The World's Finest Technology
The Elf Empire's technological prowess was the best in the world! Morning dawned, and nothing happened. I'd been on edge, convinced an ambush was coming, but not a single incident occurred. No surprise attacks while I stood watch or while I slept. What the hell? The peace was so unnerving it made me anxious. Was this the calm before the storm?
Actually, there had been one incident the night before. Tirga had been begging for sex right next to the sleeping elves, and I'd had a hell of a time stopping her. That shameless giantess seemed to have lost all sense of shame. Thanks to that, Tirga had been glaring at me with a sulky face since morning, and I only managed to soothe her by promising to make it up to her later. Part of me wanted to just unsummon her, but the Imperial Guard would find it suspicious if she vanished. We'd been stuck together like lovers and comrades this whole time; it would feel strangely empty without her. Besides, resummoning her always came with thunder and lightning and a ridiculously flashy entrance. Better to just keep her around.
"Meal time!"
"Master, it's time to eat. You can't fight on an empty stomach."
This morning's meal was a stew made from leftover meat from yesterday. Calling it a stew was generous; it was basically just meat and some unidentifiable ingredients thrown into a pot and boiled. Don't expect anything refined like vegetables sautéed with care and paired with seared meat. This was why some transmigrators enjoyed cooking modern dishes in this world. Somewhere out there in this vast world, there had to be another project participant—an otherworlder—with cooking-related abilities. If I ever found them, I'd kidnap them and lock them in a kitchen to cook for me.
"Master, why do you look so glum?"
"It's nothing. Want some of mine?"
"Well, if Master is offering, I suppose I have no choice."
Tirga's lips were still jutting out in a pout. Her words said one thing, but her body was honest—she cleaned my bowl completely. Good. She needed to eat well to fight well. That's my Tirga. Compared to those women who picked at their food for nonsense reasons like "I'm on a diet" or "I have no appetite" or "I'm in a bad mood," she was a sight for sore eyes.
Come to think of it, my body felt lighter. The intense nightly exercise called sex combined with reduced food intake was probably why. While the others ate, I went to a nearby stream and used the water as a mirror to check my face. My appearance had definitely changed after transmigrating. This ambiguous mixed-race face—neither clearly East Asian nor Western—looked like something a master craftsman had painstakingly sculpted. Who would've thought that ugly mug would turn out this handsome? Had the contract included something about appearance modification?
After finishing our meal, we packed up the campsite and prepared to depart. The weather was perfect. Being able to drive with a beautiful woman in the back seat on a day like this—truly, fantasy was fantasy.
"Master, can't we go faster?"
"I'd love to, but we're not here for a joyride."
I wanted to floor it, but as the rearguard, speeding up was impossible. Besides, charging ahead recklessly could land us in a trap or get us killed in an ambush. In thriller movies, the idiot who shows off at the front always dies first—classic cliché.
The enemy hadn't attacked at night because identifying friend from foe was too difficult. Even in the modern world with advanced equipment, night combat was far harder than daytime operations. This world was no different.
The lead vehicle suddenly stopped. Three massive figures stood blocking the road, radiating killing intent. Blue-skinned orc warriors clad in armor.
"We finally meet, you vile elf bitches who destroyed our home."
"A lowly, ugly inferior race like you dares block our path? We're in a hurry, so move aside."
"Shut up. I'll flay your hide and offer it to my fallen kin."
A fight? Count me in! I'd been bored just driving anyway. Time to teach these dumb orcs what happens when they block the road.
I spread my arms like I was cheering and drew up the power I'd been condensing. Behold—the meme that once set the internet ablaze, now given form and power.
"Squirrel Thunder!"
Purple lightning bolts rained from the clear sky, striking the ground with such force that even the confident orcs flinched. My accuracy wasn't as good as Tirga's, so I mostly just burned innocent trees. Then, by luck, a thick bolt struck one orc's head. His bones became visible for a moment before he charred black and collapsed.
"L-Lightning?"
"That thunder… Could it be him?!"
"It has to be. All our dead comrades' bodies had burn marks from electrocution."
Come to think of it, Ranea had tested me by ordering the destruction of an orc village. These two orcs were probably from that ruined village. Interesting. I ordered Tirga to subdue the remaining two without killing them. She extended her hand, and two bolts of lightning struck them cleanly. They collapsed as if their legs had given out.
"The more I see, the more terrifying you two are."
"What do you mean, Lady Richel?"
"Lightning magic is among the most difficult and tricky to handle. Moreover, your power feels very different from ordinary magic. I'm quite curious about your true identity, Marquelon."
"I'm just a mercenary from the countryside."
