Chapter 161: Focus Fire on That One…
The attack came out of nowhere, leaving everyone utterly unprepared and confused about what kind of assault it was.
Even seasoned mercenaries, battle-hardened and familiar with all sorts of fierce foes—be they men or beasts—were left dumbfounded when a sudden, magicless explosive fireball slammed into their faces. That brief moment of shock was enough to throw the entire situation out of their control.
“Enemy attack!”
The mercenary captain, clad in half-plate armor, was the first to roar at the top of his lungs. Without hesitation, he activated his protective spiritual aura. The mercenaries around him hesitated for barely half a beat before quickly turning toward the attackers—who had just emerged from the trees.
A junior mercenary officer, holding a knight’s rank, was the first to get a clear look at the attackers. He saw several soldiers stepping out of the forest, clad in oddly styled, lightweight armor. Their gear was strange—large, asymmetrical vambraces that looked more like cumbersome decorations than practical protection. They even carried marching packs on their backs, which made no sense on a battlefield. The officer couldn’t help but scoff—those flashy vambraces were useless, throwing off balance in close combat, and the bulky backpacks were a rookie mistake: such things should have been dropped before the fight even began!
But what truly made him disdain these strange soldiers was the complete absence of any magical aura.
Just ordinary men, wearing weird gear—that’s their idea of standing up to supernaturals?
Still, recalling the two bizarre magical explosions earlier, the knight suspected there might be spellcasters hiding in the woods. He waved his hand and called to his closest men, “Charge!”
His subordinates obeyed instinctively, brandishing swords and rushing toward the edge of the forest where the strange enemies stood. Meanwhile, the other mercenaries snapped out of their shock, letting out fierce, unsettling battle cries as they met the attackers head-on.
What happened next stunned everyone.
The soldiers with the odd armor each raised their left arms like crossbowmen aiming their weapons. Then came a low, humming buzz as searing beams of heat sliced through the air. One after another, the blazing rays tore through every charging mercenary.
The junior knight watched in horror, his mind exploding with impossible thoughts: heat rays? Wizards? Wizards in plate armor wielding longswords? A whole group of armored wizards?
He activated his protective spiritual aura at lightning speed, a shimmering magical glow enveloping him. He thought he could withstand the low-level spells from these strange “plate-armored wizards.” But suddenly, the forest echoed with a chorus of buzzing sounds, and a dozen red beams shot straight at his face.
Wave after wave of scorching rays hammered him. His spiritual aura absorbed the first few beams silently, but terror gripped his heart. These “plate-armored wizards” cast spells without any preparation or chanting. The beams poured out relentlessly!
A ripping, burning pain exploded in his abdomen, followed by strikes to his limbs. The low-ranking knight mercenary collapsed, nearly torn apart. Before his thoughts faded, only one idea remained:
When did wizards become so worthless?
As the grunts and junior officers were picked off one by one by concentrated heat rays, the half-plate armored mercenary captain survived by sheer luck and caution—he hadn’t charged with the others. Spotting the dire situation, he scrambled for cover behind a large boulder. But in that moment, he saw a figure in a black robe standing frozen in place.
This was one of the mercenary group’s two mages. The robed figure raised a magical shield and began chanting an offensive spell—shield-then-cast, a basic tactic for combat mages facing other spellcasters. But the captain immediately realized this foolish mage was doomed.
He watched helplessly as dozens of red-hot beams tore through the mage’s magical shield, shattering it effortlessly. The beams rippled across the mage’s magically resistant robes. The black-robed mage barely survived the first volley thanks to the shield and expensive anti-magic robes, but the second wave turned him into a charred, exploding husk.
This wasn’t a battle—it was a massacre. The disparity in power was as vast as when the captain had led his men in slaughtering refugees before.
The mercenary captain gave up all resistance. He glanced around, confirming he was still out of the enemy’s sight, then crawled behind the boulder, ready to flee this nightmare. But as he moved, a cold blade pressed against the back of his neck.
“If I were you, I’d put your hands on the back of your head right now.”
