Click.
The bullet slices the air—then smashes into the wall ten feet behind the target.
"Damn it…"
Riven lowers his shaky hand, the barrel of his gun still warm. A faint red glow flickers at the base of the grip. His "Gopt Counter" ticks:
[Miss Chance: 99% | Hit Chance: 1%]
"Still one in a hundred…"
He holsters the gun with a frustrated sigh and leans against a rusted metal railing. The shooting range is empty, save for the echo of failed attempts.
Somewhere far off, a bell tolls.
It's time.
He doesn't want to be a hero. He barely qualifies as backup.
But the city doesn't care about that. The tournament begins today, and he has no choice.
His name's on the roster.