Grisha gripped the gun in his hand, trembling slightly.
He was disabled and exempt from conscription. He had come to the South Continent as an engineer.
Grisha himself had volunteered to come to the battlefield.
He did not like battle. This place had taken his legs, yet he had still returned, hoping his experience might prove useful and save those who still had their legs.
Grisha looked at the gun in his hands, then at the wall of water ahead.
His experience did not seem very useful anymore.
No one knew what a war against gods would be like. The allied forces could only make more preparations, then pray.
If it was a tsunami, the soldiers hiding in the permanent fortifications would probably survive. Grisha was not far from a bunker, but his prosthetic limbs were far less agile than legs. He would not make it there.
Perhaps all he could do was pray.
The wall of water surged forward and crashed against Angelita's church. The towering church held firm, but the walls of water on either side continued pressing in.
This was the battlefield. Before he had even truly seen the enemy, he was about to die. Experience, preparation, weapons—none of them mattered. All he could do was pray to fate and beg for illusory luck.
It seemed he could only pray.
Grisha shook his head. He raised his gun, carefully aimed at the Enemy of Humanity in the distance, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet whistled across the battlefield and struck the Enemy of Humanity with a crisp clang. It left no mark before falling into the sea.
Grisha saw it all.
His expression did not change in the slightest. He worked the bolt, ejected the casing, ignored the wall of water about to crash down on his