El Maestre (4)
We slowed after passing a small dam, approaching the northern edge of the battlefield. By then, I'd already stamped down some footprints that broke off toward the downstream river—decoys to sow confusion. When we looped back upstream, we stuck to the water to avoid leaving any extra traces.
Kyung-tae split his forces ahead of contact with the enemy, securing our flanks and rear. They could bypass or encircle if needed—a reserve force ready for anything. The vanguard, including me, numbered sixteen, matched to the size of a single British special forces Troop. Enough to hold our own against one even if we fought alone.
At the end of our advance, the London sentries finally entered my line of sight: sixteen men, just as expected.
I knew it. They're still in transition.
Paradigms don't shift overnight. Until trial and error, research take hold, the inertia of the old ways lingers. These enemies—all at least Corporal rank—formed a loose blocking line in four-man teams. From outside that line, approaching from behind, they exposed their unguarded backs to me.
They kept to basic camouflage and cover, but that was it. No matter how cornered the enemy might be, neglecting rear security was inexcusable. Fatigue from the day's endless hunt, overconfidence in superhuman strength—it bred complacency. I checked myself, feeling my own tension slacken. These foes were too easy to kill. Temptation crept in: capture one, interrogate him, even briefly. What was the state of London's Round Table now? Who led the Cabinet?
But that was overreach. The situation left no room for it. No matter how easy they seemed at first glance, I couldn't lump them with mere fringe devil-worshippers. Above all, they probably knew nothing of the Round Table itself. Their circuits were too crude for true elites. Just innocent soldiers, exploited by patriotism?
Innocence changes nothing for me. It wouldn't stay my hand.
Targets assigned, we took aim.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
The gunfire hit like cannon blasts. Necks not shielded by body armor exploded in sprays. Hunting rounds four times heavier than standard rifle bullets. Kinetic energy only doubled, but the hydrostatic shock was worlds apart. The ambush ended in two seconds.
Boots crunched over corpses, snapping tough grass. With the moon half-hidden, the shadowed foothills were pitch black. That's why my men—everyone but me—wore thermal night-vision goggles.
"Hyungnim."
I clipped the radio Kyung-tae tossed me to my tac vest. Wiping blood from the receiver, I slipped it on. British commands and reports crackled in.
Kyung-tae and I grabbed spare British weapons. No risk of running dry mid-firefight, and superior in power and penetration to our hunting rifles. Even portable rockets like LAWs. Mine: a big-bore sniper rifle.
Pity the dead carried no ghillie suits—their main job wasn't ambush. Four had palm-sized micro-drones and controllers; we stuffed them in our packs. Useless now, but trophy value immense.
"Move."
Urging them on, I already spotted the next targets on the northern line—enemies still breathing. Even with telekinesis muffling the shots, they'd soon notice the breach. We had to rack up kills before then.
After that...
Alternating ground and sky, I ducked behind a tree trunk. My men went to cover instantly. Moments later, a small flyer buzzed overhead low. Hand-launched, loitering UAV—Raven. We'd down them with magic and sniping once combat kicked off proper. For now, leave them for surprise.
We moved again. Blindingly fast for stealthy tactical maneuver. No noise worries. Still, dry-mouthed anxiety gnawed at me.
"En nombre del dios!"
A roar echoed faintly from beyond the ridge. The knight commander's voice far exceeded human limits, but exhaustion laced it even in echo. How much longer could the fake knights hold? How much time did I have?
The cartel knights had fled and fought for over sixteen hours. When they broke, our hunt would harden. Maybe the British were toying with prey to build combat experience. They could end it anytime if they wanted.
New enemies entered visual range. Sixteen again. Hand signals: positions taken in seconds. Target assignment would take moments—but
"Fire!"
My order dropped before it. Warning spread on their radio net. About us.
BOOM! BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
No time for precise aim; I compensated with volume. Six heavy full-auto rounds hammered one foe's back.
"Gah!"
Body armor shattered; he screamed, collapsed. The only cry amid the torrent. Despite snap-shooting, Kyung-tae and the rest one-shot their marks.
"Grk... glurgh..."
The survivor lurched up, took two face shots. Splat! Skull burst, body thudded. Crushed half-head studded with night-vision shards.
Tch. Better if he'd dropped clean. No excuse for hasty telekinesis shield. Child's play for me now.
I flung the spent mag far. Standard rifle takes thirty rounds; these big-bore only nine. Worth the hassle. Full-auto elephant-stoppers? Gold for ability-user hunts. This .450 Bushmaster auto-rifle—assault structure, scaled-up ammo—packed the punch.
"Cover! Cover!"
