#22. Torch of Anti-Communism (4)
I cleared my mind of stray thoughts and nocked a heavy arrow onto the powerful bow. Since I wasn't channeling my mana circuit's processing power solely into physical reinforcement, drawing the string—imbued with the tension of a double Guinness record—felt a bit stiff.
Thwack! The first arrow I loosed flew past the targets to the opposite side. As an inexperienced archer, I wanted to check the trajectory first. I frowned at how my body's sway disrupted my aim.
The recoil is considerable...
The 400-pound—181-kilogram—draw weight produced a crude recoil unlike that of a firearm. Relying only on telekinesis to maintain my stance without solid footing made it different from ground-based practice shooting. The arrows, twice the weight of standard heavy shafts at 600 grains and designed for awakened beasts, streaked away as fierce, vanishing lines of light each time I released the string.
With ample quivers floating nearby, I test-fired the remaining arrows. I got a feel for everything from stance control to aiming. Confirming the shot grouping, I adjusted the five tritium sights on the scope for distance-specific aiming points. The hex bolts securing the sight pins unscrewed themselves, shifted, and retightened on their own.
Truth be told, if I just planned to kill them all, there was no need for this hassle. Why bother with a bow for arrows? I could simply infuse them with telekinesis and launch them en masse. At close range, low accuracy could be compensated with volume, and the traces would look like a bow fight anyway. The joint military-police investigation team would marvel at the hunters' skill in taking down automatic-armed foes with primitive projectiles. The problem was capturing them alive—it made things messy. We couldn't risk suspicious details slipping into their statements.
"Let's begin."
The calm radio transmission came as preparations wrapped up. My subordinates, who had nocked arrows and waited, drew and loosed in less than a breath.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"
The armed communists, caught off guard, scrambled into combat readiness in blind panic. One lounging against a trench corner, cigarette in mouth despite digging in, took a projectile through layers of brush and leaves right to the skull from the start.
Splat! The dull sound of the heavy arrow's tip piercing his ballistic helmet. The mechanical broadhead with its expandable blades shattered bone in an instant, deploying its three prongs. The result: widespread brain trauma and instant death.
I released with my men and clicked my tongue at the corpse flopping down, cig still lit.
Unlucky bastard.
Even with my aiming points set, dying on suppression fire without seeing the target was rough.
"Aaaagh! Aaaaah!"
My mark clutched his leg below the knee, screaming. I'd aimed for the ankle tendon but clipped the calf—a decent hit. The broadhead severed muscle either way, destroying mobility. As long as he didn't bleed out before we wrapped up, it was fine. If he did, oh well. Half captured alive was plenty.
The communists huddled in their foxholes couldn't hide their bewilderment amid the chaos. Their yells rivaled suppressed gunfire in volume.
"What the hell is this ambush?! Anyone see where it's coming from?!"
"No idea! Enemies everywhere!"
Rat-tat-tat-tat! Blind return fire, guns poked over the trench, was pointless ammo waste. Outnumbered two companies' worth by my handpicked crew, they couldn't even peek out. The storm of heavy arrows—over a hundred per second—felt more viscerally oppressive than heavy weapons suppression. My shots blended in like a single raindrop. To the unaware, they'd seem like stray hits amid hundreds.
By my thirty-seventh arrow, no communists in the platoon could move under their own power. Twelve targets, triple shots each—blame my novice skill.
"Cease fire. Hold."
The skirmish ended in under a minute. For the investigators, we'd claim ten-plus minutes of sustained fight after the ambush. To minimize deployed numbers and cover tracks, we just needed a brief lull. The bleeding reds would soon fade in and out. Captured in that state, kept barely alive, the military-police would chalk up any time discrepancies to their hazy memories. Hardly suspicious—especially with no reason to suspect us.
This pause also let the downed warn other infiltrators, as I hoped. We couldn't have the cops belatedly doing their job here.
