Fragrance of Rebellion (13)
Even though I'd pinpointed the enemy's position, I couldn't just charge in on a helicopter. What would be the difference from begging them to kill me? If there was even one E-3D early warning aircraft lurking in the distant southern sky, I'd be in danger no matter if I flew in by helicopter or paddled up in a rubber boat.
So I set the flagship down at an improvised airstrip five kilometers north-northwest of the island shadow concealing the two cruisers. This airstrip was an auxiliary facility attached to Shibi Prison, registered under public security ownership—no one would bat an eye at a public security chopper landing there. Of course, that didn't mean I could send in swarms of helicopters, so I ordered all aircraft except the flagship to refuel and stand by at the more northerly Hong Kong International Airport.
Given the situation, I was the only one who could launch an attack from here. All I needed from my subordinates was to secure an escape route if things went south.
Stepping off the flagship, I took in the sprawling prison complex along the white sand beach. The facility, once packed with Hong Kong pro-democracy activists, had been reduced to half-ruins by a massive raid. Collapsed sections everywhere, charred ruins everywhere. On the opposite beach stood a dilapidated old Guandi Temple, its wooden statue of the long-bearded Guan Yu lavishly gilded— a mercenary shrine begging for wealth and fortune. I had no idea what Guan Yu had to do with money, but seeking rationality in folk religion was about as foolish as it got.
Facing the chill sea breeze, I thought, 'A bit ridiculous.'
The ridiculous one was me. At a moment when I should be laser-focused on the hunt, here I was, letting my mind wander to ease the tension.
"Hold onto this."
I pulled the USB killer from my pocket and handed it to Kyung-tae. The device had taken a full dunk during our escape from the sinking patrol ship, but I'd dried it thoroughly with my water-manipulating powers the moment we hit dry land—no way it was busted.
Kyung-tae grimaced as he took the USB.
"I can't guard hyungnim's side at the critical moment—as security chief, I got no face left."
"Cut the crap."
If we prepared the assault methodically, there'd be plenty of ways to put Kyung-tae and the rest of the force to use. But we had no time for that. The corpse-puppet battalion I'd spent so long preparing had exhausted its utility by dawn, and how much longer the puppeteer would stick around was anyone's guess.
Spotting the prey was always the hardest part of any hunt. 'When's the next chance to get a Round Table Master in my sights outside London?'
Overreaching was obviously risky, but playing it too safe would mean missing opportunities altogether. Balancing potential dangers against gains was the endless homework for both hunter and hunted.
This was my first time conducting outright sabotage from underwater. But I had faith in the abilities I'd honed. Few threats could touch me down here.
Unless a raging king whale Awakened or an ASW-specialized fleet crashed the party out of nowhere—but that was too unrealistic.
I straightened my gear, ditched anything unnecessary, took a deep breath, and channeled mana through my circuit, activating telekinesis and water dominance simultaneously.
"I'm off."
I dove in. Even as my body plunged through the foaming white surface, I felt no chill. The seawater parted in a perfect sphere around me, forming an air bubble that let me breathe underwater. About three meters across. If oxygen ran low, I could electrolyze more from the water; for movement, telekinesis did the trick.
Pausing to fine-tune the balance between my two incantations, I confirmed the spiritual circuit had plenty of processing headroom while maintaining stability. Only then did I slice forward through the current.
Woooong—!
A low, majestic engine rumble echoed under the waves. The diesel growl from a massive Panamax-class freighter reverberated off the seafloor in all directions. The shortest route between Hong Kong and Macau lay ahead, so noisy ships were everywhere.
I slipped under their hulls, heading south. Even for me, the sight of a soccer-field-and-a-half-sized ship passing overhead left me a touch breathless.
The Diamond Crown and Platinum Crown were anchored in a cove on Xiaoya Island—"Little Crow"—in the Saoqu Archipelago. Low ridges, no higher than a hundred meters, blocked sightlines from every direction but south, where other islands screened the view. Off the main shipping lanes, shunned even by fishing boats—a perfect spot.
Fishermen avoided it because a low-level radioactive waste storage facility squatted on one side of the tiny island, less than a square kilometer. Sea police would hassle them about their business, so they stayed away entirely.
'Nothing useful in there.'
Peering through the facility's walls, I felt a twinge of disappointment. Just low-contamination junk. I'd figured the Chinese might stash something riskier under "low-level," but no dice.
Infiltration wasn't easy. Sentries dotted the island above and the water below. Ability users in dive gear, armed with underwater weapons, comms, radio buoys for relays, wired drones, and directional sonic repellents against sea life—all holding position to form a human barrier. They were dead set on sealing off underwater ambushes.
I hadn't expected a cakewalk, but the density exceeded my estimates. Shallow waters made depth evasion tricky too.
