She paid it no mind.
Three hundred rounds.
The Lone Fang Sniper Rifle's magazine capacity.
When Yang Yong gave her the gun, he had told her to use it sparingly. It could save her life at a critical moment.
She had nodded then and taken it to heart.
But she had never expected those critical moments to come so soon, so relentlessly.
Dark figures closed in from every direction.
The high slope commanded an open view, perfect for sniping.
But it also meant she had nowhere to escape.
Long Ya gritted her teeth and pulled the trigger, again and again.
Flames spat from the barrel. The gunshots were sharp and rapid, like pebbles striking an iron plate.
Every dark figure she shot apart became a cloud of black, luminous mist, lingering in the air for two or three seconds before dissipating completely.
The luminous mist spread, forming a gray haze over the slope. Breathing it in left her throat dry and itchy, as though she had swallowed a handful of fine sand.
Two hundred rounds.
Two hundred and fifty rounds.
Long Ya could no longer feel her index finger.
She relied entirely on the muscle memory in her wrist to pull the trigger.
Her mind was blank. Tactics, positioning, cover-she could no longer spare a thought for any of them.
Only one thought remained: Shoot.
Fire.
Kill.
Two hundred and eighty-seven.
She counted under her breath, her voice drowned out by the ringing in her ears, a buzzing like someone had stuffed a swarm of bees inside them.
Her hearing grew muffled. Even the gunshots seemed to come from far away, dull, as though something lay between her and the sound.
She knew this was temporary hearing damage. It doesn't matter.
*As long as I can hold out until I've