Chapter 170: Tropical Beasts (10)
Suspicious. Above all, why show signs of tension at this point? If any hunter doesn't loosen their grip, it's because the hunt isn't over yet.
The mana and mana fields pouring from countless awakened beasts overwhelmed the limits of my visual perception. In the heart of this dense jungle, my line of sight barely extended two or three hundred meters. Better than when I'd entered Utah's massive poplar cluster, but still not enough to discern if something more lurked behind these shady drivers from my position.
I pulled my gaze back for a moment, scanning the nearby area. The Sultana's forces had gathered, preparing to withdraw. The time for the day's fourth prayer was approaching. She dispatched men to find a dry, flat spot. They planned to finish prayers here before moving out.
Suyeon approached from the side, asking in calm Korean.
"Is something bothering you?"
"Hm. Not certain, but it looks like some of those drivers have ideas of their own."
Kyung-tae reacted sharply.
"Ideas of their own?"
"From their movements, it seems like they're trying to set up a wide enveloping fire net... but there are only about forty of them. They wouldn't charge with that paltry number. Assuming they've made some double-deal before this hunt, new forces will join their side soon."
I thought briefly, then added,
"Or maybe traitors are mixed in among the drivers who've joined us. If shooting starts from inside and out, no amount of numbers on our side would hold."
If I'd planned the ambush, that's exactly what I'd do. Capturing the Sultana as a hostage would eliminate the need for a shootout altogether. The cleanest form of victory imaginable. So those forty spreading out a hundred meters away were also guides for the incoming force. If combat broke out, they'd need compatriots inside to distinguish friend from foe without friendly fire.
Kyung-tae's face twisted.
"What the hell... If your gut's right, boss, the target's that old hag, right?"
"Probably. Tigers alone wouldn't balance the equation."
That said, the odds of them targeting me or my crew were slim. No matter how my identity and movements had leaked despite all secrecy measures, no group with motive to track me would send local mercenaries as assassins. Suppose London's imperialists pinpointed my location, identity, and actions, even issuing a death sentence in the Round Table Cabinet's name. Hiring unvetted mercs to kill a grand magus on par with their delegates? Laughable. To reliably reclaim the Golden Age's Eye without traces, they'd dispatch Round Table forces themselves.
The British government could provide support as a fallback.
Regardless, this setup was far too sloppy for their trap. Too many escape routes.
Kyung-tae asked,
"How far can you see right now, boss?"
"Roughly two or three hundred meters."
"...By the time the full ambush comes into view, it'll be too late. How do we tip off the old hag without spooking her?"
"Wake her up somehow, then grab any traitors who've infiltrated and squeeze them."
"I'll tell the guys to focus on marking anyone creeping in from outside, just in case. Set up a quiet perimeter first."
The traitors' first shot would be as good a signal as any for the ambush's start. If they nabbed a hostage, they'd fire celebratory rounds skyward. If they failed, they'd hit right after we panicked. Blocking that initial gunshot would tangle their plans from the outset—seizing initiative while buying time to organize.
Suyeon, lost in thought, raised a question.
"One thing I don't quite understand."
"What?"
"Why move now, of all times? Considering the terrain we passed, they had plenty of better spots for an ambush. If insiders were planted from the hunt's start days ago, it's hard to believe their main force was just delayed."
"What if they planned around prayer time from the beginning?"
"Predicting the hunt would end right now feels more like prophecy than foresight. If it was still ongoing, wouldn't she prioritize finishing the prey before a penitential prayer afterward, rather than praying and abandoning the gathered game?"
Kyung-tae and Suyeon calling the Sultana "old hag" or "that woman" was to avoid uttering "Sultana" with listening ears around.
"Anyway, we can puzzle that out later. New guys are coming into view."
I relayed what I saw to Kyung-tae and Suyeon briefly, then approached the Sultana, casually broaching the subject as if clueless. With the hunt's scale, the drivers seemed short-handed no matter how I looked. If some hadn't joined yet, maybe an accident on the way?
She tilted her head, summoned a subordinate, and exchanged words. Afterward, several men bustled about executing orders.
Moments later.
"Strange."
Wrinkle formed between the old hag's brows.
"You're right—the numbers are short. Radio says they'll join soon, but distance-wise, they should've arrived ages ago. They won't even answer straight when asked what's wrong..."
