Chapter 137: Fragrance of Treason (17)
Further forward, further forward. At my repeated commands, the puppet master trudged slowly through the fog so thick it was hard to see even a step ahead. His steps were like those of a blind man without a cane—directionless, veering off course. As a result, his path converged on a straight-looking landmark amid the terrain: an old stone wall nearly buried in the earth and debris.
I didn't bother correcting his trajectory. The direction the Round Table followers were anxiously watching had already diverged sharply from his actual path. Either way, it was drawing him closer to the center of my mana field.
The old stone wall was part of a dilapidated Taoist temple. Thus, the pale-faced Round Table master arrived at the temple's overgrown forecourt, devoured by forest and time. Judging by the faded inscription on the rotting signboard amid shattered roof tiles, it had once been a place where fishermen prayed to the sea goddess Mazu for safe voyages.
The goddess who snatched that nuke, huh. What came to mind was a bizarre Taiwanese legend. At the end of World War II, when the U.S. military dropped a nuke to wipe out Japanese forces stationed in Taiwan, a goddess in red robes flew in from the western sea, snatched the bomb midair, and hurled it back into the ocean from whence she came. The so-called "Mazu Catches the Nuclear Bomb."
I still remembered some lunatic who'd once proposed scouring Taiwan's western waters based on that tale.
The puppet master halted before the collapsed main hall. Then he spoke to the empty air.
"This far enough?"
Yeah, that would do. Stay right there.
Gripping my rifle upside down, I advanced like a beast of the order Carnivora, stifling my sounds. The anti-materiel sniper rifle, weighing thirty kilos without the magazine, made for a fine bludgeon even in the hands of an ability user with body reinforcement.
Better than bare fists, at least—it would reliably smash enemies dead. Why not just pull the trigger? Because I'd sealed their communications. Enemy information flow had frozen amid the ongoing firefight. Neither the puppet master's hasty persuasion attempt nor my conditions had propagated yet.
So his death had to be quiet. A bludgeon's thud would be far lighter than gunfire. Easier to mask, too.
Once the fog—dense as the Trembling Giant's forest, devouring sound under magical constraint—claimed the isolated minions scattered throughout, no truth about the puppet master's slaying would escape this tiny uninhabited isle.
Yet the puppet master, ears straining anxiously, caught my approaching footsteps.
"Crowhurst, is that you?"
"No."
"What?"
Crunch. Friction grated from my grip on the thick barrel. Flesh against steel.
The next instant, I swung the bludgeon with force enough to strain my muscles—a vertical overhead chop. The puppet master crumpled from crown to base. Resistance traveled up my arm, negligible. Like smashing cake with an industrial hammer. Visually, tactilely.
His body pulped so softly, I had to brake before the weapon hit ground.
Blood flowed. Crimson rivulets snaked through cracks in the rounded cobblestones. The weathered threshold beneath the crumbling altar soaked red. The imperialist from afar died like a heathen sacrifice on pagan stone. A moss-veiled idol gazed down upon the grand magus's end.
Was he really dead? Could a Round Table master fall so easily?
Excessive excitement twisted into irrational unease. Even after slaying him myself, it didn't feel real—so I paranoidly stomped and ground his remains to paste.
Squelch. Squelch, squelch, squelch...
Verification kills were never too thorough. My boots soon stained crimson to the shins. Only when nothing remained to crush did my heart thunder like after a sprint.
Gazing at the grotesque abstraction—the fully flattened puppet master—I finally felt a rush of accomplishment bordering relief, laced with bone-deep euphoria.
He was a Round Table master. Even stripped of his mana field, he could unleash a trump card from his circuit's reserves. No room for luxuries like capture and interrogation from the start. One lapse could spell doom; grand magi could rupture their own circuits in unstoppable suicide.
Spoils from the puppet master's corpse were meager: a mana-infused signet ring, a monocle, a card unlocking some bank's secret account. His torn tailcoat—an artifact forged from human souls—was now worthless rags.
Grand magi rarely carry useful gear to begin with.
Come to think of it, his cane bore an unusual mana pattern. A sword stick, blade concealed within. It had fallen into the sea with his arm when I hit him with the explosively formed penetrator during his escape from the ship; I'd retrieve it on the way back.
My body trembled. Fatigue surged as tension ebbed. Minions remained to finish off.
