El Maestro (6)
Smoke rose from the rifle's chamber. The lingering after-scent of gunpowder igniting in rapid succession. I slung the heavy anti-materiel rifle, now depleted of ammo, onto the pack on my back. In the skirmish we'd just fought, I'd been the sniper who claimed three times as many enemies as the rounds I'd expended. Not some tall tale of piercing three foes per shot. Even misses were enough to pin them down, buying time for the knight commander to charge in and sever the necks of every British soldier in sight.
War isn't a solo fight. The massive black knight, bolstered by my support, halted amid the carnage of gruesome deaths and gazed toward my position. A probing look laced with uneasy suspicion—who the hell was helping him? But without x-ray vision, there was no way he'd spot me. Too many obstacles blocked the line of sight between us.
Unlike the commander, whose only sign of battle fatigue was his heaving shoulders, his subordinates—leaning on their swords, shields, and rifles—gasped for breath. They finally stirred, scavenging weapons, ammo, water, and rations from the dead British troops. The Brits' field rations weren't much: cereal bars, tea bags, electrolyte powder. But to the cartel knights, drained to their limits, it was pure, desperately needed calories.
The commander dumped powder into a canteen handed over by a subordinate, shook it roughly, and poured it straight down his throat without a single gulp. A peculiar talent, if you could call it that. He crammed three cereal bars in at once, then chased them with a full canteen of water. Astonishing that his stomach didn't cramp.
There were more survivors in the knight order than I'd seen in the footage. But they'd started with far more. The eight besides the commander—nine in total—were surely the last elite of the Temple Knight Order Cartel.
The commander strapped the heaviest firearm offered by his men inside his shield, then loaded magazines into the chest rig over his armor. Oddly, the densely packed bandolier meshed well with the pre-modern plate. 'Though it's hilarious that it's British-made.'
True to form for a cartel flush with cash, their knightly gear was all titanium alloy. Half their overwhelming close-quarters prowess likely stemmed from the armor's durability and lightness. The thick, sloped plates alone could shrug off most infantry fire. Add shields? In tight-range urban fights, they became reapers with blades.
The cartel knight commander traced a cross toward me, then rallied his men to resume their flight. A sign of the cross, even now. He'd gotten a pass on the British chest rig, but this? I couldn't hold back a chuckle. Kyung-tae shot me a worried look.
"Hyungnim, you okay?"
He was fretting over awakener drug side effects. Objectively, it wasn't a laughing matter. I'd taken more than the recommended dose to counter cumulative fatigue, and the list included wild mood swings. But so what? I felt good—eager to kill more Brits in this mood. Better than endless gloom, right?
British reinforcements were closing in.
"Let this bunch pass for now."
At my order to curb the impulse, my men reinforced their hides. Stillness didn't mean idleness. I sharpened my scattered focus, stimulating every animal in my mana field with ignition and telekinesis incantations. Something I'd done sporadically during our trek.
In this dense forest, infrared from high altitude couldn't easily distinguish animal heat from human. Clouds hung low over the high ground. Herding wildlife disrupted their thermal tracking on us while slowing the Brits chasing the knights. Sometimes I'd add fire spells or thin water barriers. I had to shrink my mana field as they closed in, so I couldn't stall forever. But it bought enough time for the recovered knights to punch through the thinned British front.
Crunch, crunch. Heavy footsteps trampling grass drew near. The tense island patriots advanced in leaps, closing comrades' eyes and tagging dog tags. They passed our ambush twenty meters off.
Kyung-tae, who'd held his aim to the end, exhaled and relaxed. Choppers droned high overhead but dared not enter the combat zone. Flying low into a forest where awakers wielded heavy weapons was suicide for the crew.
I said, "Long night ahead. Let's top off our calories here."
The two days holed up in the hotel had been nonstop gorging, but two hours of peak enhancement burned through reserves fast. Better to refuel before depletion worsened.
Our emergency rations were simple: salt, vitamins, glucose powder mix. I dumped some in my mouth, dissolved with water, swallowed. Repeat five or six times each. Quick to eat, quick to absorb.
After ninety seconds, we moved out. Even in that brief pause, gunfire echoed ahead where the knights had gone. Their path was littered with clash sites.
I toed aside a cartel holy knight tangled with Brits in death, telekinetically lifting his sword—dull from dried blood, floating against gravity. Almost there. Lights twinkled below at the foothill settlement: Las Palmas de Arriba, Puerto Vallarta's satellite suburb.
