Chapter 52
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Bang! Cling— Cling—
Nova fired the first shot. The silent bullet smashed into the thick slab of what supposedly is for target practice, engraved at the bullseye.
Subsequently, two metallic screeches reverberated in the rather desolate shooting range.
Regarding weapon preference, the majority of Warriors would lean to close ranged.
It's not that guns aren't useful and powerful, but because Warriors possess abilities firearms cannot comprehend.
Lethal, deft to handle and easily obtained, as Warriors commonly engage in close combat, melee weapons are the most desirable. Warriors can coat Aura onto the edges without breaking a sweat to enhance destructivity, increase speed and ameliorate controllability in action.
Long ranged submachine weapons are usually preferred by soldiers, or mercenaries, whereas they perform large scale attacks.
Both weapons serve great purposes, it purely matters on preference and situation. In Nova's opinion, his Lobaev Sniper is sexy like how Atlas gets weirdly aroused by ear phones.
Clang~
The sound of three bullets raining on the floor followed suit.
The second bullet entered the bullseye, pushing the first forth with stable momentum. The third collided with the second, giving another robust thrust.
Target has been successfully penetrated.
No one can hear a noiseless projectile, needless suspect a quick, muffled death.
"Huu." Nova exhaled and smiled. He detached the only thing on the Lobaev Sniper— a silencer.
No stabilizer, no stand, no scope.
Nova returned his weapon back into its case, exiting the shooting range. The overlapping triple bullseye and three smoking hot .338 Lapua Magnum bullets rolled to a halt, proving his existence.
—————————
Let me tell you a story. A rather tragic one. Deeply rooted inside Nova's brain.
There was a young boy... a happy child, living a normal life with his caring, loving mother and a kind yet, whom others phrase, cowardly and superstitious father. They lived in a common flat, which to him, judging from the opposite side of the street, was really ugly but sweet.
Things that allude Nova, was that the father, despite his robust build, worked as a carpenter, who often carves a strange creature; while the mother, despite her slim and fair appearance, was the person who would go up the mountains to hunt with her rifle.
What Nova found mysterious and joyful, was that she would always bring up the young boy, and teach him how to use the hunting rifle.
"The scope reaches far, far away, so that you can always stay ahead of others. You can surpass many others." The mother would say, prompting the 5 year old to try.
The boy loved it.
But the father would occasionally rush up the mountains, teaching the young boy a different perspective.
"The scope is for you to focus on what's within the borders of the circle. Stride, do not meander, or else you will see, and get into troubles you can't avoid." He would point to his eye.
He would then point to his ear. "Do not hear what you're not supposed to hear. Keep it in mind. No beast will know that a man heard his growl. You will be safe."
Lastly, he would zip his mouth. "Don't make unnecessary sounds. Argue about or deny with words, you give yourself lifetime harm. Silence leads to a peaceful life."
"Use simpler terms hub. Your incorrect understandings is meaningless." The mother would sigh.
The father still remained serious about being an isolated person.
Until one night.
The crickets chirped its usual tune, and an owl hooted deeply in short intervals, creating a midnight orchestra.
"Angel. My little angel. Wake up please..." a lovely voice embedded with slight frantic ushered.
An adorable little boy with ink black hair, speckled with golden strands woke up, squinting his bleary eyes. "Mommy? Is it time to eat medicine again?"
"No son, not today. Quick, we have to get going."
The little boy heard hurried shuffling, as well as the squeak of his favorite toy creature.
Mother was packing his bag.
"But mommy, my body hurts so much." The little boy wailed powerlessly, his tiny body slouching sloppily like a lifeless zombie.
The mother hesitated, taking one last glance at a plastic container of unlabeled medicine. Reluctantly, she snatched it.
The boy received the bottle and uncapped it, plopping a medicine in his frail palm.
He didn't eat it, because it was the last one.
The mother lifted him in her arms, ready to abandon the flat they've been living in for the past few years.
But her footsteps ceased when she bumped into an obstinate figure. The moonlight hovered over several other hooded strangers
As if accepting her inevitable fate, the boy's mother surrendered to flee, crouching to place and face her little angel, eye to eye.
She manifested no sign of despair, nor a symptom of regret.
She said four words to her beloved son. Four words that the little boy didn't know would be the last he would hear.
"Always be happy. Smile." And she smiled.
The boy didn't know what was happening. The next thing he felt, was being thrown into a dark room, icy and dry, where his father always sculpted those creatures that resembled his squeaky toy.
