El Maestre (5)
In this fight, I faced two serious penalties. The first was that I had to thoroughly conceal my existence as a Grand Magus. The second was that none of my subordinates could be captured or have their identities exposed.
If even a corpse of one of my men fell into the hands of the British army, it could provide clues to our organization's headquarters. This applied even to those whose household registrations had been erased, leaving only fake identities. To prevent that, every subordinate on this battlefield had been issued a suicide bomb before deployment—one powerful enough not only to kill but to sufficiently damage the body.
However, I couldn't fully trust that those bombs would detonate without hesitation when the moment came. How many people wouldn't waver at the final instant of life? And how many would destroy a dead comrade's body without a second thought?
I trusted my subordinates and the efforts I'd put into managing them, but absolute 100% faith would be mental laziness I couldn't afford. Naturally, my command had to be cautious.
I wanted the enemies already inside the barrage to push even further into the fatal zone. Come on, just a little closer. Just a bit more.
I was confident. My gunshot would be buried in the trap explosions, and with a breach in the encirclement trapping the knight order, the enemy's anxiety would only grow. Especially since somewhere in this deep, dark forest lurked an enemy force of unknown identity and scale—my army.
Moreover, by not launching an attack right after the traps detonated, I'd given them reason to misjudge our numbers. If we were large enough, standard doctrine would demand an immediate assault alongside the explosions.
This situation resembled a guerrilla skirmish where a small, specialized team ambushes a larger force. In reality, we slightly outnumbered the approaching foes—that was the trap.
Weeeeng— A faint propeller hum in frequencies ordinary people could never hear. It was the dragonfly-sized recon drones the approaching British troops had sent ahead.
The same spoils I'd taken from the earlier raid. Luxurious recon assets costing $200,000 each.
The moment those expensive toys entered the range of my specific incantation, they dropped like dead dragonflies. I recovered the powered-down husks with telekinesis and stuffed them into my gear, just like before. More samples for analysis were always better.
Even showing them to the Chinese would drive them insane. This was leagues beyond India's downgraded versions.
Having lost $1.2 million worth in one go, the British recalled the rest of their drones and approached even more cautiously. I could see some throats bobbing. They had to be scared.
They couldn't even guess why the drones had all dropped at once—especially ones resistant to all sorts of jamming. This was an unknown they'd never encountered, and the unknown was the core piercing all human fears.
Observing them, I decided to deceive the enemy once more. If it worked, the ambush would end in a flash.
"Fire one more shot. Don't react."
Short acknowledgments came back.
I needed a firing angle. Quietly leaping, I landed on an 8-meter-high branch and crouched. This thinned the canopy overhead, so I slowly drew in surrounding branches with mana to block body heat from escaping upward.
Next came the telekinetic field for sound suppression—but not omnidirectional this time. The invisible sound-absorbing barrier, shaped to muffle gunfire, formed like a deep jar with one open side, letting the chopped-up muzzle blast leak only forward and diagonally.
With preparations complete, my target was the man with a major's insignia. A company-grade commander in their special forces. The subdued rank markings, small and dark to avoid snipers, stood out crystal-clear to my eyes.
Aiming through the thick foliage and leaves obscuring normal sight. That was why, despite my marksmanship being slightly inferior to my subordinates', I could compete as a sniper. Going undetected was a sniper's greatest virtue.
I waited for the moment no nearby British saw their major.
Boom! The blast hammered my eardrums as a half-inch casing ejected. My enhanced body ignored the recoil like a boxer's jab.
The unmoving muzzle meant pinpoint accuracy, and the bullet, flying for 0.4 seconds, shattered the British major's skull.
"Sniper!"
The entire approaching force dropped like dominoes. Heavy large-caliber rounds were the best.
Even after passing through the telekinetic field, did it lose a measly tenth of its kinetic energy?
Now I fired once more at the sky. Kaboom! The muzzle flash from the suppressor erupted in a blind spot invisible from sky or ground.
Hearing it, the British guarded completely the wrong direction. The diffused, biased gunshot misled them on direction and distance.
The major's head exploding spectacularly gave no hint of bearing. Their only clue to my real position was the blood spray—heavy rounds dispersing 20,000 joules of crimson evidence.
But after two shots, convinced, they ignored the blood scattered in the dark. Only the medic crawled urgently, confirmed instant death, and shook his head.
"Prepare."
With the telekinetic field down, Kyung-tae and the rest hooked fingers on triggers. Click, click, click. Pulled to the hair-trigger limit.
I'd continue sniping from the tree. In a situation where total annihilation wasn't guaranteed, direct magical strikes were taboo. That would tip off the Round Table.
As the prone enemies chattered on radios, two drones—likely from higher command—flew toward their guessed sniper position. But nothing to find.
After about five minutes, the now 63-strong British rose sluggishly. Hunched low, thick ballistic shields (body bunkers) to the fore. Their sloth-like pace spoke volumes of mounting fear.
Facing ever-growing darkness. They were fighting the gloom itself.
Hoo... I steadied myself with slow breaths. Pulsing heartbeat thrummed in my ears—a tension bordering on dull ache.