Warning shouted, I slammed into a Mexican yellow pine trunk. Bark crumpled; tree shook. Ignoring the throb, I peered skyward from shadow. Drones: one at 3,000 feet, three lower, turning our way. They'd noted radio silence. Standard protocol.
Altitudes well below ceiling—dark night, dense woods. Still distant; magic range-limited. Optimal distance per incantation.
Eyeball sniping? No—channel mana through my soul circuit.
Crack!
Canteens and a ruck tore free from dead ability-user corpses—no mana fields left—and flew to me. I max-extended my mana field skyward, bound water in each magically, crammed into my pack, launched as one cluster.
Whistling tear through air. Ascent curved to descent, nearing the high drone's path. Then: flash-boil every drop to steam.
WHOOOOSH!
3,000 feet up, moonlit gray erupted. 1,680x volume swell—fast enough, instant bomb. Blast and shrapnel shredded the drone; wings snapped, spiraling down.
Not done. Half-year since Trembling Giant. I'd refined the spell: as steam re-condensed, decompose bound water to oxygen and hydrogen.
Overhead: perfect 2:1 mix. Hydrogen deflagration gas cloud.
Just ignite.
Magical spark triggered fiercer blast. Effectively a thermobaric—shockwave and heat scythed surroundings. Two slant-low drones disintegrated. Not crash: shredded. Last parabolic-dived to insignificant crunch.
Roars and gusts flushed birds, quadrupeds scattering with cries. Falling leaves swirled. Forest mana field rippled invisibly.
Trivial next to Trembling Giant's unity or Sequoia's thousand-ton trees. No vision block here.
Circuit throbbed from abuse, but satisfaction bloomed. Water-to-deflagration inefficient, circuit-hungry—but better than fading telekinesis at range. Brits would freak: who uses vapor bombs?
"Fall back!"
Kyung-tae and crew booby-trapped British bodies and surrounds, withdrew. One touch: tens of meters vaporized. Area-denial trap.
Telekinesis muffled shots again; reduced gunfire unheard. They'd check comrades first. Untouched? We'd detonate remotely. Rage incoming: war crime, booby-trapping corpses!
Why care? No humanitarianism in my war on imperialists.
Short wait: new prey crawled into our sights. Shells regular army, souls etched with Round Table wisdom. Crudely implanted circuits—not personalized like mine. More care for knight-commander hunters? I hoped so. Wiping invested resources felt rewarding.
Forty-eight Brits approached spread wide, wary. Squadron remnants plus platoon reinforcements. Wall of mana fields—no need to see. That zone's mana theirs.
Only four neared corpses. Rest guarded flanks. Too much for vanguard alone. I readjusted my pups' positions to match.
"Command to Team 4: shift 40 meters 8 o'clock. Team 5: 20 meters 2 o'clock. No—hold. Yes. Cover, watch 12 o'clock. Next, 5-2: grenade launcher..."
Micro-adjusting company-scale in four-man teams. Breathless just ordering. Kyung-tae's sixty-four executed like machine guns: precise bearings, distances. No wild-land distortion errors.
The four reaching bodies advanced tactical, silent. Secured our trap's backup blast zone.
Just four. Fewer than hoped in kill radius. We stayed hidden, mute; their Staff Sergeant—rifle on body bunker shield—nodded a subordinate to check.
"...Bloody hell."
Lip-read the whisper-curse. Corpses mangled; natural outrage. Corporal scanned wounds carefully—weapons, count.
Cautious bastard. Veteran touch. Irked, I prepped the captured anti-materiel rifle.
"Command. I'll shoot. Hold fire till ordered or engaged."
Nearby nodded silent; distant clicked brief replies. Frequency-hopping radios, but minimize chatter.
Virtual sight on torso. Chambered: heavy AP round. Kinetic five times prior hunting slugs. Monstrosity.
Low-velocity heavy slug? Hit corpse, not man. Either triggers bombs.
Breath steady, focus: heartbeat swelled. Sounds faded.
CRACK!
Flash outpaced bullet. Sergeant reacted to latter.
"Enemy—!"
Shout cut: flash shredded, crumpled him. Intact chunks proved unnatural body; syllable spoke elite reflexes. All vaporized in wide blast.
Trap shred-focused: steel-softer-than-all shattered, flung. Human flesh included. Cross-blasts tore bodies grotesque in flashes. Shadow puppets.
Dark silence returned.
Shh.
I hushed nearby men—and myself. Don't rush. Fastest path.
Cartel knights now visible. Shaking encirclement, they sensed direction instinctively. Less I found them; they came to me. Commendable. If it played right, I'd honor their grit: kill the commander myself. My respect.
A matter of sincerity.