Chapter 107
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 107
Chapter Title: 11th Floor - Lv. 765 Stormhowl Armored Brigade (3)
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If the God of War was scheming something even with his scant influence...
It would be our party. More precisely, me.
This was enemy territory—their heartland. There was no chance of winning a head-on fight.
I scanned the surroundings using gear that concealed mana detection waves.
Units were already pursuing the survivors who'd crash-landed.
Scattered skirmishes were breaking out everywhere.
Sticking together any longer was too risky. I bid farewell to the captain, wishing him luck.
The alliance had successfully deployed more ground forces than expected.
This crash-landing drop seemed to have been intentional.
The imperial capital's ground defenses weren't all that impressive.
They'd never assumed they'd be attacked from the surface to begin with.
Honestly, it made sense. Assuming otherwise would be the weird part.
More ships were plummeting through the clouds. Some weren't even crash-landing—they shattered midair, raining debris onto the ground.
That cleared out the thick clouds from earlier.
A fleet battle still raged overhead.
But the alliance fleet, lacking anti-air support, was clearly getting pushed back.
Eventually, allied ground forces would swell one way or another.
"We're heading to the capital. The stairs are there. If we make it before the Federation fleet arrives, we should be good."
"Will the goblins really come that fast?"
I didn't need to answer. The Girl looked upward, as if conversing with the goddess, then nodded in understanding.
The Federation was prepping their vanguard for an ultra-long-range warp.
It was a unit formed to respond fastest to any crisis in the Federation.
They'd warp straight into this planet's orbit without hesitation.
To welcome their high priestess and their goddess.
Warping was just teleportation at the end of the day. They'd borrow science for precise coordinates, but magic was the core driver.
Magitech usually centered on magic, augmented by science.
Magic had advanced first, after all. No helping it.
Tech doesn't evolve uniformly across fields.
It progresses based on immediate needs.
We hustled.
The Girl and Hunter voiced concerns.
The landscape was overwhelmingly intimidating.
Nothing like the fortress on the 8th floor.
Cliffs of steel, anti-air guns blasting shells skyward with menace.
Laser batteries intercepting escape pods.
When I'd posed as bioweapons, plenty of bats got shot down by those.
The silver lining: no ground-targeted batteries.
They'd never dreamed their heartland could be assaulted from the surface.
Long-range warps were inherently risky. The farther the jump, or the less cooldown between them, the higher the accident rate.
You could end up flung into deep space, never to return.
Or worse, into the abyss's depths.
For NPCs, that meant permanent logout from the server.
It was a reckless plan. Feasibility barely factored in. Pure aggression for aggression's sake.
But the God of Order knew we existed. The moment he got Federation intel, he'd thought:
This war is won.
Infuriating, but with the saintess business pending, I'd hold back.
I knew the stairs' location.
The stage itself hadn't changed from future intel, so they'd be in the capital. Thank goodness not inside the palace.
True to the war-loving Greenskins, the continent 500 years from now was dotted with fortresses grander than cities.
No reason to hit a fortress, but the Girl whispered:
"Reminds me of that time. Sneaking into imperial territory."
"When you tried turning goblin?"
"Ugh, not a great memory."
The Girl wasn't carrying her rifle. No need.
Firearms delivered devastating power with gear alone, no strings attached—but lacked built-in correction skills.
Even for locals.
Unlike archers who could pull [Guided Arrow] out of nowhere, gunners relied entirely on the shooter's skill.
Unless it was a guided firearm, anyway.
Different challenges from archery.
With her mobility—and sustaining it—melee could outperform guns.
In this era, melee weapons were just tools.
They existed and worked fine, but as beam sabers and such energy weapons, they skimped on counters to old-school physical strikes.
Not impossible, just unnecessary.
Efficiency issue.
That's where types like the Girl exploited gaps.
In this SF future, few seriously trained swordsmanship or magic like in the old days.
Pull a trigger, and your firepower outdid decades of grueling practice.
Soldiers learned basic hand-to-hand, sure.
But no martial arts masters from the past.
Even high-level folks leaned on mobility, buffs, and utility.
