Chapter Forty-Two: The Golden Oriole

As the Federal Army pressed its advance, the resistance from the Wildlands Alliance gradually diminished. Yet, the Federal troops did not immediately surge forward; instead, they proceeded cautiously, step by step.

“Hm?”

He frowned, peering through the observation slit at the soldiers outside. For reasons he could not name, the scene seemed to grow increasingly blurry. At first, the soldier assumed it was residual smoke from the tank’s earlier barrage, but he soon realized—this was not simply the haze of gunfire.

Fog had settled.

The appearance of mist is always silent, and even the Federal soldiers only noticed something amiss once it had thickened. Unfortunately, by then it was too late.

A soldier, cursing under his breath, walked beside a tank. His armored vehicle had been struck squarely by an RPG fired by the Wildlands Alliance. Though it hadn’t detonated outright, it was a total loss. Fortunately, except for the driver, the rest had emerged unscathed, but now, deprived of their transport, they could only march on foot.

“Damn these savage brutes of the wasteland! When I catch them, I’ll burn them alive!”

Muttering to himself, the soldier glanced around, gripping his weapon tightly. He imagined what he’d do if one of those filthy, ugly, detestable wasteland dwellers appeared before him—how he’d riddle them with bullets from his rifle. Best to shoot the head first... No, that would be too merciful. He ought to shoot the belly, then dismantle every limb, and finally send them to their death. Yes, only then would his anger be sated.

He spat on the ground, and just then, a glint of cold steel flashed before his eyes, swift as lightning. Suddenly, the soldier was frozen mid-stride, eyes wide and staring blankly at the ground, confusion and helplessness etched across his gaze. In the next instant, a thin red line appeared on his neck. In the blink of an eye, his body collapsed like a pile of blocks, and his bewildered head bounced along the roadbed, rolling into the ditch at the end.

His mouth slowly opened, as if to scream, but alas, not a single word could escape him now.

No one noticed the absence of one among them. Though the Wildlands Alliance had begun its retreat, they had not abandoned resistance. The thick fog obscured their vision, but they cared little for such trivialities. They knew roughly where the enemy was and fired blindly in that direction.

This “pointless resistance” exasperated the Federal Army. Killing on the battlefield was one thing, but nobody wished to die from a stray bullet, fired at random. If they were killed by this haphazard gunfire, not only would they be denied a dignified burial, but they might well become the subject of ridicule.

These damned wretches!

Cursing the enemy, the Federal soldiers spread out, using the tanks and ruins as cover. None noticed how the fog grew ever thicker, nor did they realize that their comrades, vanished in the mist, would never return a call.

It felt wonderful.

Wielding his scalpel, Faeron effortlessly plunged it into the neck of another soldier. With a deft twist of his wrist, the silver blade sliced through flesh and bone, slipping along the seams of organs, dismembering limb and shoulder with the skill of a butcher. The taut body relaxed in death, collapsing to the ground like refuse. Instantly, the fog surged over the corpse like waves, swallowing it whole.

Faeron nodded with satisfaction.

Excellent.

Though he had received instructions and details about the “Mist” ability from the system, only upon using it himself did Faeron realize its true value. Within the mist he summoned, he moved as a fish in the sea—faster than usual, his presence masked in sight and sound. No matter which direction he approached from, his targets could not sense him at all. Moreover, the mist acted according to Faeron’s will. The reason the Federal soldiers had not yet noticed anything wrong was because Faeron used the mist to cover the bodies completely. In such conditions, not even wide-open eyes could spot the fallen corpses; even if they happened to step on something, it would go unnoticed—after all, there was plenty of debris in the ruins.

Additionally, the mist provided feedback, much like a bat using echolocation. Faeron could sense objects within the fog and thus easily locate his targets to eliminate them one by one.

Now then...

He flipped the scalpel in his hand, narrowing his eyes at the looming tank just visible through the haze.

It was time to act.

Meanwhile, the Federal troops began to realize something was amiss.

“What’s going on?”

Staring at the dense fog, Schreck frowned. At first, he hadn’t thought much of it, but as the mist thickened, he sensed something was wrong. The Federal Army had never been to these ruins, but by all rights, fog shouldn’t occur here. Now, with the fog so heavy that even the buildings and ruins were blanketed, he felt uneasy.

The gunfire from the other side had faded—the rats of the wasteland must have fled—but Schreck was still anxious. He couldn’t pinpoint the issue, but felt a growing sense of unease. He turned to look at his men. They were all standing there, but that brought him no comfort. If anything, his tension only increased.

How strange.

He reached out to activate his communicator, determined to change the situation.

“First squad, first squad, move out at once and establish a defensive line! No more delays! Do you hear me?”

...

No response.

What was happening?

The silence startled Schreck. He immediately switched to broadcast mode.

“Can anyone hear me? Respond, first squad, second squad, third squad! Iron Bull?”

...

No answer. Even the Iron Bull tank crew were silent. Schreck shivered. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. Now, he could say with absolute certainty—damn it, what was going on?

“Everyone prepare to retreat—”

But before Schreck could finish, the dense fog began to dissipate silently.

When Schreck finally saw the scene before him, his eyes widened in astonishment.