His father was shivering in fear, praying to one of the largest and most realistic statue of all the sculpted creatures.
A devastating scream tore through the terror in the air.
"Unsee what you saw." The boy's superstitious father pleaded to the stationary sculpture, as if chanting witchery spells, expecting to be cleansed by a holy light.
There was another scream, less agonizing, but strikes the heart more piercingly.
"Unhear what you heard." The boy's cowardly father trembled with extra vigor, kowtowing his head to the statue mercilessly.
Then... there was a faint muffled afflicting resistance. And then... the sound was no more.
"Unsay what you said." Finally, the boy's hysterical father cried, mourning in helpless grief, as if the ritual he has been performing failed.
The little boy's face twitched, constantly changing from worry to a smile, and from a smile to a cry.
The screams were his mother's, but he could not react appropriately. He was scared, but his mother requested him to smile, so he swore to keep that promise.
"Boy. Come out. We'll bring you to a better place." A female voice projected from outside the door that kept them isolated.
"Is mommy all right?" The youth easily frights, yet they can be fearless too. Even though his father stumbled backwards in fraught, little boy spoke up bravely to confront the unfamiliar voice.
It was a young woman with shiny, ink black hair. It revealed as the door creaked open.
"She's fine. Look."
The little boy stared at that direction.
His mother was breathing all right. Beautiful hair slightly disheveled, sitting on a chair in the middle of the living room. Her hunting rifle was positioned neatly on a clean nearby table.
The only lamp weeped silently with guttering light, while the arcane darkness attempted to overwhelm the light that represented hope.
"Mommy! Mommy!" The little boy felt relieved. At least his mother is unscathed.
However, something did not feel right. His mother never answered back.
"Mommy! Let me go! I wanna see mommy!"
It's amazing how a frail body can create as much power as a wild creature. The young woman had to use strength to hold him stationary.
Sadly, the little boy would never understand why his mother never answered.
The exit is just an inevitable few steps away. There was nothing in the room that would prevent the mother and son from communicating. Yet while one side flailed desperately, the other side remained motionless.
"Please... mom." The little boy gave up. Was he going to ever see his mother again?
At this very moment, the little boy noticed his mother's head moving imperceptibly.
She didn't speak to comfort her little angel's perturbed soul, as if she has something stuck in her throat, preventing her to speak, like she was mute; she didn't even turn her head to the correct direction, as if she never heard the commotion and her son's incessant, helpless wails, like she was deaf; and she didn't have that usual brightness in her empty eyes, as if they were fake, replaced by glass, like she was blind.
All she did was one action.
Smile.
His mother's gleam and final words echoed in his mind, ricocheting uncontrollably.
Under all the torrents of tears that streamed down miserably from his deep red eyes, the little boy's corner lips quivered upwards.
As much as he could remember, the boy's positive smile never wore off to this day while he hid his true emotions within. Was that his real personality? Yes, it has now become.
Despite the event happening so many years ago, Nova never stopped smiling till today.
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Bang! Cling— Cling—
Nova fired the first shot. The silent bullet smashed into the thick slab of what supposedly is for target practice, engraved at the bullseye.
Subsequently, two metallic screeches reverberated in the rather desolate shooting range.
Regarding weapon preference, the majority of Warriors would lean to close ranged.
It's not that guns aren't useful and powerful, but because Warriors possess abilities firearms cannot comprehend.
Lethal, deft to handle and easily obtained, as Warriors commonly engage in close combat, melee weapons are the most desirable. Warriors can coat Aura onto the edges without breaking a sweat to enhance destructivity, increase speed and ameliorate controllability in action.
Long ranged submachine weapons are usually preferred by soldiers, or mercenaries, whereas they perform large scale attacks.
Both weapons serve great purposes, it purely matters on preference and situation. In Nova's opinion, his Lobaev Sniper is sexy like how Atlas gets weirdly aroused by ear phones.
Clang~
The sound of three bullets raining on the floor followed suit.
The second bullet entered the bullseye, pushing the first forth with stable momentum. The third collided with the second, giving another robust thrust.
Target has been successfully penetrated.
No one can hear a noiseless projectile, needless suspect a quick, muffled death.
"Huu." Nova exhaled and smiled. He detached the only thing on the Lobaev Sniper— a silencer.
No stabilizer, no stand, no scope.
