Chapter Eight: Barely Enough Firepower

In the early morning, with only half the sun peeking above the horizon, the exploration party had already set off once more, fully equipped and ready. This time, their destination was a village a few hours’ journey away. From there, they planned to rent horses and make their way to the city under Count Dainar’s domain, then follow the main road back to the Viscount’s lands.

Thanks to Aimoa’s guidance, the group quickly found their way out of the dense forest and onto a narrow woodland path.

Along the way, Qin Le and Aimoa engaged in lively conversation, exchanging questions and answers with evident enjoyment. The young knight Olina held Aimoa’s hand, a cord of mental energy binding their wrists together, allowing both to use this psychic connection.

In truth, Olina had been deeply curious about their discussions ever since the day before. At dawn, she had pleaded with Aimoa for almost an hour before finally being allowed to listen in.

Seeing this, Fishhead hesitated and said, “Captain, perhaps we could…” As a professional spy, he was irresistibly drawn to these unfamiliar things.

Qin Le replied with a single, merciless word, “Scram.”

If necessary, he wouldn’t even mind more intimate contact for the sake of intelligence gathering, but for such casual conversation, there was no need for more ears; the conversation would be recorded in written form for Fishhead to review later.

“Magic can be divided into four basic elements: wood, water, fire, and earth. Some people add wind, ice, and healing, but those are just derivatives of the four basics. Wind comes from wood, ice from water,” Aimoa explained, raising her hand as a small flame danced in her palm.

“Magic, at its core, is a technique that uses one’s own energy to influence the surrounding environment. Its power depends primarily on the practitioner’s energy and spirit.”

“Don’t you need to chant spells?” Qin Le asked. Influenced by his previous life, he had assumed that all mages needed staves and incantations to cast spells, but this elf only needed to raise a hand.

Aimoa looked at him in mild surprise and then explained, “Chanting is for ancient sorcerers. Modern spells are built directly within the soul, so there’s no need for incantations. The principle is similar, but the only difference is that spiritual construction is faster and more precise.”

“What about martial arts?” Qin Le asked, more interested in techniques that seemed to enhance physical strength.

Even a simple increase in strength would be akin to the introduction of tanks for the Xuan Law army—greater strength meant greater load capacity and heavier firepower.

A single soldier breaking through his limits might not change the tide of battle, but dozens, hundreds, thousands? What army in the world could withstand a force of heavily armed infantrymen charging with machine guns and enough ammunition to level a city? In ancient times, it would be like heavy cavalry mowing down peasants.

“I know this one!” Olina jumped in before Aimoa could respond.

“Martial arts are similar to magic, just techniques applied to the body. Usually, energy is continually tempered into the flesh, granting great strength. You can also channel this strength into weapons—swords, bows, fists, and so on.”

“Ha! Barbaric tricks,” Aimoa scoffed. “Beyond fifty paces, you muscle-heads can’t even touch a mage’s robe.”

As a proud mage, she looked down on warriors as a matter of course.

Olina retorted, “Aimoa, do you know what it’s like to wield a sword aura fifty meters long?”

“So what? All it takes is a little poison and no matter how powerful you are, you’ll be left powerless. Unlike us mages, as long as we live, we can still cast spells,” Aimoa replied disdainfully.

Qin Le glanced at her in confusion.

Aimoa explained, “Because martial techniques fuse energy and flesh, certain special foods can disrupt the energy body, making it impossible to use energy.”

She pointed at Olina, her face full of mockery. “That’s why she was poisoned. She probably won’t be able to use her energy for the next two weeks. Now even gutter assassins dare to come after her.”

Olina blushed; there was no denying she had embarrassed herself this time.

“By the way, what kind of weapon is that?” Olina’s eyes were fixed on the rifle in Qin Le’s hands, curiosity written all over her face. She had already witnessed its extraordinary power the day before.

The attackers may not have been especially strong, but they were trained fighters; yet, before this thunderous weapon, they’d had no chance at all.

“This is called a firearm, specifically the Blade 44 rifle,” Qin Le transmitted the information to the two via their psychic link. “It uses gunpowder to fire projectiles. You can think of it as a kind of bow.”

“May I see it?” Olina asked eagerly, Aimoa equally curious.

Qin Le considered, then removed the magazine and handed the rifle to Olina.

She accepted it with both hands, feeling its weight. This thing was much more useful than a sword—one shot, one foe down. Even if she were at full strength, being hit by it would be no small matter.

Aimoa couldn’t resist touching it herself. Such a weapon might just make up for her lack of combat ability.

For a moment, Aimoa’s old habit of “borrowing” things threatened to return.

