The Extra is a Hero?-Chapter 286: THE HUNTER’S MOON

Chapter 282: The Hunter’s Moon

​The granite wall above my head exploded into dust.

​Crack. Pfft.

​The sound of the shot wasn’t the thunderous boom of a gunpowder rifle, nor the sharp zing of a mana bolt. It was a dull, pressurized cough—the sound of compressed air releasing a heavy projectile.

​"Stay down!" I hissed, pressing Leon’s face into the frozen dirt.

​Another projectile whizzed past, burying itself in the snow inches from my elbow. It was a metal spike, thin and cruel, fletched with black feathers.

​"Arrows?" Leon whispered, spitting out snow. "Who uses arrows in the modern age?"

​"Not arrows," I said, eyeing the projectile. "Flechettes. Pneumatic rifles. Silent, deadly, and completely non-magical."

​I risked a glance around the edge of the ruined pillar. The white void outside the outpost was still. No muzzle flash. No movement. Just the howling wind and the lethal patience of a predator.

​"Ren?" I whispered into the comms-stone, hoping the short-range crystals still functioned in the interference.

​Static. Then, a voice so quiet it was almost telepathic.

​"Three targets closing on your left. Two on the ridge—snipers. They are using the wind to mask their approach."

​"Can you take the snipers?"

​"Give me sixty seconds."

​"You have thirty," I said. "Leon, on me."

​I crawled backward, dragging Leon deeper into the shell of the Dwarven guardhouse. We huddled behind a slab of collapsed roof that formed a makeshift barricade.

​"Who are they?" Leon asked, gripping the handle of the Breaker’s Hammer until his knuckles turned white. "Bandits?"

​"Worse," I said. "Unit 7."

​Leon frowned. "I don’t know that name."

​"You wouldn’t. They aren’t in the history books," I explained rapidly, my mind racing through the Villain Encyclopedia entry I had memorized years ago. "Unit 7 is the Demon Cult’s specialized tracking division. They serve General Vargr, the Wolf of the North. They don’t use magic. They reject it. They rely on biological augmentation and old-world tech to hunt in Dead Zones."

​I looked at the flechette in the snow.

​"They are the reason nobody returns from the Silence, Leon. The monsters eat the bodies, but Unit 7 makes the kills."

​Scritch.

​A sound from the roof.

​The enemy was already on top of us.

​"Hammer," I signaled to Leon, pointing up.

​Leon didn’t hesitate. He didn’t ask why or where. He trusted the narrative I was building. He spun the massive iron hammer in his grip, coiled his muscles, and thrust the head of the weapon upward like a battering ram.

​CRASH.

​The rotten stone of the roof gave way instantly.

​A figure in white armor fell through the debris, screaming silently as the stone floor rushed up to meet him. He landed in a crouch, cat-like, absorbing the impact that should have broken his legs.

​He was fast. Before the dust settled, he lunged at me.

​He held a serrated obsidian knife in each hand. His face was covered by a bone-white mask with a single red lens.

​I didn’t have the speed to dodge. My agility was A-rank, but without mana reinforcement, I was just a fast human. This guy was something else.

​But I had a tank.

​CLANG.

​Leon interposed the shaft of the hammer between me and the knives. Sparks flew. The Cultist snarled—a guttural, animalistic sound—and kicked off the hammer, backflipping to create distance.

​He landed on a patch of ice, perfectly balanced.

​"Don’t let him shout," I ordered. "If he alerts the snipers that we’re fighting, they’ll pin us."

​The Cultist didn’t shout. He clicked his tongue, a wet, ticking sound.

​From the shadows of the doorway, two more figures emerged. They moved like oil, silent and fluid.

​Three against two.

​"I’ll take the jumper," Leon grunted, hefting the hammer. "You take the twins."

​"Fair trade," I said, drawing my steel sword and the silver dagger.

​The fight began.

​It wasn’t the flashy, explosive combat of the Tournament. There were no named attacks, no auras of light, no shouting. It was a dirty, desperate brawl in a frozen ruin.

​The two Cultists rushed me. They worked in perfect sync, one feinting low with a spear, the other slashing high with a machete.

​I parried the machete with my sword, the steel ringing dull in the cold air. The impact jarred my arm to the shoulder—these guys had Strength stats pushing B+. Augmented muscles.

​I sidestepped the spear, letting it graze my coat.

​Close the distance.

​I stepped into the spearman’s guard. My dagger flashed.

​Shhhk.

​I drove the silver blade into the soft armor under his armpit. He convulsed, but didn’t drop. No pain receptors?

