Deeply inhale. Lead the target. Tighten a finger around the trigger. Slowly exhale.

Fire.

A deafening gunshot erupts from the muzzle of a black powder firearm. The discharged projectile punches a hole into its target—a Level 14 Sand Scorpion—splattering its arachnid bits everywhere.

"Get the next one!" a male adventurer orders, directing the remainder of the party as he scavenges the tip of the scorpion's tail and drains its venomous serum.

Nodding, the scavenger signals the slayer of the monster to ready up.

A gloved hand slips into a trench coat pocket and swiftly withdraws a silica gel-looking black powder packet. The gunman's white teeth stain slightly as they sink into the torn edge and guide a small tear from one end to the other. A non-gloved hand swivels the flash pan and empties about an eighth of the powder into it, then throws the packet with its remaining contents down the barrel. It spins the scouring stick gracefully, padding the musket ball down into its powder bed, then reverses and replaces it into its holder.

The gunman blows on the match cord, sticks it between the jaws, and directs it into the open pan.

Present arms.

“Firing!” he yells, pressuring the trigger enough to ignite the black powder, propelling the large round at maximum acceleration.

His party members, who had moved on to aggro the next mob, dodge the shot, expecting the same gory result. This, however, does not end up being the case; his shot deviates off its path, as the drag of air resistance pushes the musket ball to the right.

Only the scorpion’s leg flies off. In pain and utter rage, the monster disregards the team’s diversion and targets the wielder of the matchlock musket. Eight legs scurry along the dusty path, crushing the corpses of their brethren in the way.

"Shit..." the gunman spits sharply.

His armament is abandoned in favor of drawing a hidden dagger. He aggressively takes a swing at the scorpion, but the butter knife of a weapon makes only a small dent in the monster's exoskeleton.

The scorpion grabs the teen by its claws and raises him high. It recoils its tail, then thrusts it through him. The level difference between the monster and the victim is too significant. His HP diminishes drastically upon the initial goring, and the high drain of the poison reduces it zero within a few seconds. He spits blood, then exhales for a final time before slumping over.

The team, in a panic, scatters. This effort is in vain for most, however, as with its blood-soaked claws, the scorpion catches and repeats the process on all but one member.

The remaining warrior standing wipes the corner of his mouth with his non-wielding hand. His eyes pan the area as he counts the number of fallen allies. He smirks, then raises his longsword to eye level and lunges into a running stance. With the same explosive force of a musket, he jets forward, meeting the scorpion head-on.