Infinite Range: The Sniper Mage

“Where… are we?”

Nadora’s voice trembled slightly as the clouds parted.

“I’ve been to the Pondenorlin region before,” said Katherine, her fiery eyes narrowing, “but this… this is completely different.”

Below them, Crimson Lizard King slowed her descent. The imperial consorts—moments ago resigned to their grim fate—stood stunned as they looked down upon the grand new city.

What unfolded beneath them was a marvel of architectural ambition and otherworldly aesthetic. The city exuded a style foreign to any known empire, a bold declaration of new power.

Forever City—reborn from dust and ambition, expanded with staggering quantities of materials. Though it didn’t yet rival the imperial capital in sheer size, it was clear to all: it would not be long.

The more players arrived, the more they “sponsored” the construction. It was destined to become the crown jewel of Infinite Dimensions.

The city was divided into thirty-six market sectors, each methodically planned, with shops neatly arranged according to their item categories.

“Holy crap…”

Even Orson found himself awestruck. In his eyes, each shopfront was a miniature mountain of gold. Even the smallest stalls easily cost a million coins just to rent.

At the city center, elegant pavilions and grand halls clustered in a dazzling hub. Here lay a luxurious entertainment district—inns, taverns, theaters—a massive, multi-use zone.

Whatever services players could dream of enjoying in real life, Forever City had. Some were even a little… extra.

Elven hostesses, casinos, and yes—even intimate services offered by imperial consorts (for those with the coin and the courage).

The City Lord’s residence stood modestly on the southern rise, nestled beside a wilderness zone for new players. This location near the southernmost border of Infinite Dimensions was both symbolic and strategic: no sneak attacks from behind.

Compared to the gilded grandeur of the Holy Dragon Sanctuary, Orson’s home was practically spartan. A few humble buildings, surrounded by peaceful natural scenery. Quiet. Understated.

And intentionally so.

He knew better than to invest all his wealth in towering spires and gilded halls. What good was a palace if you couldn’t hold the land beneath it?

He’d already had his fill of fame and glory. As a teenager, he was a national champion, worshiped by fans. He knew—deeply—that this wasn’t the path he wanted.

To the world, he might’ve become a god.

To the Heaven Demons, gods were just meat to be shredded and devoured.

He preferred a warm evening in a quiet courtyard. Good food, good drink, good company.

That was worth fighting for.

“Blackstone obelisks… that many?”

Orson’s gaze swept outward. Dozens of towering obelisks encircled the city, like reapers buried in the earth.

A massive kill-zone.

“Wagha! Work is happiness!”

“Wagha! Lazy goblins are not real goblins!”

A mob of green-skinned workers buzzed about, hauling stone and enchanted crystals, setting new obelisks into place with the help of chained Flame Dragons.

Nearby, a red-faced dwarf shouted from atop the wall.

“My damn forge’s going cold! That stinking mage better get his sorry ass over here!”

“I’m almost done! Chill out, would you?”

Nightshade poked his head up from the crowd, grinning apologetically.

Orson descended onto the wall with the consorts in tow.

The goblins cheered, recognizing him instantly.

“The Big Boss of Wagha is here!”

“Boss!” Nightshade called, beaming. Orson returned the thumbs-up.

“God of Wagha! Certified badass!”

Nadora squinted at the mounted weaponry.

“Are those… enchanted crossbows? Why do they look like the fire pokers my servants use?”

Katherine lifted one of the mounted mana sniper rifles, her flame-red eyes inspecting its inner barrel.

“I sense dense elemental fluctuations.”

“That’s the one,” Orson said with a smirk.

Katherine, curiosity piqued, playfully aimed the rifle at her own forehead.

“Don’t,” Orson said flatly, yanking it from her hands.

“Pfft, so crude,” Katherine sniffed. “The Elven Kingdom crafts with elegance. This thing’s an insult to my lineage.”

Orson didn’t bother explaining.

The thing wouldn’t kill her—but ruin that pretty face, and he’d be losing money.

He had plans for that face.

“What’s this thing?”

He picked up a black orb from a nearby crate and casually tossed it across the field.

Click.

The orb snapped open mid-air, sprouting white spikes like a hedgehog.

BOOM!

The explosion launched a hundred-meter-wide spray of toxic needles.

One of them embedded itself in Bionna the Dwarf Princess’s thigh.

“HEY! That HURT!”

She reached to pull it out—but as her fingers touched the spike, it pulsed with green light.

Pshhhht—

A toxic mist blasted her in the face. She hit the dirt, coughing and rolling in agony.

CRIT -15,000

Wagha Poison -5,000

Wagha Poison -5,000

Shatter Armor: Defense -30%

Curse of Rot: Healing received -30%

“Holy crap! This thing’s evil!”

Orson was stunned. This wasn’t a grenade—it was a poison bomb!

“Where the hell did you even make this?!”

Nightshade just grinned. The madman was dragging cyberpunk weapons into a swords-and-sorcery world.

A voice called out from below.

“We’ve got a problem.”

Dr. Jordan, covered in soot and surrounded by assistants, climbed up the wall.

“We’re out of materials—magic crystals, stone, obsidian. The workshops are tapped.”

Jordan snapped open his notebook, pointing to a rough sketch of the region.

“These towns sit on the mines. The Npcs definitely have reserves. Whether you steal or ‘tax’ them, I don’t care.”

“Great. So now we’re bandits.”

“Whatever. Not our first time,” said another assistant.

Jordan’s student team had grown into a twenty-person logistics crew—most of them former pupils, now press-ganged into the madness.

“Appreciate the help, Dr. Jordan,” Orson said politely.

The professor waved him off without even looking up.

A rumbling sound drew Orson’s attention.

WHOOOSH—

A squadron of Titan Mechs launched into the air, flames erupting from their backs.

Orson froze.

“Flying Titans?!”

These weren’t the old models. These had been upgraded—again—by Nightshade.

Now Domain Master-Class, they were engraved with Wagha runes, wind-elemental boosters, and oversized energy packs.

Each mech carried a massive Froststeel greatsword—9 meters long, rune-etched, with razor edges that glinted like moonlight.

Strapped to their backs were explosive mana rifles, capable of 15,000 base damage plus bleeding and rupture effects.

“Legendary-tier blades, burst rifles, and flight…”

Orson’s scalp tingled. If piloted properly, these mechs could solo a low-tier dragon.

No wonder half the guild’s war chest had evaporated.

But there was a cost.

To achieve flight, Nightshade had stripped away most of their armor—only the front plate remained thick.

Their sides and rear were vulnerable.

They had to fight in two-man teams: one defensive, one offensive.

A low voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Hey, uh… about that…”

Nightshade sheepishly scratched his head.

“Can I… maybe get a little more gold?”

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