​I twisted the blade and kicked his knee, snapping the joint. He went down silently, still trying to stab me as he fell.

​The machete swiped at my neck. I ducked, feeling the wind of the blade cut a few strands of my hair.

​I rolled across the icy floor, coming up near a pile of rubble.

​"Michael! Behind you!" Leon shouted.

​I spun around. The jumper—the one Leon was supposed to be handling—had bypassed him and was dropping from a pillar directly onto my back.

​I couldn’t block it.

​Thwip.

​A black arrow sprouted from the jumper’s neck.

​He jerked mid-air, his momentum killed. He crashed to the ground at my feet, gargling blood, clawing at his throat.

​I looked up toward the ridge visible through the collapsed roof.

​A single, white-clad figure stood on the highest point of the ruins, holding a composite bow. Ren gave a quick, sharp salute, then melted back into the snow.

​"Snipers down," I breathed.

​Leon roared, swinging the hammer in a wide, horizontal arc. The last Cultist tried to block it with his spear.

​Bad idea.

​CRUNCH.

​The hammer shattered the spear shaft and continued through, slamming into the Cultist’s chest. The impact lifted him off his feet and hurled him into the stone wall. He didn’t get up.

​Silence returned to the outpost.

​I stood panting, my breath misting heavily. My coat was slashed, and blood—not mine—dripped from my dagger.

​"Is it over?" Leon asked, leaning on his hammer. He wiped sweat from his brow, smearing soot across his face.

​"Check the bodies," I said, sheathing my weapons. "Confirm the kill."

​I walked over to the jumper Ren had shot. I pulled the mask off.

​The face underneath was human, but barely. His skin was gray, veined with black lines of corruption. His teeth had been filed to points.

​And there, on his neck, was the tattoo.

​A wolf’s head, stylized in black ink, with the number VII branded beneath it.

​"Unit 7," I confirmed. "General Vargr’s elite. They were tracking us."

​I searched his pockets. No map. No orders. Just ration bars made of dried meat and a small, cylindrical metal tube.

​I picked up the tube. It was heavy, cold to the touch.

​Flare.

​"They didn’t signal," I muttered. "Why didn’t they signal?"

​"Maybe they thought they could take us," Leon suggested, kicking the spearman’s weapon away. "Or maybe they wanted the glory."

​"No," I said, a bad feeling settling in my gut. "Unit 7 doesn’t care about glory. They care about the Hunt."

​I looked at the tube again. The pin was still in.

​"Ren!" I tapped my comms. "Ren, report. How many snipers were there?"

​"Two," Ren’s voice came back. "Both neutralized."

​"Are you sure?"

​"Positive. I have their tags."

​I looked at the footprints in the snow again. The ones we found earlier.

​Five sets.

​Two snipers. Three ground troops. That made five.

​So why did the math feel wrong?

​[Passive Skill: Pattern Recognition triggered.]

​In the game, Unit 7 operated in squads of six. The sixth man was never a combatant. He was the Observer. The one who stayed so far back even the snipers didn’t know where he was.

​"Ren!" I shouted, abandoning stealth. "Scan the ridge! There’s a sixth!"

​Too late.

​From the high treeline, nearly three hundred meters away, a sound echoed.

​THUMP.

​It wasn’t a gunshot. It was the sound of a mortar launching.

​I looked up.

​A red streak hissed into the sky, cutting through the blizzard like a wound. It climbed higher and higher, defying the wind, until it hung directly over the ruins of the outpost.

​POP.

​The flare detonated.

​It wasn’t a normal chemical light. It was a magi-tech beacon, fueled by a condensed mana crystal that burned even in the Zone of Silence.

​A blood-red light bathed the world. It cast long, dancing shadows against the snow. It stained the white ruins in crimson.

​"He signaled," Leon whispered, looking up at the burning eye in the sky.

​"He didn’t just signal his team," I said, watching the red light pulse. "That’s a Hunter’s Moon flare."

​"What does that mean?"

​I drew my sword again.

​"It means he just tagged us as high-priority prey," I said. "And in the Iron Wilderness, everything looks at the red light."

​From the darkness of the forest, the howling started again. But this time, it wasn’t just the Stalkers.

​It was deeper. Louder. The sound of trees snapping as something massive pushed through them.

​"We have to move," I said, grabbing Leon’s arm. "Now. Before the dinner guests arrive."

​"Where?"

​I pointed East, toward the deep forest. Toward the Weeping Willow.

​"Into the roots," I said. "It’s the only place the big ones can’t follow."

​We ran.

​Behind us, the red flare continued to burn, a bloody eye watching our desperate sprint into the dark.

(To be Continued)