Chapter Fifty-One: Climb Up…

The man before him was in a truly wretched state—a gaping hole torn through his right chest, blood streaming freely. His body was covered with wounds from the brutal tumble he had endured moments before, battered and bruised all over. The burning flames had already seared his flesh, leaving him blackened and charred from head to toe, his injuries even more gruesome than the bald giant Fang Mu had glimpsed through his scope earlier.

Only upon drawing near did Fang Mu realize—the man was still alive.

Though his breathing was shallow, barely perceptible, and he had slipped into unconsciousness, life stubbornly clung to him.

This astonished Fang Mu. The vitality of a Bronze-tier Evolver was truly remarkable. An ordinary person, subjected to such fire and a fall from such a height onto the freezing expanse of the icefield, would surely have perished long ago.

But since the man still lived, Fang Mu felt no need for mercy.

Gritting his teeth, he clamped a hand over the man's mouth. With the other, he plunged his tactical dagger deep into the man's throat.

A faint, wet sound.

Suddenly, a tremendous force surged as the man's body convulsed in resistance. Fang Mu’s face paled, but he pressed down with all his might.

The man, who had been unconscious, snapped his eyes wide open. When he saw Fang Mu, terror flooded his gaze. In the next instant, understanding dawned, and his eyes filled with pleading and despair.

Fang Mu’s lips pressed into a hard line; his grip did not falter. He drew the blade sideways, severing the carotid artery and windpipe in a single, swift motion.

Blood sprayed out violently, some even spattering across Fang Mu’s face. His fingers whitened from the force of his grip.

Even at death’s door, the strength of a Bronze-tier Evolver's struggles was formidable.

Fortunately, the man’s wounds were too severe. At last, like a dying fish, he convulsed a few times, his eyes wide with utter hopelessness as he released his final breath. The last traces of resistance faded away.

It was a long moment before Fang Mu finally regained his composure. He looked at the corpse before him, eyes still wide open, his own face pale as he quietly steadied his breath.

To kill from a distance with a sniper’s bullet and to drive a blade into a man’s throat with one’s own hand—these were two utterly different experiences.

“Forgive me. Though there was no true enmity between us, we stood on opposite sides. If you did not die, it would have been me,” Fang Mu murmured inwardly.

This man was different from those he had slain before. The others had hunted him first, forcing him to retaliate. But this one had no direct grudge with him. Still, as a member of Greedwolf’s faction, the die had already been cast.

Shaking off the unsettling feelings, Fang Mu regained his cold composure. He shook the blood from his tactical knife, tucked it away into his spatial armament, and quickly searched the man's body.

First, he looked for a handgun—found at the man’s waist.

He unclipped the holster, retrieved the pistol, and exhaled deeply.

A handgun was essential for what came next. Without one, his chances of success would be slim.

Thankfully, he succeeded.

With practiced hands, he checked the weapon, extracted the magazine—eight bullets lay quietly inside.

The pistol used 9mm rounds, not the standard 12.5mm universal ammunition. Its firepower was naturally less than that of a sniper rifle.

But a pistol was never meant to rely on sheer kinetic force. Its true lethality came from Gun Combat Techniques.

With such skills, the devastation a pistol could unleash in close quarters far surpassed that of a sniper rifle.

Inspecting the model, Fang Mu saw it was a D-104 large-caliber tactical handgun—sleek and black, imposing in size, the barrel shimmering coldly, a weapon made for killing.

Gripping it in one hand, Fang Mu found the handle perfectly ergonomic, fitting comfortably in his palm.

If memory served, the latest price for the D-104 was 1,080,000 starcoins.

A single pistol—over a million starcoins. The price was staggering.

He exhaled softly, slid the magazine back in, chambered a round, and took aim in several directions.

It felt just right.

Aiming with a handgun was vastly different from a sniper rifle—much faster.

Suppressing the urge to fire a shot, he stored the pistol away.

Nothing else of value remained on the corpse—the communicator had been ruined by fire.

Fang Mu rose, glanced around, and then spotted the sniper rifle in a snowdrift four meters away.

He hurried over and picked up the rifle, examining it closely.

It was from the D-series as well, but not the D-785—this was a D-388. Slightly shorter, but still a true heavy sniper, with an effective range of over 3,500 meters.

Of course, the gun itself was not the real prize.

He detached the magazine and worked the bolt.

A crisp click—a glowing round tumbled from the ejection port.

Startled, Fang Mu whipped out his pistol, eyes fixed on the glacier crevice, ready to fire.

The sound had been loud—would the last man in the crevice have heard it?

He waited tensely for several seconds. When all remained silent above, he exhaled in relief and holstered his weapon.

He bent and picked up the fallen round.

“So this is a Gene Round?”

He blinked in curiosity.

The bullet resembled a work of art carved from bone, rather than ordinary ammunition. Yet it pulsed with potent genetic energy—so much so that even Fang Mu felt uneasy in its presence.

“A Gene Round… it’s essentially a single-use ‘Gene Armament.’ The raw power is truly frightening.”

Fang Mu was inwardly stunned.

And to think—this tiny thing was worth sixty million, and even then was priceless on the market.

He could only marvel—such extravagance was beyond comprehension.

He lingered, lost in thought, before shaking himself out of it.

“This isn’t the time to be sentimental. Who knows how much longer they can hold out over there? If I miss the window, it could be fatal…”

With that, he wasted no more time. After storing the bullet and rifle in his spatial armament, he looked up toward the glacier crevice.

The entire crevice stretched over a hundred meters long, with more than one hundred and fifty meters of vertical drop between his position and the gap.

On both sides towered massive walls of ice.

Fang Mu’s gaze swept continuously over the southern glacier. Only after a long moment did he finally let out a breath.

“Fortunately, though the slope isn’t shallow—about sixty or seventy degrees—it’s not a sheer ninety. That means… I should be able to climb it.”

That was his plan.

He was going to climb up.