Nova returned his weapon back into its case, exiting the shooting range. The overlapping triple bullseye and three smoking hot .338 Lapua Magnum bullets rolled to a halt, proving his existence.
—————————
Let me tell you a story. A rather tragic one. Deeply rooted inside Nova's brain.
There was a young boy... a happy child, living a normal life with his caring, loving mother and a kind yet, whom others phrase, cowardly and superstitious father. They lived in a common flat, which to him, judging from the opposite side of the street, was really ugly but sweet.
Things that allude Nova, was that the father, despite his robust build, worked as a carpenter, who often carves a strange creature; while the mother, despite her slim and fair appearance, was the person who would go up the mountains to hunt with her rifle.
What Nova found mysterious and joyful, was that she would always bring up the young boy, and teach him how to use the hunting rifle.
"The scope reaches far, far away, so that you can always stay ahead of others. You can surpass many others." The mother would say, prompting the 5 year old to try.
The boy loved it.
But the father would occasionally rush up the mountains, teaching the young boy a different perspective.
"The scope is for you to focus on what's within the borders of the circle. Stride, do not meander, or else you will see, and get into troubles you can't avoid." He would point to his eye.
He would then point to his ear. "Do not hear what you're not supposed to hear. Keep it in mind. No beast will know that a man heard his growl. You will be safe."
Lastly, he would zip his mouth. "Don't make unnecessary sounds. Argue about or deny with words, you give yourself lifetime harm. Silence leads to a peaceful life."
"Use simpler terms hub. Your incorrect understandings is meaningless." The mother would sigh.
The father still remained serious about being an isolated person.
Until one night.
The crickets chirped its usual tune, and an owl hooted deeply in short intervals, creating a midnight orchestra.
"Angel. My little angel. Wake up please..." a lovely voice embedded with slight frantic ushered.
An adorable little boy with ink black hair, speckled with golden strands woke up, squinting his bleary eyes. "Mommy? Is it time to eat medicine again?"
"No son, not today. Quick, we have to get going."
The little boy heard hurried shuffling, as well as the squeak of his favorite toy creature.
Mother was packing his bag.
"But mommy, my body hurts so much." The little boy wailed powerlessly, his tiny body slouching sloppily like a lifeless zombie.
The mother hesitated, taking one last glance at a plastic container of unlabeled medicine. Reluctantly, she snatched it.
The boy received the bottle and uncapped it, plopping a medicine in his frail palm.
He didn't eat it, because it was the last one.
The mother lifted him in her arms, ready to abandon the flat they've been living in for the past few years.
But her footsteps ceased when she bumped into an obstinate figure. The moonlight hovered over several other hooded strangers
As if accepting her inevitable fate, the boy's mother surrendered to flee, crouching to place and face her little angel, eye to eye.
She manifested no sign of despair, nor a symptom of regret.
She said four words to her beloved son. Four words that the little boy didn't know would be the last he would hear.
"Always be happy. Smile." And she smiled.
The boy didn't know what was happening. The next thing he felt, was being thrown into a dark room, icy and dry, where his father always sculpted those creatures that resembled his squeaky toy.
His father was shivering in fear, praying to one of the largest and most realistic statue of all the sculpted creatures.
A devastating scream tore through the terror in the air.
"Unsee what you saw." The boy's superstitious father pleaded to the stationary sculpture, as if chanting witchery spells, expecting to be cleansed by a holy light.
There was another scream, less agonizing, but strikes the heart more piercingly.
"Unhear what you heard." The boy's cowardly father trembled with extra vigor, kowtowing his head to the statue mercilessly.
Then... there was a faint muffled afflicting resistance. And then... the sound was no more.
"Unsay what you said." Finally, the boy's hysterical father cried, mourning in helpless grief, as if the ritual he has been performing failed.
The little boy's face twitched, constantly changing from worry to a smile, and from a smile to a cry.
The screams were his mother's, but he could not react appropriately. He was scared, but his mother requested him to smile, so he swore to keep that promise.
"Boy. Come out. We'll bring you to a better place." A female voice projected from outside the door that kept them isolated.
"Is mommy all right?" The youth easily frights, yet they can be fearless too. Even though his father stumbled backwards in fraught, little boy spoke up bravely to confront the unfamiliar voice.
It was a young woman with shiny, ink black hair. It revealed as the door creaked open.
"She's fine. Look."
The little boy stared at that direction.