This era was bloated on firepower alone, arguably weaker for it.
Surprising, but drop a medieval [Hero Unit] here, and they'd dominate close quarters.
No dedicated close-range blockers anymore.
Preemptive volley might work...
But could an army guarantee victory against a sword master guerrillaing through terrain?
A proper sword master—or warrior that caliber—could read muzzles, block, or dodge.
If they knew what guns even were.
The Girl...
"I see them!"
She'd proven hero-tier by parrying three plasma rifle bursts with a dagger in a row.
Without spotter-level aim or area blasts, her physicals made her a powerhouse.
Like many worlds, rapid tech left human elements behind.
Party members were intrigued but convinced.
The old man, no gun expert, narrowed his eyes and nodded.
"Weapons like that do make training seem pointless. Still, a warrior must honor their calling."
The youngest fiddled with a gun and asked:
"Can you call yourself a warrior carrying a gun?"
"Not the job title. Pride in battle. Win a fight, you're a warrior."
"Wise words."
We moved as fast as stamina allowed.
But pursuers were closing in.
No mana detection, but their gear was likely far more precise and stealthy than a mage's spell.
An hour later, the trackers nearly had us.
Even conventional magic functioned similarly. I cast mana concealment, hiding us all.
As a magic warrior, I had penalties for diverse spells, so I routed through the kid for implementation.
She looked uncomfortable but mulled the formula.
A barrier blocked sound, presence, mana.
But it'd fail soon.
Once they got close enough.
A roar, and machines appeared.
"Is that a car?"
"Looks like an armored one."
"Even after decades as a shaman, it's unimaginable. Less a vehicle, more a totem."
Wheels or treads aside, it was crude scrap metal.
But it'd function.
Greenskins had ogres—monsters innately attuned to magic.
Greenskin magic was shamanism.
Shamanism borrows power from elsewhere.
In a physical strength-obsolesced era, ogres honed innate magic.
By birth, ogres suited mages.
Plus goblin scientists who fled to or stayed loyal to the Federation.
Orc shamans specialized in borrowed power.
Their synergy birthed Greenskin machines.
Scrap that screamed dysfunction, yet goblin-designed, shaman-fueled, magic-powered armored cars.
Flashy Greenskin paint, jagged protrusions, virtue in big and loud—blaring pointless horns everywhere.
The whole thing screamed, "This is Greenskin!" in grand oratory.
More viscerally than medieval ones.
Their spaceships were the same.
And despite the trash visuals, they were threats. Non-pure-science made such feats possible.
"Kinda busted in a cool way?"
The Girl's eyes sparkled.
She liked it.
Why?
Questioning her tastes.
Was I like that? Right as self-doubt hit, the old man chuckled wryly.
Resigned laughter.
"That flag's Stormhowl Brigade. Still around after 500 years."
"Units endure beyond eras, passing names down."
No matter the mad visuals, it was the capital's armored division.
Symbol flag and all.
Lightning motif, identical to the 6th floor.
Vehicles approached. Dozens, nearly twenty.
Troops armed variably. But with decent armor, baring torsos like medieval times was passé.
Greenskins weren't dumb.
Past savagery fit then's era.
When tough bodies couldn't tank attacks, they adopted armor.
Heat-resistant for guns, hilariously poor at blade-proofing.
Sane in a melee-extinct age. Exile's opening.
Party went dead silent.
They were hunting us precisely. A shaman emerged solemnly, prayed, muttered.
Some troops dismounted, searching.
A bit closer, and busted.
All their weapons guns. No melee even if we closed.
My signal, weapons up.
Priority: shaman, top-turret machine gunners.
Orcs with guns—not axes—advanced in sloppy tactical formation.
Not well-drilled.
Capital troops lacked combat experience.
Safest spot's rabble.
Shaman closed eyes, gathering mana.
My signal.
Gunfire blew the shaman's head off. Our concealment vanished.
Crossfire erupted.
Girl and I dashed forward.
Youngest's cover decent. Hunter's better.
