Infinite Range: The Sniper Mage - Chapter 725: Please, Just Don’t Say a Word

Chapter 725: 725: Please, Just Don’t Say a Word

“Thirty years is too long. I only race against the day.” Orson smiled as he spoke.

The party regrouped and pressed on.

The First Heaven was vast; it took them nearly two hours just to scale through it. At the top they found a narrow plank path carved by earlier climbers, wide enough for a single body to inch across.

That path led as high as the Thirtieth Heaven. Beyond that, the mountain offered no easy handholds. From there on it was sheer cliffs, and survival rested entirely on strength and skill.

The rock here was harder than steel ore, though not quite fit for forging gear. Higher heavens meant tougher stone. By the time one reached the Fiftieth, the cliff face was said to rival divine artifacts in durability.

Orson studied the gouges and scars left in the cliff. Generations of Fireborn had tried to carve a road for later climbers—iron chains, anchors, supports. Most gave up halfway. Only this plank path still held.

“For this one road, countless of our elders buried their bones here…” Darulunina sighed. She lit three sticks of incense and slid them into the tiny shrine cut into the path wall.

The idol inside startled Orson—it was the goddess of chaos, Tiamat.

He learned that every awakener made offerings here. They prayed she would guide them through the chaos ahead.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. Orson was the Chaos Sovereign himself, heir to Tiamat’s legacy. In theory that made him her first disciple. The “big disciple” was climbing his master’s shrine. He had to smirk.

“If only someone could build a single road to the summit,” Estrella breathed out, white fog curling her lips. “So everyone could reach their heaven, the whole world’s strength would rise together.”

“Right, right! Then the Fireborn could break the curse with our own power,” Nuhachit chimed in.

“Mm. The dream is rich. Want the pickaxe? Start digging.”

Darulunina rolled her eyes. Nuhachit scratched his head. “I’ll, uh, start… after we reach the top.”

The line drew laughter, and soon the Wolf Twins were bantering easily with the Firevenom youths.

“It’s actually a good idea.”

Everyone froze. Orson’s eyes had sharpened, his tone serious.

They all stared. To them it was impossible. Just cutting this single path had cost thousands of lives. Digging a road to the peak? Not even a Six-Shift could manage it. The higher you climbed, the stranger and deadlier the heavens became. The danger wasn’t just stone.

Orson said no more and led them on.

Through the day and night they climbed. The royal guards of the Wolf Empire peeled off one by one, slipping into the dens suited to their strength.

At last the plank path ended. Everyone sagged with exhaustion, taking food and tying themselves off against the gale. Darulunina nearly blew away before she bound herself to a boulder.

Orson lifted his head. Above them, the wall rose straight up, a ninety-degree black cliff, like a giant sword jammed into the sky. Below was nothing but cloud-wrapped abyss. The sight stole breath.

“The Thirtieth Heaven,” Caelum whispered, locking on the massive cave mouth high above. Wider than the rest, it was a gate for dragons. Those who passed it alive returned legends.

From here the heavens could take whole teams, trials of Fire God’s will. It was the dividing line of strength and talent.

But their goal wasn’t the Thirtieth. It was the impossible Eightieth.

The twins shared a look, both shaken. Even with godrings crowning them, could they truly climb so high?

While they wavered, Orson rose from his seat, saying simply:

“I’ll build the road.”

Gasps flared as his war robe of the Great Wastes shimmered into being, golden olive circlet on his brow, chaos seething like stars about his form.

Every eye burned hot. To them, gear was myth, seen only on murals.

“An awakening omen,” Caelum whispered, transfixed by the shining halo. “Could that be… a legendary set?”

“Legendary? Close enough.” Orson’s smile was easy. To him, legendary was scraps. Even Forbidden-tier gear wasn’t worth a glance unless it fit his hand. Artifacts were weapons only in the grip of gods. In a mortal’s hand, they were nukes carried on a stick—clumsy and suicidal.

“Six-Shift Form Change—Chaos Sword God.”

The silk robe hardened into a warrior’s plate, the olive circlet warped into a fearsome helm. His Arcane Blade twisted into a long dark-gold sword, five feet of chaos edge.

“Attack range reduced. Passive gained: Chaos Sword Qi. Attack doubled. Critical chance 100%.”

He glanced at his panel.

Attack power: 320,000.

He chuckled. A number higher than most players’ entire health bars. With his soulmark’s sixtyfold crit damage, not even he could calculate the carnage.

And that was just the warrior form. His assassin form’s passive bled enemies for their full health until they died. Only healing could stall it—and then only by a breath.

Six jobs, no cooldown swaps. That was the Fireborn’s broken talent. Perhaps that was why the gods had branded them cursed.

Orson exhaled, accepting that his sealed state still blocked spells. Fine. His basic swings now were beyond comprehension anyway.

He lifted the chaos blade. Darulunina and the others leaned forward, wide-eyed. This was the godson himself, showing them what a warrior truly meant.

Whoosh.

He gave the sword an idle swing. The gale still howled. Nothing seemed to change.

“Uh…” Nuhachit squinted. “Chief, you’re a bit far. Maybe… two, three hundred meters out? Closer might be better…”

“Yeah, closer,” Darulunina agreed with a nervous nod.

Before she could finish, the mountainside thundered.

“Oh my god—the Thirtieth Heaven’s collapsing!”

Nuhachit clutched his skull, face pale.

A scar three hundred meters long ripped down the cliff, boulders tumbling in sheets.

“I prefer stairs to climbing,” Orson said, amused. His sword trailed red light, carving the mountain like an ink brush on parchment.

Every careless swing etched a new rung of chaos.

“Please. Don’t. Say a word. I’m begging you.”

Darulunina’s voice shook as she hissed the warning. The rest held their breath, afraid that if Orson got distracted, the next swing would land on them.

And that, truly, would be the end.