The force was very light, almost non-existent.
But as a sharpshooter who roamed around the world, his senses were extremely keen.
Even the slightest rustle of the wind or grass, he could detect.
The spine of the sharpshooter tensed in an instant, cold sweat appeared on his forehead, and his heartbeat quickened.
But in the end, he still turned his head.
The crescent moon hung high, with sparse stars scattered thinly above.
The cold and faint moonlight cast upon the girl's features, adding a touch of chilliness to her appearance.
She was even wearing slippers, her long hair loosely draped over her shoulders.
Her phoenix eyes were hazy, misted with a faint vapor.
As if she had just woken up.
Yet the heart of the sharpshooter abruptly seized, because he saw what the girl was holding in her right hand.
A Desert Eagle.
A hunting rifle.
He seldom used it, only keeping it in his backpack.