Scolding my own sloth, I used telekinesis to scrape topsoil over the remains, then scorched the subsurface with mana flame—ensuring no future investigators could deduce the kill method.
A grand magus's end, shrouded in mystery. The unknown breeds terror. The Round Table would know fear.
His followers stood frozen in their spots, like abandoned dogs awaiting a departed master. Endlessly.
Fear that their revered prophet might die from their own rashness chained their feet. Thus, I could continue the execution-like drudgery.
Scattered by sustained micro-explosions, the enemy ranks resembled frontline infantry after hours of volley fire. Against these spaced-out Round Table minions, I swung my bludgeon like a woodcutter felling logs.
Before a grand magus channeling max circuit output into raw strength, their bodies weren't so tough. No prisoners this time.
What did Westmoreland do to his followers' bodies and souls?
I'd seen puppets turn bullet sponges. No guarantee he hadn't pulled similar tricks during their "baptisms." What if he'd planted Trojan horse traps in their souls?
Assuming circuit inscription success rates aside, even I could manage it. But I wouldn't risk subordinates dying or turning vegetable. Too costly.
Such personnel loss rusts organizational loyalty. Religious fanaticism might compensate, but it's a cancer eroding health—no viable option.
Static, crackle— Beside a follower's corpse, splintered like broken firewood, his bloodied radio heralded reinforcements.
Foxhound meant infantry, Zero Alpha the top brass, Starlight medics. The landing force: one platoon of elite Royal Marines (45 Commando) fast-roped from helos into the sea.
Loath to commit full strength, they'd send a platoon for recon. The elite swimmers who'd labored ashore bypassed the beach to scale rocky cliffs. Rifles muzzle-up, I watched their futile effort—then waited for deeper penetration before shockwaving them all dead, none spared.
The hovering helo formation, at standoff range too risky for sniper fire, wheeled south at the fresh white explosions on the silent isle. No lingering—pure worst-case judgment.
Time for me to leave, too. Not north to my waiting men, but south into the sea—where I soon spotted the puppet master's lost cane, wedged in discarded nets.
Chinese fishing methods had turned the stirred seabed into a junkyard of gear. Yanking the stick free, I eyed the snared white dolphin carcass with cynical amusement—Hong Kong's handover mascot.
With cane secured, I more thoroughly wrecked the two sunken cruisers, obfuscating the Giant's ritual's mechanics and limits. Smashing or salvaging potential records was bonus.
By the time I reached the prison's helipad, Little Crow Island lay silent.
"Hyungnim!"
Kyung-tae rushed up in alarm. Other subordinates on alert wore similar worry at my staggering gait. I waved off needless support.
Safety reached, feverish elation welled—like belated drunkenness at a party. That earlier thrill wasn't all.
Kyung-tae eyed my flush, bewildered.
"You al……right?"
"Never better."
A grotesque laugh escaped—alien, not mine. Deep breath, exhale relief.
"Killed a Round Table master."
"……."
"Let's go. Tie off the night."
Mood said victory total, but reality: one Round Table member down. Becklux still fought under Suyeon's command.
Aboard the helo, I fought for composure. The Dragon soon reentered Dongguan airspace. The city's nightscape roiled chaotic—like a dragon-to-be, one dot from completion.
Excitement-shaking hands failing that final dot? Utter farce.
Energy pack in mouth, I twisted the ebony cane's grip.
Click! Pulling body and handle oppositely yielded a rasp—matte ivory blade emerging. Masterfully fitted scabbard: not a drop of seawater inside.
Kyung-tae asked,
"What's that? Gives off creepy vibes."
Sugar hit restored vigor—proving the depletion's depth. I infused mana into the blade.
A grand magus myself, parsing the tool took moments.
"This……a ritual sword."
"Ritual sword—like for killing sacrifices?"
"Yeah. Extracts and stores the victim's soul."
Blade of ancient bone, likely from some Golden Age transcendent. Or excavated preprocessed. Master's memories favored the latter.
Resurrection rituals demand instant soul fixation post-kill; this boosted puppet yields massively. The sword embodied resurrection code—a relic beyond artifact.
Not matching the holy triad—Golden Age's "Eye," "Heart," "Essence"—but tier-wise, comparable.
I sheathed it in the cane, secured aft. Precious, but no immediate use.