El Maestro (10)
I picked up the longsword that had lost its master. Its former owner had been more beast than man, so the blade suited dismembering animals better than people—massive, brutal in design. The axis was slightly off-kilter, but the overall durability held up fine. Titanium alloy, indeed.
Meanwhile, the dead knight commander's husk—if you ignored the guts—could've passed for a saint from some holy painting. A knight of Christ fresh from battling demons or an evil dragon. But the soul he'd breathed out? The sort of serpent spawn Jesus would've whipped first upon his return.
What could be lower than a drug-pushing fake holy knight? Staring at him soured my mood further. Something about the commander reminded me of that bastard mentor of mine. He and the Round Table scum shared the delusion that they were God's chosen. The latter still clung to it, no doubt.
I shoved the knight commander's corpse aside with magic, stripped off his armor and gear. Recovered the dead subordinates' equipment too—weapons, shields, plate, chest rigs, the works. Props to cap off this hunt with a proper show.
Next, I spread embers through the ruined basilica. Flames caught the fallen Jesus statue first, then the Virgin Mary, the angels, shattered pews and intact ones alike, the wooden front wall pieced from planks, the altar, the lectern—all igniting at once. The collapsing church, superheated, would make a fine cairn to crush the knights' bodies.
Might as well make it thorough. Boom, crash!Rumble! Cannon-like blasts echoed as my invisible telekinesis hammered down like a press, smashing the stripped corpses. Once the blaze charred the pulverized remains beyond recognition, no one would guess their original forms.
Emerging with the blazing temple at my back, my dark shadow danced along the colonnade like a devil's silhouette. The afterglow of a fight that had truly stirred me.
Out the main doors, Kyung-tae dipped his head. “Good work, hyungnim.”
“Good work? It was fun. And educational.”
Rumble. Behind us, a section of the church caved in, the vibration like thunder striking a distant ridge.
Down the steps, a pop of shattering glass from on high. Glancing back, the clock lodged between bell towers had burst from internal heat pressure. Through the gap where half the face had vanished, I watched superheated air billow out—its rainbow hues of thermal colors.
“Situation report? Any changes?”
“Yeah. Half of Suyeon-noonim's crew is arrayed along the Pettit Al River park. Three blocks that way, and you've got a path slipping the Eye in the Sky to anywhere west of the city. Word is, use that line as your central axis for maneuvers—whether you keep hunting or pull out. Oh, and the reserves hit the police and militia command nodes, snagged their radios, wiped evidence. From the chatter, the Brits' estimated positions are...”
The Pettit Al River cut through downtown, separate from the Ameca we'd holed up by earlier—a lush, 100-meter-wide blind spot at its widest. Part of the plan we'd hashed out at the hotel, so absorbing Kyung-tae's relay was straightforward.
I rinsed the scavenged armor and helmet while he continued. A massive stone holy water font sat nearby; I siphoned its contents to sluice the insides. Vibrating the water shook out the grime nicely. Another refinement on hydrogen cavitation bombing—progress stalled, but steady.
“...Field command's traffic is nominal. Any orders?”
His relay was swift, concise. Kyung-tae's memory in combat rivaled Suyeon's.
I shook my head. “Nah. Confirmed—relay I'll stick to the plan.”
“Got it.”
His transmission to command included that I was intact. I picked three underlings including him, divvied up the props. The spare set was mine; the commander's full plate went to Kyung-tae—biggest frame in security detail. Still, a near-10cm height gap and different build made perfect disguise impossible. Darkness, role split, and staging would bridge it.
Perfect tool at hand. ...Stables?
Southeast from our plaza, not far: a stable. Amid fleeing locals, gunfire echoes, fires blooming citywide, penned horses panicked in the stench of burning urbania and auditory chaos.
Mounted combat hampered Awakened mobility and firepower—stupid. But we needed the knight commander's presence over Kyung-tae's solo output.
“This way.”
I led. My eyes ignored obstacles; no need to creep through urban warfare.
We reached it unmolested. Looked like a joint venture for tourist outfits—recent slump left over half the stalls empty. Surviving horses were poorly kept.
Kyung-tae, puzzled: “Uh, we riding these into battle, hyungnim?”
“Just you.”
“...Ah. Gotcha.”
His shoulders slumped a touch—fiddling the sword hilt betrayed his thoughts. Disappointed the fresh blade might see little action. Uncharted territory for him.
“That one.”
I pointed out a sturdy heavy for him. Well-fed, regardless of owner—slow but enduring.
Kyung-tae calmed the frantic beast effortlessly, saddled up, mounted smooth. “Whoa, easy.”
Handling mules, donkeys, packhorses? Gold for smugglers and manhunters in China's interior or Southeast backcountry. His U.S. private academy—advanced track—had an instructor stressing it as survival craft. Ex-SOF from the Middle East, operating solo long-term sans support. Even they sold skills in America's blessed free market.
