El Maestro (8)
As night deepened past midnight into the wee hours of dawn, the port finally became a battlefield. Britain had ultimately decided to step into the filthy mire. In my view, this was half thanks to the Dobla A rabble.
The drugged-up maniacs who'd repelled the British military convoy returned to the port dragging the corpses I'd tossed their way behind their vehicles, parading like victorious troops. Their barbaric victory procession—firing hundreds of rounds into the sky while howling triumphantly—was live-streamed on the Sicarios' own SNS accounts. Admirable fools who never even considered the fallout. The synergistic high of drugs and combat frenzy had clearly obliterated their reason. The cartel brass with half a brain must have been clutching their heads over their underlings' atrocities. As Kyung-tae had put it, quoting some trendy phrase from the younger generation, SNS really was a waste of life.
This put the loathsome island nation in a position where they had to deal with Dobla A and the Sinaloa Cartel before even worrying about their knight commander. No matter how diligently Britain's Foreign Office and intelligence agencies worked, those photos, videos, and intel would spread far and wide eventually. If they couldn't claim some meaningful victory here, the backlash would be unimaginable. Above all, the corpses I'd gathered from the mountains provided ample evidence to foster one particular misconception in the British: that the mysterious force which ambushed them was definitely the Sinaloa Cartel.
So, my top priority in this gap was...
'Kill the knight commander.'
I had no idea why the Round Table wanted him alive. Whether they planned to package ancient wisdom as miracles and revelations to groom fanatical followers, or just needed a lab rat for experiments. Either way, it wouldn't be a better end than dying here tonight. For me, and for him. So I'd grant him death by my hand. With a modicum of respect and sincerity, as I'd resolved in the early hours of this night.
Collecting the knight commander's code was just an added bonus. Dealing with the islanders could wait.
Splash, splash. Puddles of congealed blood sloshed under my slow steps. These were spilled by the armed police who'd been cleaved or crushed to death. The cleaved ones were bisected by blades; the crushed by shields and bodies slamming into them.
From my leisurely pursuit and observation, the moment the false Templar Knights burst into the port streets, they turned into a catastrophe for the military, police, and Sinaloa Cartel. How could mere soldiers, cops, and Sicarios—who valued their lives—stop those rage-fueled zealots? Especially with the knight commander at their head.
From Guadalajara to Puerto Vallarta, traversing rugged mountains through fierce battles, he must have evolved into a being of a different caliber from yesterday, wielding escalated violence. The knight commander had also snapped every roadside utility pole in sight. Artificial lights vanished nearby. Yet occasional glows illuminating the path came from unblocked buildings and vehicles set ablaze. Each time we passed such fires, the blood-soaked road gleamed like it was oiled.
How had they ignited so many fires? Simple: the blasphemous knights stabbed roadside cars with their longswords, then yanked them out. The instantaneous high heat from blade friction detonated fuel tank vapors. If it didn't catch, they'd scrape the spilled fuel on asphalt with shield edges to spark it.
I mimicked it once. Thud—I telekinetically summoned the sword fixed horizontally on my backpack, sharpening its blood-and-oil-dulled edge with psychokinesis. Screeech—with grating friction, its gleam and keenness revived. Immediately, I vertically slashed the rear of a van on the shoulder. Pop—vapors burst, and flaming fuel gushed from the glowing crack swept by metallic sparks. I swiftly retreated and kicked the vehicle sideways, smashing it into a storefront barred with iron grates.
So that's how it's done. Watching the flames spread rapidly, I deemed it a simple yet clever trick. Useful know-how someday.
The path I walked under my subordinates' faithful cover was unexpectedly silent. Overwhelmed by the knight commander's suicidal rampage, the massive troop losses, and chaos of fires everywhere, the military and police had fully withdrawn from dozens of blocks here. A de facto rout. It would take considerable time for them to regroup with denser forces and firepower. Judging by their state, not tonight, at least. The troops I'd seen lacked even night combat gear. The cartel knights were similar, but enhanced beings' night vision outshone normals'. For them, dawdling under the excuse of protecting evacuating civilians was rational.
