Level Up The Colony
Chapter 69: Guns

Chapter 69: Guns

Timothy emerged from a different angle just in time to witness his previously injured self collapse.

What looked like a dying body suddenly fell apart into a swarm of termites, scattering in all directions and leaving no trace behind, no blood, no remains, as if no attack had ever taken place.

He narrowed his eyes.

These termites didn’t feel real.

There was no pheromone trail, no natural signal like they were artificial or digitized.

Then the system notification rang in his mind:

[Skill: Escape]

0/1 uses left.

Cooldown: 00:01:59:59

"So that’s how it works," Timothy muttered, rising to his feet. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

His expression was calm, but his eyes burned with quiet frustration.

He glanced in the direction his attackers had escaped but made no move to pursue.

He would deal with them later, he had more pressing matters for now.

"That scent... that pheromone," he murmured, not to himself but to something else entirely.

"Don’t forget it. We’ll be back."

With that, he jogged toward the nearest bank.

Located close to the market, it was usually packed on weekdays.

Fortunately, today was a lesser market day, and the crowd was thin.

He went in, withdrew ₦500,000 (roughly $333) using a withdrawal slip, and immediately proceeded to block his ATM card.

He could have requested a replacement, but that wasn’t his priority.

They, whoever they probably thought he was dead.

No doubt they were celebrating their success.

If they still had his phone, they’d soon find out otherwise. Timothy doubted they’d sold it yet for the same reason he hadn’t gone after them.

It was still morning.

It wasn’t time.

With his bank tasks done, he returned home.

The urge to cook had faded, replaced by a dull craving for junk food.

He settled for whatever was available, not out of pleasure, but out of necessity.

Eating didn’t bring him joy, only focus.

He considered his options.

Reporting the attack to the police was possible.

They were ordinary civilians, after all.

Jail time was a likely outcome.

But something bothered him.

Hunters like him didn’t have legal protections against civilians.

Was that intentional? The law seemed to assume that Hunters, by their power, needed regulation not protection.

Yet civilians walked around with a sense of superiority, as if they were the apex species, and Hunters the beasts.

Like society had given them permission to beat a trained dog if it so much as bark.

"Bullshit," Timothy thought, lips curling into a cold smile.

This was why he didn’t like playing the hero.

Too many of them had no sense of self-preservation.

Too many threw themselves away "for the people."

He still had tasks to finish.

His daily quest was nearly complete only push-ups and sit-ups remained.

After that, he hailed a cab and made his way to the phone mall.

A phone regardless of the brand was essential in his line of work

He also needed to retrieve his SIM card.

He chose to return to the same complex where he’d met Sophia: the Spar.

Despite his earlier embarrassment, it remained the most convenient option with a wide selection of gadgets and reliable service.

He entered one of the gadget shops and browsed without a specific model in mind.

Eventually, a particular device caught his attention: a Vivo smartphone, lightweight, durable, impressive specs, and most importantly, a 7-inch screen.

It wasn’t the most practical feature, but it was a personal preference he enjoyed.

The device cost ₦400,000 (about $267).

It was part of a new promotion, which came with the usual fanfare pictures, complimentary gifts, and other services.

As a registered Hunter, Timothy was also offered discounted data plans.

He reluctantly explained that he had misplaced his previous device, avoiding the topic of the attack.

A Hunter admitting to being mugged would raise too many questions.

The staff helped him recover his SIM card and restore his data.

The entire process took nearly two hours.

Back home, Timothy finally opened his social media handle, only to be met with a flood of messages.

Most were from unknown numbers, and they ranged from absurd to suspicious:

"Wagwan, I get magic core for sale, 50% off."

"I sell magic items, discount prices."

"Do you do ghost raids?"

"I have your nudes. Reply if you don’t want them leaked."

"Need a gate pass? I got you... unofficial."

"Cynthia’s Cuisine... Have you ever tasted monster meat?"

"Men in black have nothing on you for the right price."

...