“Good?”
“Huh?”
“Been a while since horses.”
“C'mon, hyungnim. What d'you take me for?”
He grinned from the helmet, reins expert in hand.
“Hold still.”
I spent minutes etching a circuit into the horse's soul. Basic reinforcement. Sloppy work—my first animal Awakening—would slash its lifespan, but...
Sunup's all it needs.
The beast snorted short, startled by surging power. Kyung-tae soothed it again.
I magically dulled its hearing for combat, then hacked security vests into crude barding straps from titanium plate rejects.
Hunt plan: Four fake knights (me included) draw eyes; rest encircle from outside, gut the rear. Spanish-mute knights' virtue: silence. English chatter would've blown it. 21st century—commanders shared squad views; close quarters muffled sound poorly via telekinesis fields. Comms only at range.
Simple roles—no sweat. I drilled four Spanish words into my armored crew: Cover. Assemble. Withdraw. Attack. Plenty for CQB. I'd cover gaps.
Hunt resumed.
“HVT confirmed! Four tangos! Engaging!”
Brits spotted us (we'd spotted them first)—a team radioed up, welcoming with muzzle flashes.
Rat-tat-tat! Titanium shield thudded dully. Sword and shield up, I grazed angled through the hosing AP rounds, closed one block in ~3 seconds—mixing needless dodges. Far quicker than the knights' pace.
“What the...!”
Sweat-stink close. I horizontally parted the shocked lance corporal's throat. Mana-boosted bone and flesh parted clean. Head spun roulette-style, spraying blood.
“Brin!”
Grieving sergeant, eyes rolled back, jammed his muzzle. Boom! Helmet struck—thwang—ricochet. Worse than a headbutt from the commander.
My riposte swung blockable force. Clang! Scrape! He parried two, three desperate swings. Gun's charging handle snapped; mag sheared viciously. One round chambered—he gripped rifle like spear, animal instinct pulling trigger.
Bang!
I twisted into the close-range big-bore shot. Ting—angled plate deflected easy. Entry angle trashed even heavy hitters. Opposite wall crumbled.
Shield's recoil fed my violence. Sergeant half-buried in concrete.
Shouts, screams behind: my crew's fresh ruin and death.
These followers? Round Table elite-equivalent.
“Guh...”
Paralyzed from one hit, sergeant glared unbelieving, flailing torso limp. Blood from mouth signaled ruptured guts; booze-sick face suppressed agony.
Expected. No holding back like with the commander.
Stepping up, I crushed his grenade hand to pulp. Foiled martyrdom; he gasped hate.
Helmet cam: brass watching live.
I tweaked my cycling reinforcement incantation. Master physical enhancement meant dominating involuntary muscles too—directly or indirectly. Vocal cords included.
Like my Jehovah act, I channeled a zealot's prayer in alien timbre.
Inspo from the commander duel.
"Jehová, Dios de las venganzas, Dios de las venganzas, muéstrate. Engrandécete, oh Juez de la tierra. Da el pago a los soberbios."
⟨ Psalm 94 ⟩
"Lord Jehovah, God of vengeance, God of vengeance, show yourself. Rise up, O Judge of the earth. Repay the proud their due."
“Wha... sayin'...?”
Mentor's corpse in my head held noble polish: warped Bible obsession, trilingual lore. Squeezing apt verses? Easy. Details off? Zealots twisted scripture anyway—like the commander.
Crunch! Plate-piercing stab. Eyes bulged.
I kept thrusting, dry recitation aping madness. Crunch, crunch. Fresh blood coated blade each draw. More dribbled from his lips.
"Ah, Lord. How long shall the wicked, how long shall the wicked exult? How long boast in their evil deeds?"
"Psalm 94:3"
“Stop... sto, p.”
"Ah, Lord. They crush your people; they afflict your heritage."
"Psalm 94:5"
“...”
Bang, bang! Fresh rounds with cries. Foes, thinking us four, pressed bold—rage over lost comrade.
I refraction-deflected first three, angled shield quick. Prolonged refraction exposed the incant; no primitive mage—genius or not—reached that now. Even the commander stuck to body enhancement.
Shield at 45° to ground deflected semi-auto hail easy. Thud-thud vibrations dented it faintly per hit. Heavy calibers.
“¡Reúnanse!”
Three shields backs-to-obstacle covered ~150° around Kyung-tae. Deafened mount ignored din.
From saddle height, he hosed hunting rifle semi-auto. Boom, boom, boom! Lethal precision wilted their fire.
Still, we defensive—drawing denser foes.
Beyond burning cars, buildings, rising smoke: my crew vaulting obstacles, rooftop-hopping.
Net closing—I slung the dead sergeant over my shield, charged.
Gap vanished instant. Foes held fire on uncertain comrade.
Battlefield still rich with blood to feed the blade.