Fatty carried his gun, bending at the waist as he sprinted through the communication trench leading to the front lines.

The gun was a Chuckna military MT-2060II light sniper rifle, silent, with an effective range of three kilometers, using Mixed Bullets, capable of firing in bursts, with a firing rate of six rounds per second during bursts, and equipped with a dedicated electronic scope.

The original owner of this gun was heavily injured. When Nash brought Fatty to the rear of the position, they found the gun quietly lying beside a skinny Chuckna sergeant. The sergeant lay in a modular medical cabin, even though his entire abdomen had been blasted through by shrapnel, he still clutched his gun tightly.

Fatty, after Nash spoke to him, picked up the gun and saw the skinny sniper’s eyes. It was hard to describe the meaning expressed in those profound and clear eyes: hope, or inquiry, or perhaps reluctance and scrutiny. It wasn’t until Fatty nodded vigorously and whispered something in his ear that the sergeant slowly loosened his grip on the gun.

The gun was well-adjusted, and Fatty knew at a glance that it was the weapon of an excellent sniper. Carefully maintained and tuned, every part of it was perfectly synchronized and sturdy, giving one peace of mind.

In the sky, came another series of sounds like a train entering a tunnel.

Fatty suddenly rolled into the corner of the communication trench. The deafening explosion sounded nearby, and a piece of Mecha wreckage was blown high into the air, tumbling before crashing down and hitting the ground with a dull thud, raising a cloud of dust. The violent tremor made Fatty’s ears buzz, and his chest pressed against the ground throbbed painfully.

Earth and gravel shot into the air, fell like fine rain, hitting the ground with a series of dense sounds. Fatty rolled over and stood up, shook his head to rid himself of the dirt, and continued running towards the front of the position.

The explosion-proof shed above the communication trench was torn and tattered. Sunlight pierced through the trench, spreading a mottled haze of gunpowder smoke.

When Fatty crawled through the broken sunlight, using both hands and feet to reach the trench’s entrance at the front lines, the fierce gunfire had already drowned out the sound of explosions.

Fatty poked his head out. In the trench, more than twenty Chuckna warriors lay on the hundred-meter-long slope, firing desperately. Reorganized fire points and shooting positions formed a web of intertwining firepower. Torrential Energy Bullets continuously swept towards the undulating Jiepeng skirmish line on the forward slope of the position.

Pffft pffft. Several Energy Bullets drilled into the pile of earth not far above Fatty’s head. Instantly, a row of round holes appeared in the dark brown soil, with fine dust splattering, quickly blown away by the wind.

"Damn it!" Fatty’s face went pale, shrinking his neck, gritting his teeth as he entered the trench.

"Just arrived?" A Chuckna Lieutenant squatting and grabbing energy boxes onto his body turned his head to glance at Fatty and then at Fatty’s empty rear, a hint of contempt at the corner of his mouth: "Just you?"

"Yeah," Fatty licked his lips, nodding.

Markovich and four other capable bandit soldiers acted as a reserve team in another communication trench. Among the more than thirty bandits, only he stood at the forefront. There’s also a little brat behind him, but that kid is gathering weapons everywhere, who knows what he intends to do.

"Finally, a real man." The Lieutenant chuckled, patting Fatty’s trembling shoulder approvingly: "Don’t be afraid! The more you’re afraid, the quicker you die!"

Listening to the sound of bullets burrowing wildly into the soil above his head, Fatty turned pale.

The Lieutenant looked at the sniper rifle in Fatty’s hand and smiled: "Aren’t you a mechanic? Can you handle this?"

Fatty nodded.

"How’s the Mecha repair?" The Lieutenant was obviously just asking casually. As Fatty nodded, he had already turned his head, looking at comrades at the shooting positions furiously firing, and tossed out another random question.

"Repaired." Fatty glanced at the Chuckna soldier firing with his butt up, following the Lieutenant’s gaze, making casual responses while his eyes darted around seeking suitable sniper points on the position.

Suddenly, the two absent-minded fellows’ faces changed simultaneously, and each plunged to the ground.

"Boom!"

A violent explosion occurred above Fatty and the Lieutenant’s heads. The Chuckna soldier at the shooting position was lifted by the terrifying shockwave, crashing onto the opposite side post-battle, and fell twisted into the trench.

"Medic!" The Lieutenant yelled, quickly lifting his bloody comrade, taking out a portable hemostat to jab into the wound, wrapping it tightly with gauze. Soon, the medic rushing haphazardly through the trench came with bent waist and rolling steps, taking over the wounded from his hands.

The Lieutenant grabbed the rifle leaning against the pit wall and climbed towards the shooting position along the protrusion of the metal bulletproof wall.

As he climbed, he swiftly glanced around, finding that Fatty was stealthily poking his head out not far away, firing, then moving like a mouse, poking out again and firing.

Wasting ammunition!

The Lieutenant took one look and determined Fatty was a rookie.

Every time Fatty poked out to shoot lasted no more than a second. The frequency of his moves was almost comparable to the highest level of the video game "Whack-a-Mole." Such a playful way of shooting randomly, could he be considered a sniper?

Fearful that when Fatty fired, he couldn’t even see a priority target worthwhile for a sniper, let alone the location of the enemy!