Amber held a dagger to the captain’s neck, her voice firm with threat, while her mind was set on one thing: if this tough-looking mercenary resisted, she’d run immediately. But if he didn’t, she’d trade this capture with Gawain for a roasted chicken and half a keg of cold beer.
The mercenary captain didn’t resist—he was convinced dozens of battle mages surrounded them. Though their style was strange, magic was real. Against such a force, no amount of skill could help.
Gawain and Philip, who had been observing the battle without intervening, now stepped forward with their magic infantry to clean up the battlefield. Under Amber’s dagger threat, the mercenary captain rose from behind the rock and submitted quietly.
Looking at the charred bodies strewn everywhere, Gawain recalled that just minutes ago, these had been a well-equipped, even supernaturally supported elite mercenary force. He felt a surge of pride and trust in the new thermal ray guns.
But he also noticed many flaws in the first-generation magic infantry’s experience and tactics. Many soldiers hadn’t yet shed old combat habits—they failed to use cover effectively to concentrate fire, some exposed themselves too early, others got overexcited after their first magical kill and ignored the squad leader’s orders to focus fire, firing wildly. Two soldiers even mishandled their weapons, firing for a long time without the safety off, and only realized after a comrade’s reminder that they hadn’t hit a single target.
Bringing thirty magic infantry to deal with these mercenaries felt like overkill. Judging by the power of the thermal ray guns and the chaos caused by the new equipment, Gawain estimated that just ten soldiers could have handled this ragtag group—if they focused fire and used proper tactics. Traditional, low-level supernaturals struggled to mount effective resistance against magic-armed troops.
Still, bringing so many was necessary. Even if each soldier only made one effective shot (two of them just watched others shoot), they gained valuable real combat experience with the new gear. Gawain also assessed their training progress. Today was a crucial test for both the thermal ray guns and the new soldiers.
The missionary Leight emerged from the woods with the soldiers. It was his first time witnessing the Cecil Combat Corps in action. The unbelievable, mysterious weapons left the burly, bear-like priest stunned. But he quickly shifted his focus away from the incomprehensible technology.
Leight moved among the fallen mercenaries, occasionally kneeling to mark their foreheads with the Holy Light Church’s symbol, murmuring prayers:
“May the Holy Light cleanse your sinful soul.”
“May the Holy Light cleanse your sinful soul.”
“May the Holy Light cleanse your sinful and especially ugly soul.”
“May the Holy Light cleanse your sinful, ugly, and garlic-breathed soul.”
The devout follower of the Holy Light worked like a proper battlefield chaplain, soothing the violent, bloodstained spirits to prevent the death-soaked ground from breeding dangerous evil spirits or cursed plagues. As he prayed, he gently removed his hand from the forehead of a mercenary crossbowman who hadn’t yet found peace, then moved to another mercenary in a gray short robe and knelt beside him.
“May the Holy Light cleanse your… hmm? You…”
At Leight’s puzzled voice, the “corpse” in the gray robe suddenly moved. The feigning mage snapped open his eyes, which glowed with chaotic, overloaded magical energy. A dangerous arcane missile formed at his chest, aimed straight at Leight!
At such close range, divine protection was impossible. Yet the missionary raised his right hand, unwaveringly invoking the Holy Light’s power: “Discipline—Silence!”
A fist the size of a cooking pot slammed down from above. The pretending mercenary mage’s face instantly splattered with blood as he fainted.
Honestly, he almost got killed.
Leight stood up and called out loudly to Gawain, “My lord! There’s a feigning mage here—gave me quite a scare!”
Amber, who had witnessed the whole scene nearby, gasped, “Oh my god—did you just knock him out for good?”
Leight smiled calmly, “Don’t worry, Silence doesn’t kill.”
“Bind these two prisoners,” Gawain said with a sigh, seemingly immune to the strange atmosphere by now as he calmly assigned tasks. “Philip, take half the men and sweep the woods to make sure no enemies remain. Leight, come here—there are wounded.”
(End of chapter)