Chapter 136: Fragrance of Rebellion (16)
The South China Sea is influenced year-round by winds escaping the Taiwan Strait. Thus, slow, gentle waves rose from east to west.
My decision was made. I had to act before the puppeteer sorcerer regained his wits.
Detouring far east around the battlefield, I rocketed at maximum speed through the channel between Little Crow Island and the isle called Camphorwood Head, seizing the direction from which the wind blew. Next came the phase of water.
What I sought was fog—a sea of clouds like the one that had filled the Giant's spirit territory. I couldn't create mist on that scale or dominate an entire vast fogbank, but once thick fog rolled in, even from the ground I could unleash vapor explosions. Not by vaporizing water, but by detonating the hydrogen from water vapor.
As a bonus, it would drastically shrink the enemies' visibility. Air support would become nearly impossible.
As I built the incantation and cranked my circuit's output to the limit, the broad sea surface responded to my will, rising in a pale haze. The sea fog I conjured held a warmer temperature than the air. Seawater was naturally warmer than the atmosphere, and since magic was ultimately an application of energy, it added heat to the phenomena it wrought.
Thus, the fog sluggishly ascended, swallowing the small island. Already formed, it faced no hindrance from the puppeteer sorcerer's mana field.
In response, the puppeteer tried to dispel it with spherical telekinetic shockwaves. But clearing his line of sight that way had its limits. The fog, endlessly replenished in quantity, swiftly blanketed the entire island again at wind speed.
Environmental superiority was mine, making my incantation far more efficient. Telekinesis, which interfered with the momentum of all things regardless of medium, was profoundly advanced magic. It couldn't help but guzzle more fuel than the Giant's spells, which dominated only specific substances.
Wisdom befitting the Golden Age, I suppose. Though lighter than Life, still.
His robes disheveled from a rough landing, the puppeteer sorcerer—after repeated futile efforts—finally abandoned resistance against the sea breeze carrying the fog. He scanned his surroundings with a weary expression, less like a chess player pondering his next move and more like a lost wanderer facing a dead end. His trembling mustache amplified that impression. The once-white whiskers were flecked with bloodstains that hadn't fully dried.
Instead of immediately landing, I patiently continued generating massive volumes of vapor. Under these conditions, I might even brew a localized tropical disturbance. Too small to seed a typhoon, perhaps, but enough to smother one tiny uninhabited isle in downpour and gales. A meteorological freakout as brief as a passing shower.
That would suffice for my purposes.
On Little Crow Island, preparations for a defensive battle were in full swing. Having roughly gauged how the Giant's incantations worked, the Round Table's Master directed his followers to build defensive positions. Deep zigzag trenches nestled in the forested slopes—riddled with windbreaks—would minimize vapor explosion damage. Explosions detonating outside the puppeteer's mana field would produce only horizontal shockwaves.
Minions escaping the sinking cruise ship arrived piecemeal on the beach, joining the fortifications. Each a superhuman Awakened or corpse puppet, they dug barehanded at the speed of multiple earthmovers.
As if that'll save them.
I questioned if they could even hold. Leveraging the environmental shifts I'd orchestrated myself, I planned to overwhelm the puppeteer with sheer firepower superiority.
How many minutes passed? Pressure plummeted sharply around the island, sucking in vapor from the surrounding waters and fostering low-altitude cloud formation. A domino effect triggered by my incantation—one part effort yielding tenfold results.
The fog rose skyward like an inverted waterfall. The outcome exceeded my expectations.
Shwaaaaa—!
Heavy sheets of rain began pounding the fog-shrouded winter waters of the southern seas. Rain so dense an ordinary person could scarcely breathe through it.
Braving that downpour, I finally made landfall at the island's wave-battered edge. My sodden clothes fluttered like flags in the fierce wind. Though the perceived temperature had plummeted, my body burned hot. White steam rose languidly from my entire form.
The trenches hastily dug by my great foe offered no drainage. Nestled at the hillside's base, they had to contend with every rivulet of water and soil cascading down the slope. Thus—though unintended from the start—their defenses faced total functional paralysis.
Ah, could a fight for life and death bring such joy!
The puppeteer sorcerer's face must have paled—not my imagination. Monumental victory loomed within reach.
Enemy fire poured in. The massed barrage, directly controlled by the Round Table Master, had uncanny precision for suppressive fire. Yet the forested hillside and barren terrain provided me ample cover.
Steadying my trembling excitement, I channeled mana into my spirit's circuit. Water decomposition. Generation of explosive gas—hydrogen and oxygen mixed. Then ignition.
Kwarrrung!
The waterlogged forest erupted in a spherical blast. Countless leaves shredded and scattered; a deep rumble shook the tiny isle.
Shielded by summit rocks and layered telekinetic barriers, I unleashed vapor explosions across the mountainside. Once, twice, thrice... Aiming for landslides, though they didn't quite trigger as hoped. Still, the surging soil made the enemy trenches even more irrelevant.
Now the Round Table minions had scant room to evade blast shockwaves. Each spell cumulatively inflicted steady casualties. The windbreak forest rapidly devastated—trees snapping, roots uprooting. Only firmly Awakened trees sparsely held their ground, shrieking wordlessly through quivering mana fields.
