Strength] (Green)[Quick Recovery] (Green)
Pain followed.
Immediate.
Intimate.
His bones didn't just ache—they shifted. Like something was forcing them into a more efficient shape.
His muscles tightened violently, fibers compressing, condensing—
Improving.
Optimizing.
Replacing.
His breath hitched.
For a fraction of a second—
He almost screamed.
But he didn't.
Because none of the others did.
Because something inside him wouldn't allow it.
The pain faded.
Too quickly.
Leaving behind—
Strength.
Raw. Dense. Controlled.
Qin Tian flexed his fingers slightly.
It felt… good.
That was the disturbing part.
Is this how it starts?
The thought surfaced uninvited.
Adaptation?
Or erosion?
With [Quick Recovery], even the lingering pain dissolved rapidly, like it had never existed.
His body was already forgetting.
Healing.
Resetting.
Preparing for the next damage.
As if it expected it.
As if it needed it.
He lifted the corpse with the others.
Walked.
Observed.
Every clone was different—
But identical.
Faces blank.
Eyes empty.
No hesitation.
No resistance.
They weren't suppressing emotion.
They simply didn't have any.
Qin Tian copied them perfectly.
But inside—
He could feel something slipping.
Not sanity.
Not yet.
Something quieter.
Something more important.
Weight.
The weight of life.
The difference between alive and dead.
Between killing and surviving.
It was getting thinner.
The corpse hit the ground.
He turned immediately.
Searching.
Wanting another.
Needing another.
But there were no more.
For the first time—
He felt something sharp.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Hunger.
"Gather!"
The command snapped through the air.
The clones assembled instantly.
Qin Tian moved with them.
Perfectly synchronized.
Perfectly obedient.
And somewhere deep inside—
He realized something that unsettled him more than the battlefield ahead.
He hadn't chosen to obey.
The Shooting Range
The explanation was simple.
Orcs were weapons.
Clones were tools.
Weapons destroyed.
Tools were used.
Repeatedly.
Until they broke.
A rifle was placed in his hands.
Cold metal.
Standard issue.
Unremarkable.
But the moment he touched it—
Everything changed.
The world… aligned.
The weapon wasn't external anymore.
It was an extension.
No—
It was more accurate to say he had become an extension of it.
His breathing adjusted automatically.
His posture corrected itself.
His vision narrowed.
Focused.
Perfect.
The target in the distance—
Expanded.
Every detail sharpened.
Wind.
Distance.
Angle.
Probability.
All calculated.
All certain.
There was no hesitation.
Because hesitation required doubt.
And doubt—
Had been removed.
Is this me…
The thought barely formed.
…or the talent?
His finger tightened.
Smooth.
Controlled.
Inevitable.
Bang.
For a split second—
There was silence inside him.
Then—
A faint flicker.
Not recoil.
Not satisfaction.
Something colder.
Efficiency.