Crucible of Solitude (16)

Disabling the generator was child's play. Next up: the stockpiled bombs.

After the initial raid and bomb extraction, the Black Sea Party and peasant workers had shifted to a far bolder tactic for transporting their products. They openly demanded free vehicle access past the Public Security Bureau's barely maintained blockade. The excuse? Bringing in food and essentials for the 100,000 laborers occupying the industrial zone. The food came from storage facilities under the State Grain Reserve Administration. It was a cunning ploy, exploiting the bureau's inability to retreat without losing face with the elite and higher-ups.

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The "100,000" figure was the usual headcount inflation you'd expect in such situations. Most vehicles coming and going endlessly were filled with junk to mask their purpose. Only one or two out of ten actually carried bombs or food. The rest wandered city backstreets to draw eyes before looping back. Even the junk added enough weight to mimic a full load, making it impossible to discern fakes from the naked eye—unless you had my x-ray vision.

These runs also lured Public Security into ambushes. Officers tailing vehicles got caught in Black Sea Party guerrilla traps, killed or listed as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠missing. Unable to sustain the manpower drain, the bureau eventually abandoned surveilling outbound vehicles from the zone.

My side was different. The first extraction caught us unprepared, forcing a manual tail. From the second onward, HQ air-dropped trackers. From under manholes along the roads, we'd aim launchers through the covers and fire on passing vehicles. The tiny adhesive devices stuck like magnetic mines, letting pursuit teams shadow from hundreds of meters back.

Thanks to the guys who endured the stench of sewers all day attaching them. That explained why the finished bombs were clustered in large warehouses optimized for vehicle loading. The peasant worker leadership had divvied them up somewhat, but the gaps were just for accident prevention—not serious infiltration defense.

A blunder born of hubris and overconfidence. Drunk on smashing Public Security forces. Arrogant enough to think their plans stayed hidden.

We slipped between dim lights in our filthy coats. The peasant workers' battered cell phones lacked battery for proper illumination against the dark. Too few outlets for over 30,000 people.

Outside, Gao Xusen was drawing attention with his own voice, full-throated and earnest.

One awakened peasant worker hurled a stone, bellowing back with superhuman volume.

"Cut the bullshit! We won't sell out comrades for pocket change! Never slaves to you armed thugs again!"

The noise and flashing lights drew the peasant workers' focus. Spotting Public Security movements amid car headlights, they scrambled into defensive formations. The leadership apparently feared a dark-hours incursion.

Even depleted, trained forces in pitch black amplified the gap between pros and amateurs. With luck, hundreds could scatter thousands.

"Shut your trap, you lizard bastard!"

While they braced for tricks and blocked potential deserters, I led my team into the warehouse undetected.

Naturally, guards were inside. A tricky chokepoint—hard to snipe cleanly without risk.

Even without tuning my hearing, I caught the jittery chatter of four red-banded peasant worker Awakened.

Low-class trash putting on a show. Primitive magic Awakened superiority complex, laced with class distrust of the educated. Factions devouring each other—hard to unite against oppressors. Black Sea Party funding must be the glue.

I drew my pistol, signaling my men with a finger to lips.

"Hold. I'll handle this."

Stealth approach tricky against Awakened—their mana fields. My men controlled theirs better than natural Awakened but couldn't suppress to near-zero like me.

Stalking deeper shadows silently, I secured firing angle and unleashed four quick shots.

Thud-thud-thud-thud!

Dull sounds of lives ending. The falling bodies louder than suppressed shots. A nearby table toppled, mahjong tiles scattering.

Even Kyung-tae might dodge now, but no skull tanks low-caliber rounds—reinforced bones or not.

I signaled back. "Clear."

Unlike outer rabble or yesterday's casualties, interior guards had proper gear: hardware-store plate armor standard, cold weapons, even crossbows—no powder arms.

These mahjong players had skimped on helmets—would've been messier otherwise.

I hefted a heavy crossbow. Crude finish, but huge draw weight—punch through most vests easy. Machine tools could've made guns, but untrained hands with powder weapons in a magazine? Too risky.

Patrols checking in. I set down the crossbow, tuned my vocal cords with body reinforcement incantation—not "Director Li."

"Close?"

Kyung-tae shook his head. Sounded like one of the dead to me, but self-hearing's tricky. No easy mimic.

Abandoning that, I opted for bombs—their powder.

Tension creeping in. I deployed a tight mana field to mask myself, cycled ignition incantation—flames erupted overhead, no tinder needed.

Network flooded with panic. Frozen, unable to flee or charge properly.

I telekinetically pried a directional bomb, scraping powder. It floated against gravity.

"Ears."

Pre-warned men plugged. I detonated dozens of small powder clumps mid-air.

Bang! Boom-boom-boom!

Tiny, but grenade-equivalent yield. No shrapnel, just noise—like a barrage.

Pulsing ignition amplified flames. They finally picked a direction.

"Fire! Bomb warehouse's burning!"

"Help!"

Not radio—distant screams from warehouse far end. Heavy, frantic footsteps echoed under the roof. They punched through walls, fleeing with brute force.

I doused flames, nodded to men. "Hurry. Mob incoming soon."

Smart reds would know a warehouse blast in the blackout could panic 30,000. Fanatics might charge windows regardless.

Ideology overrides death for true believers.

Spot on.

"Incoming."

Emergency squad—dozen Awakened—sprinted from powder plant. Armored unlike prior kills, but armed only with extinguishers. Thought it mere fire. Grim resolve on faces.

"How long?"

"No. Proceed. I'll buy time. Ignore blasts."

Grabbed heavy crossbow, bolts; dashed to predicted entry. Strewn bombs ripped open, black powder dumped.

Smoky stuff. Finer grains burned nonstop—section filled with potassium nitrate stench.

Crash! Crunch!

They burst in, stunned by smoke. Headlamps pierced barely five meters.

"Where's the fire?! What's burning?!"

What indeed. Real fire on bombs would've blown it sky-high. Their entry: cold calculus despite resolve.

Before scattering, I aimed—not people, extinguishers.

Twang!

Dull string snap; they whirled. Shortened rebar arrow—sharpened tip—ripped halfway through one, powder exploding out.

Confusion peaked.

"Cough! Fuck! What the hell!"

Reloaded fast, popped another; dropped crossbow, gripped spare bolts like spears.

Zero visibility in powder fog. I charged silently, stabbing flailing eyes mercilessly.

Blades popped orbs, pierced brains—silent deaths. Resistance minimal. Primitive magic users dying so softly?

Fifteen down in felt seconds.