Chapter 22
Chapter 22
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 22
Chapter Title: On the Way to the East (2)
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The mercenaries knew better than anyone the danger of impaired visibility, so the campsite wasn't pressed right up against the forest.
There was a fairly spacious clearing between them, which meant it took the bandits leaping out from the woods hiding spots a little time to reach the camp.
"Snap to it! Form up and hold!"
A man bellowed. He had the air of the mercenary band's leader, and sure enough, he was. It was praiseworthy that he was still barking orders amid the panic.
With no time to spare on Galen, he dashed toward his men, and as the mercenaries fumbled but familiarly readied for battle.
Left all alone, Galen swept his gaze over the charging bandit horde.
Having witnessed two massive clashes involving hundreds just recently, he could size up the enemy in a glance, info flooding his mind. He wasn't flustered in the least.
'Over fifty strong. Solidly armed, too. Not a single starved ragamuffin in sight. Bandits, really?'
Bandits had to eat to rob. Sure, some cut secret deals with nearby villages, but even then, how sparse were the settlements around here to sustain that many mouths?
Of course, fleecing merchants kept them fed, but the real question was how they'd banded together in such numbers from the start.
'Well, asking will sort it out.'
Galen cleared his doubts in seconds. Whatever their backstory, one certainty stood out: foes charging with that feral killing intent weren't friends.
Eying the bandits who'd crossed half the clearing, Galen thrust forward his left hand, free of the reins. Peeking from his sleeve, a spirit bracelet coiled around his wrist.
Spirit Creation Lv.18
Progress to next level: 40%
Twelve days out from Nijerte.
Galen had traveled prioritizing Spirit Creation training over Water Flow Manipulation, which barely budged from solo drills.
Just as fiddling with water leveled Water Flow Manipulation, bossing spirits around leveled Spirit Creation.
It rose a smooth one level per day, like Water Flow Manipulation's early days.
Each time, his water storage swelled, and the max burst volume shot up steeply.
Back fighting the Gaud Family, his spirit managed a faucet trickle; now it poured like upending a small bucket.
In short, whipping up the water cannonballs he'd long favored was now a blink-of-an-eye affair. He could supply that much in a heartbeat at short range.
Water gushed wildly from the bracelet, cloaking Galen's left hand in a sphere in moments before rocketing forward.
Bam!
The lead bandit's face smashed into the slightly oversized water blob. His skull pulped like crushed under a boulder, gruesome sight broadcast to all.
Aside from the instinctive revulsion, Galen's mind stayed ice-cold. The next shot was chambered.
Bam! Bam!
Consecutive blobs sent two more flying. Headless corpses hit three.
All this before a proper breath. Unprecedented for bandits and mercenaries alike, their brains lagged behind their eyes.
By the time wits caught up, two more were down. Only after five fell did screams erupt from both sides.
"Ma, mage!"
"It's a mage!"
Screams laced with clashing emotions. Neither side knew Galen, but with bandits dropping like flies, whose side was obvious.
The bandits, nearly across the clearing, slowed markedly. Momentum shattered.
Slower made finer targets. Galen loosed cannon fire with ease.
"You idiots!"
A booming voice thundered from the bandits.
"Charge! Get in close! Stick to him, or the magic keeps coming!"
The bandit boss's roar? The hesitating horde snapped alert.
Closing for melee was mage counter 101—no special order, but timely. With over ten already blasted amid the flailing, it jolted survival instincts.
But desperation meant zilch against an absolute gap. Like a rabbit charging a lion.
"Where to?"
Cannon fire was Water Flow Manipulation's simplest trick: clump spirit-spat water, aim, accelerate. Done.
Galen had ample room for fancier water play.
He'd honed it against Gaud warriors. Even Silver-rank flinched from facefuls—water's mass packed punch.
Whoosh!
Water that had shattered skulls and pooled everywhere danced up. Water Flow Manipulation whipped it into a dozen long lashes sweeping the ground.