Timothy scrolled through roughly twenty of them, his expression unreadable.

The discomfort was subtle but growing.

This was the definition of a spam message, and everyone seemed to scam you.

There was a reason Timothy wasn’t fond of social media, it was always bound to become a nuisance.

As expected, his inbox had turned into a chaotic mess of spam and shady solicitations.

With a sigh, he began clearing the junk, silently hoping no more messages would pour in though he knew that was just wishful thinking.

Buried among the digital noise were messages from people he actually knew, Miebaka, Ralph, Sophia, Miriam, and a few friends from his remnant social circle.

He’d anticipated messages from the first three, each for different reasons.

But Miriam? That one caught him off guard.

He never remembered to take her number despite her giving it to him, but clearly, she had taken the initiative.

Opening the messages with mild indifference, he saw Miebaka had simply dropped a time and location for an upcoming raid.

No greetings or details.

Just coordinates.

Timothy got the message.

He’d probably be late, though, the timing clashed a little with other priorities.

Sophia’s message was, as usual, centered around herself.

However, her tone had grown more formal lately, and the conversation lacked the energy it once had if any.

He replied out of courtesy, but the chat fizzled out quickly, as expected.

Ralph’s message, on the other hand, was animated and full of humor.

The two shared a lot in common, and the lighthearted exchange reminded Timothy why he enjoyed chatting with him.

But when the topic shifted toward dungeons and raids, Ralph noticeably held back.

All Timothy could gather was that Ralph wielded lightning-based abilities.

As cliché as it sounded, Timothy couldn’t help but fanboy a bit.

He even half-jokingly offered to join Ralph’s future raid as a porter.

Ralph, being part of a guild, didn’t reject the idea outright.

He seemed confident enough to make it happen.

Then came Miriam’s message.

Short and Direct.

"Can we see?"

It was oddly straightforward, and it made him wonder: Had she started adopting Miebaka’s blunt approach, or was it the other way around? Regardless, both of them, in his mind, were brilliant but lacking the strength to match their intellect.

He ended up declining the invitation without much explanation.

Not because he was trying to be evasive, but because he simply didn’t have the time.

Between the raid scheduled for the evening and the vengeance he had planned for the bastards who ambushed him earlier, his night was fully booked.

Still, he figured if Miriam really wanted to see him, she knew where he lived.

After some thought, he sent her a message suggesting they meet the following day assuming she agreed and saw it in time.

With that handled, there wasn’t much left to do.

Except, of course, for the persistent memory of getting shot.

The sensation still lingered a dull echo of the pain, as real as it was surreal.

He could still feel the flesh wound, and what disturbed him most wasn’t the pain itself, but the fact that it happened at all.

He was a B-rank hunter.

Wasn’t he supposed to be durable, nearly invulnerable to ordinary weapons?

It was the second time in three months he’d faced death and it didn’t get easier.

He pressed his fingers into the spot where the bullet had hit, contemplating the limits of his own body.

For all the myths surrounding hunters, some things were never made clear.

Sure, the average citizen knew hunters were strong, fast, and possessed supernatural abilities.

When they first appeared, hunters could lift cars and toss them across streets, though such feats were usually limited to those with a focus on physical attributes.

Magic users, on the other hand, had more creative methods.

They could manipulate elements, summon golems, or use telekinesis.

Once, he even saw a hunter distort space itself to displace an object.

That case made headlines, though it happened on another continent, so the footage was questionable at best.

Still, how was it possible for someone like him to get shot and nearly die?

The answer was unsettling.

Because while it was assumed hunters were immune to most human weapons, there was no universal rule.

Military forces weren’t sent into dungeons because their guns, assault rifles, grenades, and launchers barely scratched most monsters.

Creatures in dungeons had thick exoskeletons, powerful regenerative abilities, and magical resistance.

A bullet might pierce a goblin, but it would barely faze a hobgoblin.

Only high-caliber weapons like sniper rifles or anti-tank rifles could pose a serious threat and even then, only with precision and luck.

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