Two options. First: Go berserk, blast them from outside the line, and charge straight in. Simple, satisfying, but low odds on nabbing the puppeteer.
Second: Slip past undetected, wait for the moment he was most trapped—say, below decks—then trigger a fuel-air explosion under the hull to snap the keel. Even a Grand Magus like Westbutton wouldn't escape easily. The chopper would tumble into the sea from the tilting deck; any lifeboat or telekinetic flight attempt, and I'd dictate one-sided losses.
Best case: He gets trapped in the sinking ship and dragged under. Success rate approaches 100%.
What tipped the scales were the multiple rocket torpedo launchers tarped on the cruiser decks. British goons hauling Russian gear. Self-guided, man-tracking monsters.
I recalled the defense battle between patrol ships Ruojou and Becklux. Once those torpedoes started popping off, the deafening blasts alone would shred equilibrium, crippling performance. Add my fuel-air explosions, and it'd be worse.
Using underwater blasts as weapons meant that. Waste circuit on noise dampening, more on blocking nearby warhead triggers, and you'd run dry on focus for the real target.
Better to swiftly gut a 150,000-ton cruiser's self-defense.
'Still, the first option isn't all bad...'
A Round Table Master coming in person meant his core forces were here too. Wipe them out—even if the puppeteer slips—and it was no loss. Westbutton would need years to recover, a devastating blow.
Plus, surviving Round Table grunts getting nearly nuked would make the other Masters cautious. They'd huddle in their "Heart of the Golden Age" stronghold or travel in packs of two or three.
Either way, gains for me. Best part: saved time. Waiting for the perfect shot could drag on forever—that was option two's fatal flaw.
The longer I lingered, the higher the risk of becoming a bystander to the massive incident brewing in Guangzhou. Puppeteer took priority, but I couldn't abandon Guangzhou entirely.
Weighing pros and cons, I leaned toward frontal assault. Decent odds on the big fish too.
Decision made, action time. Scanning the sentries, running mental sims, I infused my air sphere with a telekinetic noise shield. Then, like a declaration of war, I expanded my mana field.
Die.
The mana field's galloping surge—like a racehorse at full tilt—was a Grand Magus trademark. Crystal-clear killing intent aimed at the shocked foes, forming the Giant's Incantation. Bound water's phase shift wreaked destructive diffusion in the murky depths.
A white steam explosion swallowed two Round Table minions, shockwaves sweeping a far wider area.
I wasn't fully immune either. Maximizing distance would've helped, but that'd give the puppeteer escape time. Judging engagement range was fight basics.
Kwarrrrng—!
The blast pierced my telekinetic shield, rattling my marrow. Vision swam with vertigo—the long-wavelength roar invading my vestibular organs.
A shrill eeee— in my ears. Shaking it off, I refocused ahead.
Don't rush the gap—too obvious an attack path. Ideal: disorient their torpedo targeting first.
Second and third blasts ripped the sentry line. Each white bloom added single-digit deaths, double-digit writhers. Rear ones lost balance at minimum; plenty with concussions, ruptured organs. Those bleeding from eyes, nose, mouth, ears—superhuman regen or not, survivors unlikely.
Despite the agony, the loyal Round Table dogs fulfilled their roles on instinct. Short, crisp comms signals. Reporting the alien, massive mana field, no doubt.
As I loaded the fourth fuel-air blast into my spiritual circuit, a flash sparked from Diamond Crown's deck. Elite guards reacting with impressive speed.
Thwuk—!
Heavy thud piercing the surface. A rocket-delivered torpedo. Follow-ups gridded the narrow waters. Small thrusters whirring, they pinged active sonar in shrill bursts.
Each warhead's descent spiraled with mechanical killing probes. But sonar alone? No sweat—my air sphere absorbed, didn't reflect.
Real issue: mana woven into the torpedoes.
'Crazy bastards! Talismans in disposable munitions?'
Too faint to spot from afar amid other fields, but each guidance unit bore a tiny, mana-infused talisman. Refined from North American devil-worshipper orb detectors, linked to electronics. Master-class handiwork, no mistaking it. Not top-shelf, but only Round Table artisans could craft them.
Wasting Master man-hours on this? I was stunned by their extravagance, but no warheads close enough to kill, so I held the incantation.
Kwarrrrng! Kugung!
Nearly simultaneous with my push—nearest torpedo detonated in crimson flash. Bone-deep ziiing vibration, skull resonating. Dizzy, but no worse.
Guided or not, they sank while chasing, range limit clear.
But that first blast pinpointed me roughly. More launch flashes from Diamond Crown's deck. Neighboring Platinum Crown shrugging off its tarp.
Ha. Things just got messy. I gritted my teeth, bracing for the onslaught.