His mother was breathing all right. Beautiful hair slightly disheveled, sitting on a chair in the middle of the living room. Her hunting rifle was positioned neatly on a clean nearby table.
The only lamp weeped silently with guttering light, while the arcane darkness attempted to overwhelm the light that represented hope.
"Mommy! Mommy!" The little boy felt relieved. At least his mother is unscathed.
However, something did not feel right. His mother never answered back.
"Mommy! Let me go! I wanna see mommy!"
It's amazing how a frail body can create as much power as a wild creature. The young woman had to use strength to hold him stationary.
Sadly, the little boy would never understand why his mother never answered.
The exit is just an inevitable few steps away. There was nothing in the room that would prevent the mother and son from communicating. Yet while one side flailed desperately, the other side remained motionless.
"Please... mom." The little boy gave up. Was he going to ever see his mother again?
At this very moment, the little boy noticed his mother's head moving imperceptibly.
She didn't speak to comfort her little angel's perturbed soul, as if she has something stuck in her throat, preventing her to speak, like she was mute; she didn't even turn her head to the correct direction, as if she never heard the commotion and her son's incessant, helpless wails, like she was deaf; and she didn't have that usual brightness in her empty eyes, as if they were fake, replaced by glass, like she was blind.
All she did was one action.
Smile.
His mother's gleam and final words echoed in his mind, ricocheting uncontrollably.
Under all the torrents of tears that streamed down miserably from his deep red eyes, the little boy's corner lips quivered upwards.
As much as he could remember, the boy's positive smile never wore off to this day while he hid his true emotions within. Was that his real personality? Yes, it has now become.
Despite the event happening so many years ago, Nova never stopped smiling till today.
Bang! Cling Cling Nova fired the first shot. The silent bullet smashed into the thick slab of what supposedly is for target practice, engraved at the bullseye. Subsequently, two metallic screeches reverberated in the rather desolate shooting range. Regarding weapon preference, the majority of Warriors would lean to close ranged. It's not that guns aren't useful and powerful, but because Warriors possess abilities firearms cannot comprehend. Lethal, deft to handle and easily obtained, as Warriors commonly engage in close combat, melee weapons are the most desirable. Warriors can coat Aura onto the edges without breaking a sweat to enhance destructivity, increase speed and ameliorate controllability in action. Long ranged submachine weapons are usually preferred by soldiers, or mercenaries, whereas they perform large scale attacks. Both weapons serve great purposes, it purely matters on preference and situation. In Nova's opinion, his Lobaev Sniper is sexy like how Atlas gets weirdly aroused by ear phones. Clang~ The sound of three bullets raining on the floor followed suit. The second bullet entered the bullseye, pushing the first forth with stable momentum. The third collided with the second, giving another robust thrust. Target has been successfully penetrated. No one can hear a noiseless projectile, needless suspect a quick, muffled death. "Huu." Nova exhaled and smiled. He detached the only thing on the Lobaev Sniper a silencer. No stabilizer, no stand, no scope. Nova returned his weapon back into its case, exiting the shooting range. The overlapping triple bullseye and three smoking hot .338 Lapua Magnum bullets rolled to a halt, proving his existence. Let me tell you a story. A rather tragic one. Deeply rooted inside Nova's brain. There was a young boy... a happy child, living a normal life with his caring, loving mother and a kind yet, whom others phrase, cowardly and superstitious father. They lived in a common flat, which to him, judging from the opposite side of the street, was really ugly but sweet. Things that allude Nova, was that the father, despite his robust build, worked as a carpenter, who often carves a strange creature; while the mother, despite her slim and fair appearance, was the person who would go up the mountains to hunt with her rifle. What Nova found mysterious and joyful, was that she would always bring up the young boy, and teach him how to use the hunting rifle. "The scope reaches far, far away, so that you can always stay ahead of others. You can surpass many others." The mother would say, prompting the 5 year old to try. The boy loved it. But the father would occasionally rush up the mountains, teaching the young boy a different perspective. "The scope is for you to focus on what's within the borders of the circle. Stride, do not meander, or else you will see, and get into troubles you can't avoid." He would point to his eye. He would then point to his ear. "Do not hear what you're not supposed to hear. Keep it in mind. No beast will know that a man heard his growl. You will be safe." Lastly, he would zip his mouth. "Don't make unnecessary sounds. Argue about or deny with words, you give yourself lifetime harm. Silence leads to a peaceful life." "Use simpler terms hub. Your incorrect understandings is meaningless." The