Not as elite as the Laskar, but her hired drivers were still awakened ability users. Even in rugged jungle, enhanced bodies could cover hundreds of meters in seconds. Pros at this role would know every fixed hazard. Delaying without reason while claiming "soon"—those forty reeked of suspicion.
As the Laskar's mood sharpened, unrest stirred among drivers and porters. Naturally, some showed distinct tension: dilated pupils from sympathetic activation, fidgety eyes from instinct, elevated heart rate and temp sweating more than others in the heat. Obvious even without the Golden Age's Eye—just keen observation.
Sultana Chandra Kirana wasn't incompetent, just somewhat pre-modern. Her men were capable; infiltrators amateurs without pro training.
She murmured with a smile.
"Aha... look at these."
Thus, her second embarrassment before me. Worse than the first. Suppressed fury must boil beneath that regal poise. Krut, the interpreter, flinched at the chill behind her smile.
"You."
She pointed coldly at one traitor. Pointing fingers insulted here.
"And you."
It didn't stop. Rifle-slung, she had a Laskar squad tail her, strolling before the herded drivers like pronouncing executions. Watching how accurately she'd pick them, I inwardly scored her high—spotting all but one. I added my finger to complete it.
"Sultana. This one looks suspicious too."
"Does he."
She nodded; Laskars disarmed my pick. Total disarmed drivers: seventeen. Too many for rear stabs if things popped off.
Out of caution, I added,
"Don't let them fire. Could be a signal."
"Think I don't know that?"
Yet she gripped her Damascus-patterned shotgun tighter. To intimidate the condemned? Or rising ire?
Prayer time hit; vibration alarms buzzed everywhere. Some silenced hastily. Under tree shade, she clicked her tongue at the sky beyond the forest.
"Unarmed porters, pray. Must fool eyes like Rawana's."
Rawana-like meant greedy, wicked, immoral, irresponsible pests.
Porters spread prayer rugs on open sky spots, stiffening in prayer. Laskars prepped combat stealthily, interrogating traitors, shoving loyal drivers frontward. Accounting for undetected moles. Meat shields, really—but drivers dared no revolt. Occupational solidarity across subgroups showed in rigid, angry faces over fear.
Unfortunately for the Sultana, traitors knew little. Natural—they wouldn't burden infiltrators with excess intel pre-strike.
Static, hiss— Traitors' radios spat noise and whispers. No translation needed: distant comrades querying status.
At her chin-jut, a Laskar drew hip knife—curved like tiger claw. Tip to throat, traitor sweated, radioed back. Forest stayed quiet. Proper response?
I chuckled inwardly.
They're trying. Obey or not, death awaits.
Time-buying wouldn't delay forever. Strike before prayer ended, surely— they'd sense wrongness then. Less than five minutes till silence shattered.
"You."
The old hag smiled.
"No time for details now. Whatever these foes, the fight ahead is ours alone—mine and my people's. Dragging a guest into flames ill-mannered. No cause for you to aid this farce; your injury would shame me. Thus, I bid: withdraw with yours first. I'll discipline these rude intruders and follow."
"Rudeness" was max rebuke without losing face here. She feigned leisure, but her scent screamed tensed nerves. Facing unknown foes burdened her.
Unknowns knew our firepower, size precisely. Planners outnumbered her likely.
Sole variable: me and mine. They didn't expect my company.
No guarantee foes wouldn't block retreat, so her "go first" was empty courtesy. Taking it literally meant I'd look dim. If I bolted gratefully, fine for her: I'd hit rear detachments naturally or confirm safe retreat.
This non-courtesy courtesy got my aid debt-free—second-best ploy. Worst case, we pinned rearguard while she slipped away, dumping pursuit risk on me. Or bait me to lure, reverse-encircle. Suited her temperament.
Without my Golden Age's Eye, it'd fit perfectly.
Annoying how she kept face amid crisis—but I needed her intact.
I said calmly,
"A friend in need is a true friend. Right?"
"I'm not in need. My Laskar are hundred-to-one warriors. Ten thousand Rawanas couldn't scratch me."
"Then no issue. From here, gunfire's just hunt extension. Mere diversion."
"...As you wish. Change mind, withdraw anytime."
No thanks again. But her smile felt sincerest yet. Beige hunting garb soaked dark at neck and back; salt-rimed edges. She swatted mosquitoes irritably by scent, finalizing deployments with me—combat ready.
Under equatorial dusk's creep, shadows thickening in tropical jungle, uninvited clash loomed.