"Guhhh...!"
One fading prey bit a magazine and yanked the arrow from his leg. Muffled screams leaked past crushed metal and teeth. Better to push a mechanical broadhead straight through than pull backward. He then wrenched his nailed left hand free by the fletching and, eyes glazing, cauterized his wound with mana flame.
"...!"
No scream this time. The savory scent of roasting protein and fat mingled with mountain wind—same as any meat, proof humans were just animals in the food chain.
I watched the pathetic effort and nocked fresh.
"Comrade, stay with us...! Comrade!"
As the red called Sergeant Joo Young-ho lit a new fire for his "platoon leader comrade," I sighted his back and triggered release.
Thwang! Arrows fly slower than sound. Wild beasts sometimes dodge on string vibration alone. Compound bows with cams were born to quiet that noise, not just boost power. Bows aren't silent.
No awakened reflex from North Korea's elite could lag behind unawakened wildlife. That's why the cripple rolled clear.
Look at you...
Earlier, multiple archers fired; now, silence but for my sniper shots. The sound stood out. Especially to awakened ears.
Thwang, thwunk! Double-tap, then belated screams. One gashed his side; the other pinned his collarbone, sparking mana flare. Blades shredded lung—no long life left. The platoon leader saw, so no Life incantation.
Just take the first shot nicely. I'd only meant cervical severing for paralysis.
Descending, a waiting subordinate bowed. A bureau chief handling Kyung-tae's limbs in security.
"Good work, Chairman. All done?"
"Wait a bit, then sweep and bag 'em."
"Live captures?"
"Easier later. Follow-up team en route?"
"Yes. Three minutes out. Director Kim Kyung-tae says he'll return ASAP."
"Tell Kyung-tae to wrap up and take his time."
"Understood."
Kyung-tae was out on org business. As inspection ops head and unrivaled human hunter, coordinating Q1 international hunts for the division.
Hunting yields wild revenue swings. Tracking vanished scammers abroad devours years of manpower and cash per mark—long shots with no guarantees. High-risk investments with principal loss possible. Long-term profitable, sure, but better uses abound for the cash and talent. Smuggling ops, perpetually short-staffed, would beg for extras.
Still, as boss, human hunting got priority regardless of profit. It signaled to all: betray us, hide anywhere—no safety. These intruders? Minor farce.
I recalled Suyeon absent too. As de facto number two, touring sites in my stead—a breather before the long haul.
Both away... it's been a while.
Their absence hit oddly empty. Like something essential missing. Mental sloth needing fix. I must prep for solitude anytime.
Eyeing vitals, I gestured once the unluckiest flatlined.
"Move."
Subordinates advanced shields-first—civilian hunter standard. Some reds, minds fading, gripped rifles desperately. Three muzzles trained shakily our way.
But.
Ting! 1,200-grain punch crumpled guns in sparks. My bowmen's skill dwarfed mine—full-time combat training demanded it.
One gunless red spat blood-curse.
"You... South puppet scum... bastards..."
Eyes bulging triggered unseen shockwave. Lead subordinate sensed mana flux, angled shield reflexively.
Bam! Force deflected smoothly; he pressed, smashing the telekinetic's jaw with shield. Crunch—lights out.
My crew handled raw air blasts daily in primitive-magic sparring. No contest.
Resistance ended.
"Mommy..."
One resigned to maternal pleas; another yanked grenade pin for mutual doom.
But blood-loss tremors foiled the grip. Subordinate kicked it away; prey wept in rage.
The "worry committee comrade," slumped against foxhole wall, drew flickering poison ampule for suicide. Fingers failed; it dropped. Desperate flop, he ground it with dirt and swallowed.
Then glared defiantly up at me.
You can't take me alive.
"...?"
My calm watch puzzled him—brief confusion.
Proper commie, right? One suicide sells the scene.
No mercy for intruders. I let foam and convulsions claim him in neural agony.