Just then, Iron Fist, who had been leading the way, halted and turned. “We’re here.”

Everyone stopped and looked ahead. Not far off, the outlines of earthen houses could be seen.

Suddenly, a heartrending wail pierced the air.

“Monsters?” Olina frowned, handed the rifle back to Qin Le, drew her sword, and dashed forward at an impressive speed—clearly far less weakened than she’d been the day before.

“That idiot, doesn’t she realize she can’t use her energy right now?” Aimoa muttered, following after her.

The rest of the exploration team didn’t move, instead turning to Qin Le for orders.

After two seconds’ thought, Qin Le stepped back to a tree, raised his hand, and a red oval portal appeared.

“First squad, step out,” he commanded.

At his words, figures in camouflage uniforms and full combat gear quickly poured from the portal—nine in total.

The squad leader saluted. “Reporting, sir. First squad is on rest rotation; second squad is taking over.”

The initial phase of exploration was over. They now had a rough understanding of the world and were starting to interact with civilization. A five-person group was clearly insufficient for firepower or security.

A squad—four riflemen, two machine gunners, one mortar operator, one rocket assistant, and one sniper—would just barely suffice for their needs. With a seasoned company to command, Qin Le felt it was barely enough. If not for logistical constraints, even a whole squad might not be enough.

Their firepower was stretched dangerously thin.

…

Within the village, in a broad clearing, all the ragged villagers were gathered together, tightly surrounded by a group of mounted knights.

“Where is Her Highness the Princess?” The knight commander, clad in gleaming silver armor atop a tall steed, looked down on the trembling, filthy peasants with open contempt.

“Your Highness came to bring us food yesterday and then left,” the white-haired, wrinkled village elder explained, voice quivering. “Sir, we truly don’t know where she went!”

“Hmph! Her Highness left the city yesterday to distribute food, but never returned,” the knight commander snapped, drawing his sword. Cold light glinted off the blade, and the villagers dropped to their knees in terror.

“It must be you filthy peasants who did something to her!”

With a hiss, the other knights drew their swords in unison, the air thick with murderous intent. The villagers knelt, shivering in their rags.

“Sir, we really don’t know the Princess’s whereabouts! Please, if you must kill someone, kill me. I was the one who begged the Princess for help, so it’s my fault she’s missing!” the old chief crawled before the commander, snot and tears streaming down his face, forehead banging the ground repeatedly like a dog groveling for a final reprieve.

The knight’s eyes were ice as he raised his sword, intent on severing the old man’s head.

The villagers recoiled in terror; some even lost control of their bladders.

“I… I saw her!” a clear, childish voice cried out. Everyone turned to see a boy of about ten, his small, dusty face filled with both fear and courage.

He ran to the elder’s side and looked up. “Yesterday, I was gathering sticks in the woods and saw a group of people in black chasing two people. One of them looked like the Princess.”

“Broom, go back!” the elder shouted in horror.

“I won’t!” The boy knelt and bowed his head. “Please, don’t kill the chief!”

The child was braver than any of the so-called adults behind him, but bravery alone would not save him, for he was not allowed it.

“Peasant scum! How dare you meet my gaze?” The commander’s sword slashed toward the boy.

Bravery belonged to knights; for peasants, it was a crime.

Blood spattered. The sharp blade pierced a frail body—not the boy’s, but the old chief’s, who had shielded him with his own.

The boy froze. The villagers were stunned.

The killer, however, was unmoved. The sword slid in and out, red with blood. The old chief died instantly, leaving no last words, only reaching out to gently touch the boy’s head.

“Kill them all. They are heretics. Kill them for the Princess’s sake.” The knight commander had never believed a word the villagers said.

He knew full well these wretches had neither the guts nor the strength to harm the Princess—a knight stronger than himself. He simply wished to slaughter these filthy fools. Any excuse would do, even the boy’s daring to look him in the eye.

“Kill!” the knights shouted in unison, a faint aura of energy swirling around them, linking them together.

The overwhelming force broke the villagers’ spirits. All they could do was tremble—in truth, that was all they had ever known.

“What have you done!” a furious shout echoed from afar.

A golden light flashed through the sky, and in a heartbeat, landed within a hundred paces of the knights.

“Defensive formation!” the commander barked. The knights’ energies linked, forming an invisible barrier.

Boom!

A tremendous impact resounded, shockwaves blasting outward, wind howling and dust flying.

Olina gripped her sword tightly, her beautiful face pale with fury. In her blue eyes, a red light gleamed.

She had never been so angry—not even at the cold stares of others in the capital had she felt such rage.