Your Pistol Shooting is Excellent

BOOM!!!

Behind Russell's cool silhouette, the bulletproof car blazed from the violent explosion. The major shareholder's luxury ride held up well—even a grenade blast hadn't warped it. Given the cramped space inside and the grenade's power, the major shareholder never got to savor the thrill of being roasted alive; he was blown to bits on the spot.

Russell didn't look back at the explosion, thinking he should bring a pack of smokes next time for the swagger. But his coolness lasted less than three seconds. After a few steps, he face-planted hard. A bullet whizzed past where he'd just stood. Tracking the gunshot's source, he rolled into a spin and ducked behind a car.

Host has encountered plot character Hertz. Triggering lottery round. Draw now?

He had no clue who Hertz was, but if the system tagged him as a "plot character," he wasn't some background nobody.

Hertz was no nobody. He was the Short Leader who'd been hounding Smith relentlessly—a face like a small-time schmuck, a bit pudgy, but under that comical exterior hid a cruel and wicked heart.

Hertz used to be an FBI forensic expert consultant, skilled at handling bodies and analyzing criminals' psychology from subtle clues. His reputation landed him gigs with big shots who hired him as a private assistant to handle shady business.

Like Russell, Hertz was born with a gift: after brief contact, he could read a person's mind through words and body language, figuring out what they were thinking and what they'd do next.

With that innate talent, he navigated between factions, riding high and living large.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Didn't expect another crack shot like Smith besides him. Tell me, where are the woman and the kid?" Hertz hid in the bushes, having seen Russell's freakish aim. He wasn't about to step out and get himself killed.

"Your boss is dead. What's the point of dragging this out?"

Russell talked while pulling up the system interface to start his favorite part—the lottery. He got an Item Card.

Item Card: Hertz's Fingerprint Pistol (Only fires after verifying Hertz's fingerprint. Prevents misfires, lowers crime rates, and can't be stolen by enemies. A loyal, principled pistol.)

Russell: "..."

What a piece of junk. Total waste of my excitement!

While Russell played with his lottery, Hertz started applying verbal pressure: "Heh, you don't think I only work for Harmosen, do you?"

"I've got plenty of employers. Losing Harmosen doesn't change a thing. Actually, I should thank you—since Smith killed the senator, I landed a big new contract. Take you out, and I can say goodbye to the past."

Hertz crowed smugly, but Russell could hear the bitterness underneath. Picturing the guy grinding his teeth, he couldn't resist a jab: "After all that talk, you're just a hired hand. Poor bastard!"

"Cut the crap. Tell me—"

Hertz ducked behind a tree, snorting at Russell's mockery. Then, out of nowhere, a pistol pressed against his temple. Smith had materialized from somewhere.

"Damn it!"

Hertz stared, speechless, at the military dog crouching at Smith's feet. No mistake—it was the same dog he'd brought along. The dog sat obediently by Smith, wagging its tail happily. Catching Hertz's furious glare, it bared its teeth and snarled back.

"I like dogs. They're man's best friend, aren't they?"

"Crap. Screw 'best friend'!"

Bang!

Smith pulled the trigger and blew Hertz's head off. Russell walked over from behind the car, rolling his eyes at the military dog.

"Smith, you're two minutes late."

Smith holstered his pistol: "No. Right on time."

Two days later, in some small town in North Carolina, Smith decided to retire from the game. He and Quintana would change identities, settle down as farmers, and live out the rest of their lives in peace.

They planned to get married soon, and the baby naturally became their first child.

A perfect ending. Everything looked great. Smith and Quintana were thrilled with their new home. Russell, not so much—because he'd paid for the land.

A bank card with 500,000 USD—unnamed, non-reportable, no cash withdrawals, but usable on POS machines. Russell figured it wasn't much use, but when he actually swiped it, he couldn't help feeling the sting all afternoon.

With his worries behind him, Smith threw himself into teaching Russell, passing on every skill he had. He saw Russell as a friend—the kind who'd die for you—and taught with everything he had.

The fastest way to learn was through real combat. No amount of theory beat a few live-fire exchanges. On that, Smith and Cross saw eye to eye. He took Russell into the jungle for live drills, pulling his punches at first, deliberately missing. Only after learning about Russell's freakish talent did he start going all out.

A max-level player carrying a noob—Russell soaked up XP like crazy. Breakthroughs came easiest at the edge of life and death. His brain raced, his muscles locked in the moves through repetition, and within days, Smith was eating some humble pie.

The Subway Police's residual memories and experience buried in Russell kept surfacing. He improved at a visible pace. Plus, the two one-time skills he'd equipped before—One Hundred Percent Accuracy and Bullet Time—had given him an insane feel for shooting. He couldn't perfectly replicate those god-tier abilities, but the system acknowledged he'd earned a permanent skill.

Skill: Pistol Mastery (Your pistol shooting is excellent)

Compared to the high-level skills he'd tasted, Pistol Mastery seemed ordinary. But Russell felt a surge of motivation. When the system prompt rang out, a truth suddenly dawned on him.

The system wasn't the ultimate cheat. It was just the key to traveling through countless worlds—and that key unlocked endless resources!

A week passed. Once Russell had mastered the new skill, Smith told him there was nothing left to teach.

The master opens the door; the disciple walks the path. From here on, it was all on Russell.

Russell didn't say much. That night, they cracked open red wine, and Quintana prepared a feast. A farewell dinner. Both men drank their fill.

The next afternoon, Russell climbed into the Ford Pickup, turned the key, and waved at Smith.

"Honestly, even if it was short, I can say for sure—you're the worst killer I've ever met. Your talent is just pathetic!" Smith was looking forward to his new life. The steel-hard man had been smiling more lately, and he ribbed Russell at their parting.

Russell snorted, pulled the unnamed bank card from his pocket, and flung it in Smith's face.

Smith blinked, stunned. The card hit the ground. He frowned: "What's this? You think throwing money around changes my opinion of you?"

Russell shot Smith a haughty glance, radiating big-shot energy: "Broke-ass. There's about 300,000 USD in there!"

Without a word, Smith picked up the card, tucked it into his inner pocket, and gave Russell a thumbs-up: "I take back what I said. You're a goddamn genius!"

The two exchanged a smile and bumped their fists together in the air.

"By the way, are you coming to mine and Quintana's wedding?"

"Sorry, I'll probably miss it—I'm still a wanted man." Russell shrugged, and under Smith's gaze, drove off in the Ford.

"I was going to say I still need a best man... Well, good luck!"

Only when the pickup's shadow had vanished did Smith turn and head toward his new home. At the doorstep, he saw Quintana holding their baby. He wrapped his arms around mother and child, and even planted a kiss on Quintana's forehead.

Quintana traced her fingers across her beloved man's face, running them over the chiseled contours of his features. "What's wrong? You're in a bad mood?"

"No, not at all... Alright, you're right, maybe a little disappointed."

"Leave it to me—I've got a way to cheer you up right now!"

Quintana broke into a smile, her fingers sliding from Smith's chin down to his chest, tracing a small circle before continuing downward.

"I like that plan. I can't even remember who Russell is anymore!"

Please support me—I'm down on my luck!