mother would sigh. The father still remained serious about being an isolated person. Until one night. The crickets chirped its usual tune, and an owl hooted deeply in short intervals, creating a midnight orchestra. "Angel. My little angel. Wake up please..." a lovely voice embedded with slight frantic ushered. An adorable little boy with ink black hair, speckled with golden strands woke up, squinting his bleary eyes. "Mommy? Is it time to eat medicine again?" "No son, not today. Quick, we have to get going." The little boy heard hurried shuffling, as well as the squeak of his favorite toy creature. Mother was packing his bag. "But mommy, my body hurts so much." The little boy wailed powerlessly, his tiny body slouching sloppily like a lifeless zombie. The mother hesitated, taking one last glance at a plastic container of unlabeled medicine. Reluctantly, she snatched it. The boy received the bottle and uncapped it, plopping a medicine in his frail palm. He didn't eat it, because it was the last one. The mother lifted him in her arms, ready to abandon the flat they've been living in for the past few years. But her footsteps ceased when she bumped into an obstinate figure. The moonlight hovered over several other hooded strangers As if accepting her inevitable fate, the boy's mother surrendered to flee, crouching to place and face her little angel, eye to eye. She manifested no sign of despair, nor a symptom of regret. She said four words to her beloved son. Four words that the little boy didn't know would be the last he would hear. "Always be happy. Smile." And she smiled. The boy didn't know what was happening. The next thing he felt, was being thrown into a dark room, icy and dry, where his father always sculpted those creatures that resembled his squeaky toy. His father was shivering in fear, praying to one of the largest and most realistic statue of all the sculpted creatures. A devastating scream tore through the terror in the air. "Unsee what you saw." The boy's superstitious father pleaded to the stationary sculpture, as if chanting witchery spells, expecting to be cleansed by a holy light. There was another scream, less agonizing, but strikes the heart more piercingly. "Unhear what you heard." The boy's cowardly father trembled with extra vigor, kowtowing his head to the statue mercilessly. Then... there was a faint muffled afflicting resistance. And then... the sound was no more. "Unsay what you said." Finally, the boy's hysterical father cried, mourning in helpless grief, as if the ritual he has been performing failed. The little boy's face twitched, constantly changing from worry to a smile, and from a smile to a cry. The screams were his mother's, but he could not react appropriately. He was scared, but his mother requested him to smile, so he swore to keep that promise. "Boy. Come out. We'll bring you to a better place." A female voice projected from outside the door that kept them isolated. "Is mommy all right?" The youth easily frights, yet they can be fearless too. Even though his father stumbled backwards in fraught, little boy spoke up bravely to confront the unfamiliar voice. It was a young woman with shiny, ink black hair. It revealed as the door creaked open. "She's fine. Look." The little boy stared at that direction. His mother was breathing all right. Beautiful hair slightly disheveled, sitting on a chair in the middle of the living room. Her hunting rifle was positioned neatly on a clean nearby table. The only lamp weeped silently with guttering light, while the arcane darkness attempted to overwhelm the light that represented hope. "Mommy! Mommy!" The little boy felt relieved. At least his mother is unscathed. However, something did not feel right. His mother never answered back. "Mommy! Let me go! I wanna see mommy!" It's amazing how a frail body can create as much power as a wild creature. The young woman had to use strength to hold him stationary. Sadly, the little boy would never understand why his mother never answered. The exit is just an inevitable few steps away. There was nothing in the room that would prevent the mother and son from communicating. Yet while one side flailed desperately, the other side remained motionless. "Please... mom." The little boy gave up. Was he going to ever see his mother again? At this very moment, the little boy noticed his mother's head moving imperceptibly. She didn't speak to comfort her little angel's perturbed soul, as if she has something stuck in her throat, preventing her to speak, like she was mute; she didn't even turn her head to the correct direction, as if she never heard the commotion and her son's incessant, helpless wails, like she was deaf; and she didn't have that usual brightness in her empty eyes, as if they were fake, replaced by glass, like she was blind. All she did was one action. Smile. His mother's gleam and final words echoed in his mind, ricocheting uncontrollably. Under all the torrents of tears that streamed down miserably from his deep red eyes, the little boy's corner lips quivered upwards. As much as he could remember, the boy's positive smile never wore off to this day while he hid his true emotions within. Was that his real personality? Yes, it has now become. Despite the event happening so many years ago, Nova never stopped smiling till today.