Even though I'd orchestrated this, the perfect opportunity disrupted my breathing rhythm.
Yes. Most enemies now fully exposed their flanks. Unlike initial even vigilance, their biased shields and cover were useless before our firing lines.
Flak vests lacked side plates, and descending the slope put them lower in elevation.
I ended my hunter's patience.
"Fire!"
A corner of the enemy line vanished instantly. Over twenty dead or disabled by first volley.
No time to count kills amid frantic trigger pulls. Semi-auto max rate dumped large-caliber sniper rounds from three mags: killed two captains, severed a sergeant's arm, ground a private's knee.
One captain took crossfire, body bursting in three places. Thwack! A sergeant aiding the knee-shot man ate a big-game round to the gut and fell.
The plate saved him; panicked, he vomited, abandoning his man to crawl back.
Boom! My fresh mag reload pierced his tailbone. He writhed in agony—the glancing entry churning guts.
I spared his life. Leaving him wasted enemy attention and force.
Our ambush points shattered under return fire. Each heavy counter round snapped branches, crumbled stone, erupted dirt.
Reflexive fire, yet grazing shots from the start. In a straight shootout on equal terms, I wouldn't bet on equal numbers.
But we'd seized initiative perfectly; subordinates poured max fire from dead angles.
On the battlefield, force disparities scale exponentially. Decent foes wouldn't dare counter.
Yet pinned by wounded, dwindling numbers biting back with second-by-second precision.
I could defend incoming rounds with one-way telekinesis. But that much power bent our outgoing trajectories.
Mutual noisy ammo waste. Pointless without stalling.
A left-flank subordinate warned urgently. "Two o'clock, LAW!"
"Ignore it!"
The portable rocket's bright launch flare. Spotting it, I projected telekinesis with superhuman reflexes.
Explosion. Invisible force detonated the warhead early; caught bullets arced dumbly midair.
I chewed out over radio. "Remember your training! I'm here!"
Two ways to stop explosives: ignition suppression, localized dense telekinetic field. The latter—"Refraction Barrier"—distinct from sound dampers.
As pondered earlier, it neutralized normal fire too, but here sufficed for grenades, GLs, rockets.
Subordinates trained on this—but "theory vs. practice."
My magical support defied norms. Unfamiliar until battle-hardened.
British explosives detonated outside lethal range, caught in unseen force. Boom! Kaboom! Blasts and earth-thuds blurred vision each time.
I ditched shooting greed, focused on defense. Not missing one grenade, GL, or rocket.
Even with color-highlighted targeting vision, no easy feat. Battlefield sensory overload.
Heart-stopping near-misses now and then.
About 50 seconds of firefight exchange. Survivors reformed lines; casualties imminent for us.
Tsk. Tongue-clicking, I ordered tactical withdrawal.
"Fall back and flank! Pull out!"
Under-a-minute assault yielded massive gains. Pressing might end it, but fixation led to doom.
Wiser to retreat, find new path.
As Kyung-tae et al. laid suppressing fire in sequence, I dumped four remaining anti-materiel rounds skyward. Boom, boom, boom, boom!
Not one hit the fat incoming drones. Battle excitement roughed my breath amid focus shortage.
Reloading, I stripped canteens and gear from mana-drained British corpses, projecting hydrogen flash-bombs to airburst like before. Whoosh—rumble—!
White spherical shockwave swept the mountain night sky. Black forest danced noisily in the wind, leaf-storm raging; drone hurled thousands of feet higher.
Come down again if you dare.
Leading retreat, glancing back: spared drone dared not descend.
Amid panting, blood boiled with satisfaction. That's right—how many eyes have I already eaten? Losing more bottoms your tracking.
Command-control plunge too. And penalties weren't mine alone here.
Knight commander exploiting encirclement breach—they couldn't pursue full-force. My presence barred focus on original prey.
Two choices: yield initiative to mire, or abandon secret mission to kill knights first.
But I foresaw the latter impossible. Those magic-ignorant, "carelessly made" ability users weren't Round Table elites.
Likely state-loyal soldiers embracing new power. Would Round Table's old monsters pity cannon fodder?
Ridiculous. In mana-depleted world, Round Table Masters were royal/government white elephants—costly to keep, wasteful to discard.
Already fading powers, egos intact: headaches. Pre-mentor betrayal, they'd been nuisances; post-relic theft, obvious treatment.
Round Table, ledger of humiliations, wouldn't beg government mercy. Purely transactional— no compromise on old monsters' demands.
Unless massive debt incurred, maybe bargaining with bigger payoffs. But would Britain choose that?
Patriots' lives: politicians' cheap fave. Ultimate expendables, cost-efficient.
While recon-crippled British lumbered, I flanked wide, re-entering battlefield.
View matched prediction: indecisive British, beasts (knights) boar-rushing escape amid chaos; reinforcements finally scrambling from opposite road.
On-site vs. politics clash glaring. Ah, such delight.
Time to turn second-best hunting ground optimal for armored idiots. I prepared the shift.