Thus, I reached a small plaza before a church. Consistent, one might say. The Spanish-style church's outer walls faintly glowed under meager moonlight, against a waning half-moon and darkening sky. Two spires topped with six bells bore a pair of crosses thrusting high. The main door between stone buttresses bore a relief of Archangel Michael slaying the devil below—sword raised high, armored angel poised to impale Satan at his feet.
Ironic coincidence, considering sword-wielding self-proclaimed holy warriors hid inside. But what followed wouldn't be angels versus demons—just devil versus devil.
Right. I was just another devil. Desiring only personal survival and peace, yet ready to kill, shatter, and burn anything to reach it—a filthy devil. I reminded myself not from petty conscience, but a desire to be slightly better than my enemies.
In Buddhist terms, I bore heavy karma. So laden, I might die like that demon meeting the angel—crushed, ugly, weak, pathetic. Cannibals must prepare to be devoured themselves.
How fortunate that hell and reincarnation are human fictions. Atheist that I was, I stared into the church and declared, "I want to send those inside off personally."
"Hyungnim."
Kyung-tae quietly cautioned, but I didn't retract.
"Just four opponents, no other eyes. Nearby buildings are mostly empty. You think I'd take a scratch here?"
"No way, but... you're different from usual. That's worrying."
"Different from usual?"
"Yeah. The vibe."
Hmm. A throbbing heat pricked the back of my head. Like a deep sleep after an all-nighter cut short at ten minutes—unpleasant. Excitement from things going too smoothly? Or the awakening agent—six times the dose?
No hallucinations as feared; senses remained sharp. Mild indigestion, but I felt normal enough. Complex spell calculations flowed smoothly—further proof. A bit more sentimental than usual, perhaps...
"Don't worry."
It happens sometimes. I set down my gear silently.
"Won't take long. Hold position briefly."
I left my gun too, approaching the church with only the longsword. Not grand in scale, the structure lacked nave aisles; the interior felt spacious relative to size. Beyond the altar at the far end hung a large cedar Christ statue depicting ascension—oddly crossless. No crucifix on the rear wall. Heretical, almost.
The true heretics gathered below, lighting massive ritual candles and praying, turned at my footsteps on the front steps. One had even shed his armor—tending wounds? No luxury for that mid-flee, but judging zealots by normal logic was futile. Or perhaps this chance church seemed a revelation. What odds of stumbling into one while fleeing blindly? Especially the commander—a madman crossing himself even in mountain firefights. They likely believed in divine protection here.
The madman asked me, "Who are you?"
Casual speech, but decorous for a cartel boss. Fitting for one immersed in roleplay. Some even thought themselves real soldiers.
His three subordinates already aimed rifles. Yet instead of firing, vague expressions hid behind visors—my lone sword entry struck even drugged eyes as bizarre. Especially since it was their comrade's weapon. Enough to buy observation time.
Thud! The commander slammed his massive shield down, backlit by candles.
"I asked who you are."
Marble floor cracked visibly. Dust sifted from the rising shield's edge. Titanium alloy, no doubt—far from light. Painted cross was tacky.
I halted where nave and transept met, answering the cartel knight commander: "The one who came to kill you."
The dim sanctuary flashed thrice. His three subordinates fired once each from their semi-autos. But the bullets halted midair, caught by psychokinesis. Advanced technique—harder than mere deflection. A miracle beyond them.
The shooters froze. I saw their heartbeats accelerate wildly. Even the commander wasn't immune. He stiffened his speech, voicing their shock:
"...Who are you, sir?"
I answered by maxing my dominance over the sanctuary's mana essence. My potent mana field expanded, crushing theirs like a vise. The knights shuddered in unison. What did a master-class mage's presence feel like to ability users? Only the commander, amid the tremor, raised sword and shield in battle stance. Asking again:
"Who... are you, sir?"
His blade tip quivered—a flaw—but he matched his bulk in courage. Without it, no natural awakening prodigy could have reached here unscathed. Captured or a cooling mountain corpse long ago.
Kakang! Three heads burst in blood and brains. I'd empowered the three suspended bullets telekinetically. The false holy knights crumpled with thuds. Bullets burrowing into skulls ricocheted inside helmets with metallic clangs. Brains naturally pulped. Only the helmetless one died cleanly pierced.
The commander glanced at his fallen flanks, then fixed on me. I said, "I told you—I came to kill you."
The blasphemous knight commander roared beast-like and charged.