Old man guarded gunners, Mjolnir smashing down. Gear hastily grabbed pre-10th floor exit. Can't leave artifacts.
Lightning god's hammer sparked rare magical bolts.
Would its EMP disrupt nearby tech? Nice.
Midway to vehicles, Girl split opposite me.
No bat form. Would burn through sunblock.
Fought as magic warrior instead.
Full-power magical shockwave blasted out. Vehicles rocked, troops staggered—like an artillery shell.
Direct magic attacks unfamiliar here.
Especially before lightning-gawking orcs could fire.
Vehicle tilted diagonally, slammed down.
Orcs sprayed wildly. Plasma, charged particles everywhere.
Direct hits lethal, but no terrain punch-through.
Kid mage and old man grimaced, shielding.
Even small-arms firepower overwhelming, but not impenetrable.
Orc gunners couldn't sustain fire.
Hunter and youngest poured plasma through barriers.
Screaming shaman dropped. Other orcs cursed, scrambling back to vehicles.
Old man tsked. Fleeing? Un-orc-like!
They didn't reach.
Tiny Girl barely visible in chaos. But her punch? Not.
Dodging fire from multiple angles unwise, even with defense/evasion.
She applied my teachings perfectly, weaving between vehicles, using foes as cover.
No gunner here could track and shoot her properly.
Flashes—running orc gunners crumpled. Permanently.
Onlooking vehicle twitched violently.
Drivers usually ogres. Greenskin machines' magic weaves needed magic-handlers.
Ogres panicked on accelerator.
One brave rig charged us. Ramming intent.
I blocked. Precise angle for blast.
Right hand canceled frontal physics.
Near-simultaneous delayed shock turned it.
Brief gap: low dive under, explode.
Chassis lifted. Bigger blast.
Palm-direct massive explosion.
Vehicle flipped.
Old man swung hammer. Lightning arced. Holy bolts shredded magical shields like plastic, fried systems.
Braver ogre driver bailed, fleeing.
Old man roared pursuit.
Less rage at foe, more pity.
They fell without proper resistance.
No chasing runners. Legs can't outpace momentary bursts.
Confirming kills, the headshot shaman lived.
Thought head gone; minimal defense at last second.
"Urgh... The God of War will punish you. Past, present, future!"
I tsked. God of War desperate too.
Hunter fired. Just charred proteins and fats where head was.
Old man glumly:
"Future orcs all like this? Disappointing."
"Serving the God of War makes true orcs. Not all are. Probably no zealots besides that shaman."
"What happens in the future?"
"Not enemies anymore? Still bugs you."
"Aye. Getting old."
Old man eyed a dead orc arm. Thick as orc-born, but puny vs. him or youngest.
Not muscle—bulk.
Greenskins stopped body-training era.
Ancient orc sighed.
"Time's cruel. God of War must be frustrated."
"Wipe that frustration, perfect."
"Not bad. Empire gone, he rests easy."
God of War'd rage hearing it.
"Hate something? Smash it. Orc way."
That coolness drew me to Greenskin play sometimes.
I hopped into the shaman's vehicle cockpit.
Luckily, operable.
Greenskins varied mechanisms per ride.
Vehicle acquired. Better escape.
Sky still boomed with cannon fire.
Before departing, strong kid-converted mana scan.
Far-flung mana snapped back. Lifeforms everywhere.
Swarming our way fast.
"Floor it. Hold on tight."
Hunter nodded from machine gun nest. Youngest shield-up beside.
Block one lethal hit, probably.
Mage trio prepped barrier around old man.
Straight to capital.
Mana-fed engine thundered.
Lightning brigade flag whipped at rear.
"All systems green! Regulator open! Boosters at 120%! Warping!"
Federation tech wasn't behind, but outshone by fairy-and-dwarf alliance? No.
Thus, ultra-long 300pc leap was hugely risky.
Yet no Federation soul feared.
Their goddess awaited at destination.
All crew saluted the distant goddess.
"Warp!"
Thrilled operator's call—dozens of vanguard ships surged.
Space warped, maw yawned.
Tens of billions tons mass sucked into distortion.