Infinite Range: The Sniper Mage

"You filthy half-blood mongrel! You dare kill my pet?!"

Odin staggered to his feet, blood running down his face, emerging from the ruins with an unconscious elf in his grasp.

The poor bastard wasn't just any elf—it was Aelon, the very one who had gambled everything, pushed his limits, only to be used and discarded by Odin as a pawn.

The battle against the Cursed Fiend had left the dwarven army nearly annihilated. Nine out of ten had perished in the desperate fight.

But Odin had survived.

And he had won.

Despite the massacre, he had claimed the one thing that mattered—the Titan's Curse embedded in his bloodline was now broken.

From this day forward, the Grey Dwarves would never again be bound by the influence of the Cursed Fiend.

Orson merely smirked, his tone light.

"Four heads snapping at me, and I was just supposed to stand there and take it?"

Odin's eyes burned with hatred.

"I'll give you a choice," he growled. "Hand over what I want, and I'll spare your miserable life. Disappear from my sight, and you'll walk away intact."

[Odin demands the Rune Sigil Stone.]

[Would you like to hand over Rune Sigil Stone – Ashes?]

A system prompt appeared.

Orson's eyes darkened.

He didn't press yes.

He didn't press no.

He simply froze the interface, keeping it locked on the decision screen.

It meant sacrificing a Hell-Tier quest reward, sure—but he stood to gain something far greater.

"You know, your ancestors were quite something," Orson mused, his lips curling.

"The oldest thief in history, right at the dawn of civilization. That's a hell of a legacy—makes the human God of Thieves look like a two-bit street rat."

Odin's face contorted in rage.

"Your God-Emperor betrayed me! Your entire kind deserves to die!"

Orson's grin widened.

"And your ancestor was a thief."

Odin visibly snapped.

"Only through blood can insects like you learn their place!"

Orson tilted his head.

"Your ancestor was. A. Thief."

A nerve popped in Odin's temple, his rage hitting critical levels.

Yet—

He still couldn't attack.

Because Orson was still stuck in the quest interface, having neither accepted nor rejected the request.

And so, the mighty Ashen King stood there, fists clenched, his mountainous rage bottled up, unable to do a damn thing.

It was pathetic.

Orson kept taunting him, and Odin was reduced to frothing in place, while his boar mount roared furiously, hooves stomping the ground, ready to charge—

But still frozen in place.

The absurdity of the situation was almost comical.

"Still not done?"

Orson frowned.

This couldn't last forever—the decision lock could only hold for five minutes, after which the quest would automatically register as a rejection.

And if he left Odin's interaction range, the interface would instantly close.

At that point, there would be no more stalling.

He would face Odin's wrath in full.

One minute.

Two.

Three.

Odin's ghostly blue eyes drilled into him, burning with pure, unfiltered hatred.

For all of Odin's power as a God of Forging, he had been weakened—his battle with the Cursed Fiend had left him cursed and diminished.

His prized dwarven Artifact, Thunderfire, had been lost.

The only weapon left in his grasp—Firefeather Duststar—was a broken Artifact, shattered in battle, now just half a blade.

His HP, once an unknown, had now been revealed—six hundred million.

"Six hundred million HP…"

For a King-Class boss, it wasn't impossible to kill.

But this wasn't just any King-Class.

Odin was a special case, far more powerful than even Golden Dragon King Soros.

His weapons were Artifacts.

His armor—even if not an Artifact—was an absurdly overpowered Forbidden-tier set.

Taking him down wouldn't be as simple as a normal raid fight.

Orson's brows furrowed.

"Not worth it. Need to fall back."

The interface was about to collapse.

Fighting Odin in this enclosed space would be a death sentence.

"3…"

"2…"

"1!"

The task window vanished.

Instantly—

The entire cavern erupted.

The air itself warped, the very fabric of space rippling from the sheer force of Odin's killing intent.

Orson was crushed under an overwhelming aura, his lungs tightening—it felt like an immovable mountain had slammed onto his shoulders.

The King's Authority.

This was the power of an Infinite Dimensions ruler.

Odin's howl of fury roared through the cavern, his body engulfed in a vortex of flames and lightning.

His half-broken sword swung—

And the world turned red.

A colossal wave of fire descended like a falling mountain, crashing down with enough force to tear the entire cavern apart.

An unavoidable one-hit kill.

Orson's vision blurred red.

The sheer destructive pressure was beyond anything a player could withstand at this stage.

The cavern walls shattered.

The entire underground lair collapsed.

Even the Saint Lord Dragons had failed to breach the cavern walls, yet Odin split it apart with a single swing.

The ceiling of the dungeon blew open, its width ten times larger than before—a gaping hole to the surface.

Orson's view flickered.

The next thing he knew—

He was outside.

On solid ground.

Alive.

"Good thing I didn't try using Undying Spirit."

A chill ran through him.

That half-broken Artifact sword… it had nullified divine relic effects.

Something similar to Yamata no Orochi's high-tier Dark Magic.

If Odin's sword was still intact, even a Divine-tier item wouldn't have saved him.

No wonder not even the God-Emperor himself had managed to finish him off.

No wonder Odin survived for over a thousand years.

Orson exhaled, relieved.

He had planned ahead—retrieving Crimson Lizard King in advance and setting up a spatial gateway for escape.

If he hadn't prepared, even his 500,000 HP wouldn't have been enough to survive that attack.

Leaping onto the Crimson Lizard King, Orson shot into the sky, putting distance between himself and Odin.

Boom!

A violent shockwave erupted as Odin's boar mount charged up from below, shattering the ground as it blasted skyward in pursuit.

"Grey Ash Battle Art—Destruction Slash!"

Odin's howl shook the heavens.

His body glowed like molten metal, lava-like magic veins spreading across his skin.

The moment he lifted his sword, the very air fractured—

And two towering waves of fire screamed toward Orson, each one a blazing mountain of death.

Orson's heart pounded.

The problem was clear.

Odin was over a thousand meters away—and yet his attacks were still locked onto him.

There was no escaping this battle.

"Doom Dragon Breath!"

The Crimson Lizard King roared, unleashing a torrent of black hellfire, slamming into one of the incoming flame waves.

The two attacks collided violently, creating a storm of raging flames.

But there was still one more.

Orson's eyes flashed cold.

"I've got it."

His black hair whipped in the wind as he thrust his hand forward—

Grip of the Underworld!

The sky darkened.

A massive phantom hand descended—

Just as Odin's sword ripped open space itself—summoning a hundred-meter-wide, grey-winged dragon.