For a small force fighting numbers, cities beat forests. Obstacles, hides aplenty—and civilians everywhere. Even if pampered locals balked at human shields, the cartel could force them.
Yes. The knights would hit the port via there—the broadest, most advantageous, familiar battlefield nearby. Dense pop, ample shadows: their sole lifeline. The village was too cramped to hold half a day, so they had to reach the harbor before dawn. If it dragged, Brits might abandon pursuit—turning short op into long slog. Guadalajara was already chaos; more civvie deaths wouldn't raise eyebrows. But Puerto Vallarta? Peaceful till now. Politics could outweigh Round Table pressure, forcing a pullback.
Scavenging anti-materiel rounds from corpses, I decided to telekinetically haul four British bodies—and their swords.
"Gah!"
Kyung-tae gasped softly. Rifles snapped to aim, triggers a hair from firing—not just him, but three nearby men. Split-second ID as corpses stayed their hands.
Lowering his muzzle, Kyung-tae sighed. "Whew, scared me. Almost popped off, hyungnim."
"Sorry. Should've warned you."
"Nah. But what's the plan for these?"
"To start a proper fire."
"Ah, Sinaloa bastards?"
"Yeah."
The four corpses rose like strung puppets, awkwardly shedding gear to ease telekinetic strain. Weapons stayed slung—they'd need to fire.
Among the Round Table of Light and Truth's ancient lore was corpse control magic—more precisely, manipulating organics post-vital shutdown. But my mentor spawn had no interest. He just knew it existed. A shame for me now, but mana scarcity made it useless to him anyway.
We veered south, hugging waterways to the sea and thick tree cover toward the harbor. A detour, but avoiding knights and pursuers alike. Watery terrain aided magical thermal blocks. But at a bridge spanning the river—visible afar—I halted.
"Freeze!"
Clearer sightlines than the woods; I signaled and radioed the stop. Harsh, throaty diesel roars of military vehicles—audible only to me yet. A British convoy blocking the southern mountain road braked in a line, headlights glaring before and behind the bridge piers. A drone buzzed nearby.
Even unloaded, their armor, mounted guns, and sensors made them no joke. Midway: a command APC.
But we weren't the only watchers. Amateur armed groups lurked at village edges, sending faux civilians to awkwardly scout Brits. They'd blocked the faded two-lane road 250 meters beyond with junkers, delaying the foe.
Sinaloa Cartel. Not widely known, but Britain truly loathed Mexican narcos—Sinaloa especially. They had networks in London, Liverpool, everywhere. Hired Brits smuggled mountains of drugs to the homeland and Europe—separate from sub routes. Even British Airways staff got bought, sparking outrage.
So as Brits closed in, Sinaloa going alert made sense—even with Obrador's personal assurances on secret pacts. Paranoia fit thieves.
They'd laid the table so nicely. Only polite to make their feet burn worse. Bodies would see quick use—welcome, with mana circuit strain building.
"Hyungnim. Suyeon-noona asks how to secure the evac route here."
With comms tier-restricted, Kyung-tae's handler linked direct to harbor command—one of few.
Perfect timing; I'd been about to call.
"Tell her join point and time incoming."
"Got it."
"Others?"
"Pulling back already. Reinforcements en route."
"Quick work. Map."
At my gesture, Kyung-tae had a sub spread the map. I gathered officers, briefed the op, assigned roles and paths. Men in NVGs followed under faint IR tac lights.
"Objections?"
"None, sir."
Nods rippled. Full buy-in. But I double-checked.
"Kyung-tae?"
"Looks solid. Fights are best watched from across the river, haha."
Testing if fatigue dulled my judgment. He was one of few unsubmissive enough for cold review.
"Good. Relay to command. Maintain restriction till Puerto Vallarta entry. Swap NVG batteries now. Sounds nagging, but watch friendly fire on evac join. Hits in ten. Ready? Three, two, one…"
Click. The reliable mil waterproof watch's button thunked crisply. Coincidentally, flames erupted at the poor village outskirts yonder, devouring the dark.
The cartel holy knights' doing, harbingers of disaster. Forest fires in rough terrain were hell—hard to control or escape. Suicidal mid-overmatch fight. Plus biomass-heavy awakened trees as wild cards, spawning unpredictable magic.
But structured human turf? Different. Fire could be contained, escaped. Distance from Brits allowed more than flight.
How to use this breather? Arson blocked air recon best. If not impulse—not exhaustion haze—but optimal judgment? A real shame. Sans Jesus-crazed narco boss, I'd have recruited him.