Smack! Crack! Snap!
Bandits were decently geared for their kind, but not full plate. Worse than Bronze mercenaries.
Weapons in hand meant armor mostly torsos. Legs first to go when skimping.
The flailing streams mercilessly lashed ankles to knees, past leather boots at best.
"Grah!"
"Aaaagh!"
Bruises lucky; shattered bones rampant. No gritting through—legs snapped, no advancing.
Bam! Bam!
Meanwhile, cannon intervals stretched slightly but kept pounding.
Bandits couldn't dodge: lucky hit the head for instant death, unlucky torsos for agony writhing.
That water flowed down, reforming whips. More battlefield water, more chaos.
"Whoa..."
"Th-that's magic..."
Mercenaries, braced for slaughter by bandit numbers, gawked slack-jawed as spectators.
Bandits: over half dead or moaning grounded. Galen solo-dominated the field.
Sane move: flee now. But one held out.
"Die, you bastard!"
The berserk bandit boss. He vaulted the ankle whip, barreling at Galen.
"Oh?"
Galen's eyes gleamed.
Not ordinary footwork. No precise warrior eye, but Silver-grade in a guild, maybe.
Levels varied in Silver, though. Fresh Bronze promote vs. Tertish pre-Gold hearsay? Worlds apart. Bet on the former, punch your friend guilt-free.
To Galen, post-Gaud-Narok melee vet, this boss screamed former. Zero threat.
Figured one block or dodge for his shot.
Just blast repeatedly. Galen gathered water longer than usual, unleashing on the closing boss.
Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh!
No huge blob—instead fist-sized split into machine-gun spray.
"What?!"
Boss ditched guard for dodge, too late, too close. Dodged some, blocked some—his limit.
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud!
Best-armored bandit, useless. Limbs mangled, torso spared shredding only by armor. No cleric? Doomed.
"Gonna keep spectating?"
Galen turned to the mercenaries. Their dazed boss jolted.
"N-no, sir!"
Instant honorifics. Ungracious after this? Reckless.
"Hold one spot. Sweep the rest."
"Yes, sir!"
Boss-led mercenaries broke formation, charging late.
Bandit morale, plummeting post-mage, dust after boss smash. Fleeing pre-mercs; no forest chase. Mercs mopped wounded.
"Mercy, mage sir!"
Post-battle, inner-tent merchants kowtowed out.
"Forgive us! Forgive us!"
"We overstepped shunning you! One chance, please!"
"I get it—no need. Bandits proved you right."
Galen chuckled. No grudge over snubbing suspicious traveler pre-mage reveal.
"Now, campfire access?"
"Of course!"
"My tent too!"
"Nah, skip that. Just night watch relief."
"I'll take it?"
Some bumps, but cozier than solo camp. Win.
Galen pooled the muddy water everywhere, dispersing it skyward. Or fed back to spirit, really.
Meantime, mercs tidied: looted corpses, buried rough, grilled survivors for intel.
"Mage sir."
Merc boss approached gingerly.
"Couldn't pry much. Wounds too grave—croaked quick."
"Fine. Not dying to know. Fun facts?"
"Seems this lot were ex-mercs."
"Ah, explains the kit."
Galen nodded.
Bronze rarely, but Scrap-ranks turned bandit when broke. Not rare. Trustworthy jobs skipped Scraps.
Even Scraps outfought armed peasants. Riskier.
"Boss near-Silver, though. Could lead packs, but why bandit?"
"Crime blacklisted from guilds?"
"East boom too. Merchants everywhere."
A listening merchant chimed timidly.
"This year's east push spiked all trade. Plumper pickings for thieves."
"Heard guilds recruiting heavy. Makes sense."
"Eastbound, mage sir?"
"Yep."
"Abaca stop?"
"Gotta. Transport hub."
"I'll help!"
Merchant beamed.
"Doris Trading Company of Abaca. Let me repay!"
"Huh."
Galen perked intrigued.
"Let's hear it."