Pale Rider vaulted over the courtyard wall, climbed in through the window Bruce had smashed, grabbed the lamp from before, and brought it down on the dying Deep One.
The woman lying by the fireplace, still not dead, let out a scream. Pale Rider gestured for her to be quiet, picked up the bloodstained long gun from the floor, and realized it was a Springfield rifle.
It looked like something phased out after the war. Its maintenance left something to be desired, but it packed far more punch than the old hunting rifles common in the village. Most importantly, its scope was intact, which was extremely rare.
Most of the village's hunting rifles were Old Guns handed down from the previous generation. Even the models sold at the Shop were quite outdated, and crucially, they lacked scopes, severely limiting shooting accuracy.
The Springfield was also a World War II-era firearm, but with its intact scope, its effective accurate range could reach seven to eight hundred meters. That was more than enough in a village this small.
"Save me, save me!" the woman wailed. Her calf had been struck by a trident, and the bone in her leg had been completely shattered. She could not move at all now.
Pale Rider sighed and first examined the male corpse to her left. The trident had gone straight through his chest; there was no saving him. The person beside him still had a faint breath, but his stomach had been ripped open in a long gash, his intestines spilling out. Under these conditions, there was no way to treat him. He was doomed too.
The only one who still looked salvageable was the woman by the fireplace. With the gun in one hand and an arm under her waist, Pale Rider laboriously carried