A woman's intuition could be terrifyingly sharp sometimes. Even though Richel and I had done everything together, revealing my true identity still felt risky. Speaking of which, I'd already shown them otherworld items like the truck. Had she figured something out? Richel merely winked and said nothing more.
Time to interrogate the fallen orcs.
"Hey, orc. Who sent you?"
"How absurd. We're looking for the one who slaughtered our kin and destroyed our village. What kind of fool would need to be ordered to do that?"
"Yeah, I did massacre some orcs recently. So what can you do about it? Shake and kiss the ground?"
"A devil wearing human skin. You're worse than those elves in black uniforms. How could you slaughter innocent people without leaving a single one alive? Why?!"
"I'm a mercenary. If the money's right, there's nothing I won't do."
"You did all that just for money?"
"Just for money? No—for money."
Stupid orc. He didn't understand the value of money. This guy needed mental reprogramming—electric therapy. I rubbed my palms together, placed them on both sides of his head, and fried his brain.
"No!"
A moment later, the smell of burning flesh filled the air as the orc's eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness. The remaining orc, now friendless, trembled in terror as he looked at me. I felt a bit sorry for him, so I'd show a minimum of mercy.
"Lady Richel, could you behead this orc in one clean stroke?"
"Of course. Any member of the Imperial Guard should manage that much."
Richel ordered her subordinates to make the orc kneel. In an instant, she drew her curved blade and cleanly severed his head. With samurai-like precision, she flicked off the blood, wiped the blade once with a cloth, and sheathed it neatly. Watching the beautiful elf in her sharp black uniform demonstrate such swordsmanship made me—crass as it was—get hard.
"Orcs are stubborn as hell, just like they look. They won't talk no matter what. So unless you're planning to use them as test subjects or slaves, it's better to kill them quickly."
"Is that so? I've learned something new."
We left the dead orcs behind and resumed our journey. We had a long way to go; we couldn't waste time on these nuisances.
***
Three days or so passed without incident before we arrived at our destination—the detention camp. I never thought I'd see a concentration camp straight out of a World War II movie in a fantasy world. Then again, it wasn't strange. If there were Nazi elves who worshipped fascism, why wouldn't there be camps? It was like pharmacies being near hospitals in the modern world.
The moment we arrived, we heard someone screaming in agony. Passing through the thick, high walls lined with barbed wire, I understood why. In the courtyard, prisoners were tied to posts while an elf used them as target practice with a bow. Wait—was that a compound bow? It even had a magazine attached. I wanted to show this to those web novel or transmigrator types who complained about fantasy world's tech level while bragging about "Ah, this is an otherworld item." Hey, look. The elves of this world wear black trench coats and uniforms, and they shoot mechanical bows!
"That's the camp commander. He's quite eccentric, so be careful, Marquelon."
"He certainly looks the part."
Tying up living people and shooting arrows at them wasn't exactly normal, was it? On closer inspection, they weren't even human. Orcs, dark elves, demon-like mazoku—races that were easy to view as "bad" or fit certain prejudices—were bound there.
Under the Guard's command, the rear door of the prison carriage opened, and the chained prisoners descended in orderly fashion. The ones inside the carriage were none other than dark elves. Had there been dark elves in Troopers Castle? I didn't know, but that explained why the resistance had launched a surprise attack to rescue them. Anyway, the prisoners were led away somewhere inside the camp under Guard escort.
Richel approached the elf who was busy shooting and saluted.
"Heil Mein Führer."
"Got it, just wait a moment."
The camp commander released the bowstring mid-sentence. The arrow struck an orc's heart dead center, and with a bang, it exploded. The orc died instantly. Explosive arrows—weapons I'd only seen in games existed in this world too. Getting hit by one of those would either kill you or leave you critically wounded and unable to fight. Terrifying. Nazi elves were scary. Mechanical bows and bomb arrows—what kind of monstrous weapons were they using?
"The Empire's science and technology is the world's best! Isn't that right?"
"Yes, Commander."
"How about it? Want to try shooting one?"
"I'm fine. I'm afraid to handle a weapon my salary couldn't possibly afford."
"Honest. I like that. Anyway, good work getting here. Let's head inside."
Despite his dramatic entrance, the camp commander seemed the least disciplined of all the Imperial Guard elves I'd met. Compared to the neatly uniformed Ranea or Richel, his attire was downright sloppy. His upper uniform was gone, and he was shooting arrows wearing only a sports bra. Not that I was complaining—I got an eyeful.
"Master, do you like that elf's chest that much? Your eyes are about to pop out."
"Ahem. Must be your imagination, Tirga."
A man staring at a woman's chest was an irresistible force of nature. What an understanding-deficient summon I had.