The puppeteer's telekinesis, focused on defense, couldn't shield a wide area.
Garrr rumble—!
A pack charging blindly tumbled, vomiting blood from the shockwave. Not true dogs, but corpse puppets made from them. Duller minds than the living couldn't dodge with frantic zigzags.
Why didn't they have those in the sea?
Puppets needn't use human materials. Shark puppets would have made the ocean fight far thornier for me. But I soon realized why not.
Corpse puppets' brains ran on the knowledge from life—like biological machines. Untrained animals made puppets as useless as computers sans code.
Then, beyond the horizon, a helicopter formation appeared. Four multipurpose medium-lift choppers, each worth over $100 million. Their exteriors radically reshaped to minimize radar cross-section, but my see-through vision easily identified their originals and affiliation. Almost certainly the Royal Navy's Commando Helicopter Force.
Aboard: combat units of nothing but Awakened ability users. Enough for a special forces battalion and change.
Response quicker than anticipated. I'd heard the British Joint Expeditionary Force—including carriers—was playing hide-and-seek with PLA fleets near the Spratlys, but reaching here via emergency scramble seemed too swift.
They'd prepared thoroughly, it seemed. But for now, irrelevant. What vehicle was more vulnerable to foul weather and vapor blasts than helicopters?
Continuing my explosions, I actually hoped the formation would plunge straight for the island. Right now, I could swat them all with one move. Even without me, they'd likely crash in the storm.
As expected, they dared not enter the island's airspace, circling uselessly like flies fearing a predator.
Kwaang!
My 20mm rifle barked. Target: a single elbow protruding from cover. The puppeteer sorcerer's, unsteady amid the chaotic backblast.
Severed forearm tumbling dirt-caked; a satisfying scream followed.
The rain began to thin. But the isle was soaked enough; no hindrance to my onslaught. My mana field extended underground too. Moisture permeating the soil birthed fresh fog devouring the whole island.
To me, the very air was a bomb-laden arsenal—remotely detonable anywhere my field touched.
Regenerating his physical loss, the puppeteer sorcerer writhed in evident agony. Thick saliva drooling from his gaping mouth. I surmised his pain wasn't purely physical. Heat consumption was critically severe.
Of course. He hadn't preheated like me.
The Round Table Master's mortal frailty sparked panic among his followers. The moment faith in their prophet crumbled at the roots.
This is why organizational integrity matters.
"Let's talk!"
Grand Magus Westbutton bellowed with superhuman volume.
"I know you're there, Lord Crowhurst! Talk! Let's talk!"
Crowhurst, eh. He'd deduced my see-through ability from my pinpoint shots piercing the fog. A Grand Magus wasn't dim-witted.
But talk? Why should I? Wait... I could use this.
Lure him out, then blow his head off before he builds another incantation. Or perhaps a better play.
Halting my assault, an eerie silence blanketed the fog-shrouded isle. Wounded followers groaned sob-like from scattered spots.
Infusing my reply with the puppeteer's mentor's tone—archaic royal English thick with Received Pronunciation—I responded.
"Lord Westbutton. What conversation might you and I possibly have?"
Less than 100 meters apart, we superhumans with enhanced vocal limits could converse by merely raising our voices.
Huddled against cover, panting, he closed his eyes and exhaled wearily. Only then did he shout again.
"I'll ask in turn! Why must we slaughter each other like this!"
"I've already crossed the river of no return."
"A tragedy, of course! An utterly abhorrent betrayal! But—wasn't that because we mages were slowly dying out back then? Cannibalism in famine lands even earns leniency in court!"
His deranged sophistry drew a snort. Equating blinded murder with survival cannibalism.
But needing to bait my prey, I volleyed back.
"So what of it?"
"Return to the Round Table with me! I pledge on my honor to mediate your best interests! If we reclaim the Golden Age's Eye, the other Cabinet delegates will adopt a conciliatory stance!"
"Will they now?"
"They will! Consider: must this abruptly returned age of magic end abruptly too? We must ascend to divinity at once! For that, we need the Golden Age's Eye! Every minute it lingers outside the Table is an irreparable loss to us all—why can't you see that!"
Westbutton had finally finished regenerating his arm. Noticeably slower than before.
"So come with me! Aren't you curious? In this mana-rich era, what inspirations and revelations the Golden Age's Eye would grant us beholding the Heart of the Golden Age, the Essence, and the myriad shards of truth besides!"
Yeah. A bit curious. Not desperately like you god-wannabes, though.
"Fine."
"You accept!"
"One condition. You become my hostage."
"......"
"Hear me, kin of House Westbutton. From this moment, all resistance and communication is forbidden. Lay down arms and stay put. Disobey, and you and your master pay the price together. Lord Westbutton, shrink your mana field and step forward alone. You have 10 seconds."
"Ten seconds? Wait!"
"Prove your sincerity. Fight on, and you die anyway."
With that, I boomed the countdown, ignoring his babble entirely.
Tormented, the puppeteer sorcerer ultimately collapsed his mana field near zero and—shuddering—emerged from cover he'd clung to. Brushing off his despairing followers' pleas.
This, as I counted "two."
My grip tightened instinctively on the 20mm rifle. The scent of wet steel had never smelled so sweet.