Chapter 34: Sky High

The fighting outside was at a stalemate. Even with Bowyer’s fighting power, the Order’s elites had numbers. Tying him down and driving him away were all part of the fight.

For Jon and the others, there wasn’t going to be a fight.

It was a three-man job. Alyssa and Wiz would blow the castle sky high, while Jon would infiltrate the surrounding munitions stores and do the same.

If all they had to do was to destroy the House of Bowyer, it should be enough to just blow up the house, right?

In case of a confrontation with Bowyer himself, it was up to Jon to leverage his newfound knowledge of magic.

Wiz showed him to a secret passage within the castle’s walls, circumventing the giant chamber below them altogether. Alyssa and Wiz continued setting spellcharges to bring down the castle’s superstructure, while Jon would do the same for the mercenaries’ main munitions stockpile in the castle’s great hall, located in the ground floor.

He squeezed through the secret passage. It had a slight curve to it, leading the path ahead to vanish around a faraway bend. His own footsteps echoed back and forth, and the only other sound he could hear was of magic fire hitting the castle’s barriers, something which he’d learned to ignore a long time ago.

“You should emerge to the great hall,” Wiz had told him.

He cursed the old man in his mind as, thirty minutes later, he did in fact emerge to the great hall — right in the middle of it, in plain view of the quartermaster and his men.

The great hall was fifty meters long, end-to-end. Jon was on one end, standing behind a long dining table on some kind of stage. On the other end were the castle’s opened doors, allowing him to glimpse the flashes of combat in the night beyond.

All along the hall were smaller doors leading to other rooms, kitchens, and smaller corridors. Dining tables would have been lined up in long rows along the hall, but they’d been moved aside to make way for foot traffic. Crates were stacked beside the tables, which themselves were overflowing with rifles and boxes of paper cartridges, ready to be picked up by rotating supply squads.

For a long moment, none of them moved. Jon was surprised, but even then, he discreetly snaked his magic chain around a grenade clipped to his belt. He counted seventeen logistics personnel present, which seemed just about proportional to the number of defenders. It was a good thing this was a supply depot filled with munitions; he didn’t need to work too hard to get out of this situation.

Meanwhile, the mercenaries were still left rubbing their eyes, as if confirming that the end of the hall hadn’t just revolved in one piece, replacing what had been an expensive painting of an elegant lady, with a man in a black suit — a person just like what Lord Bowyer had described.

The standoff broke as one of the mercenaries cried, “Reaper!”

The mercenaries were slow to remove their pistols from their holsters. Jon had already tossed out a grenade, flinging it forwards with his magic chain, while he himself was already kicking the table in front of him, flipping it over for cover.

A few bullets made their way towards him, but they hit the table. The grenade exploded right beside an opened crate, causing a secondary explosion, throwing the mercenaries into a panic.

The unopened crates right beside the explosion, however, didn’t detonate.

Jon had hoped they didn’t have such a safety feature, but he didn’t hope much. There were plenty of opened crates scattered around, especially as the fight outside settled into a battle of attrition.

He threw another grenade, blowing up another spot further down the hall, but that one was the last. From now on, his guns and Skills would do the talking.

The explosions had produced a haze that killed visibility; both Jon and the mercenaries could only see outlines of things up to twenty meters away. Two mercenaries towards the front had the mind to fight back, shooting pistols at the flipped table where they thought Jon was hiding. Their muzzle flashes only revealed their positions, however, and Jon shot back from an unexpected angle — the side of the hall — easily taking them out with single, precise shots.

Further to the rear of the surviving mercenaries, the quartermaster watched the haze further down the hall light up with yellow flashes, screams and shouts echoing with the gunfire. He’d already sent one of his men to call for reinforcements, but would they even arrive in time? His mind raced to find a way to make do with what they had and survive for as long as they could.

Wait, that’s right! A strange shipment got smuggled in the other day: strange weapons that were definitely guns of some sort, but nothing of a design he had ever seen before. Lord Bowyer had strictly told him not to let anyone other than the 2nd rifle platoon use them.

The same platoon was out there right now, fighting on the frontlines with those weapons. There were, however, several spares still left under the quartermaster’s management.

He dug through one of the opened crates and found the weapon: shaped like a dragoon’s carbine, but even shorter, and the buttstock was the only wooden component. There was a separate “pistol grip” behind the fixed wire trigger, which together were further behind a slot under the weapon where a boxy tin was inserted to feed it with wasteful metal cartridges.

As Jon and the screams drew closer, the quartermaster panicked to remember just how the members of the 2nd platoon actually used these weapons. He personally only knew how to open them up for cleaning, but to actually use one? He’d never done that.

Magazine in. Safety off. He pointed the gun into the haze, but when he coursed magic through the trigger nothing happened. Fuck! Pull the knob backward until it clicks! He racked the bolt and pointed into the haze again.

The familiar sound of an old SMG’s bolt being pulled back and locked in open bolt position sent Jon diving for the floor.

The drumming of fully automatic fire put fear in the quartermaster’s heart, as only now did he realize why Lord Bowyer had been strict with these weapons. The muzzle flames were like fireballs pushing away the haze each time a bullet left the barrel, and the weapon itself was difficult to control. It shook angrily in his hands, so much so that he was afraid that it might shake out of his grip. He put his thumb over the barrel to better grip the weapon and keep it under control, but all he accomplished was burning his thumb.

The pain made him lose control for a moment, and his aim ended up right at the hall’s far edge where the walls met the ceiling.

A single shot sent the quartermaster’s soul right up to Ravena. Still, his finger remained wrapped around the trigger, and the weapon kept firing, its aim climbing up to the ceiling, before it finally ran out of ammunition.

— All in the space of three seconds.

The quartermaster fell backwards like a rock, landing with a thud. Jon hastily got back on his feet, checking around the room, but there was no more resistance.

***

Name: Jon Fuze
Level: 10
Kills: 230 → 247
Kills to Next Level: 5 / 50 → 22 / 50
Skill Proofs: 4

| Skill Claims |

Aerial Lockbox (Unlocks Lvl. 15)
Blood Connection (Unlocks Lvl. 15)

| Skills |

Summon Scribetool (Tier 1/3)
Perfect Motion (Tier 1/1)
Hastened Sight (Tier 1/4)
Force (Components: 1)
Fire Manipulation (Tier 1)
Ice Manipulation (Tier 1)
Magnetic Manipulation (Tier 1)

***

He eyed the gun in the quartermaster’s hands more closely. It was definitely a submachine gun, even if unsophisticated. By its aesthetic alone, it looked like it could’ve been manufactured before or during WW2, but it wasn’t any model he’d ever seen from Earth.

No matter how he thought about it, there was no way this was locally available technology. Just where did Bowyer get his hands on something like this?

Never mind that. Reinforcements could arrive at any time.

He rummaged through the nearby crates, finding another submachine gun, gifting himself with three loaded magazines, and scavenging another bunch of grenades. Aside from arming up, these units might have serial numbers or even just tool marks from which he could make some kind of conclusion.

Now he just needed to scratch a spellcharge in the middle of the munitions dump. Even if the munitions crates provided protection against external explosions, a big enough explosion should be able to overcome it, right?

The sound of rushing boots took away all the time he had left. There were maybe 30 seconds before they got here. It would take about 10 seconds to rush back to the secret passage.

— How to etch a 50-glyph spell in 20 seconds —

He had zero confidence that what he was about to do would work, but he’d do it anyway.

Pilfering the quartermaster’s SMG and loading both it and the other SMG with fresh magazines, Jon held an SMG in both hands, standing in the middle of the hall.

Wiz had said the chisel was just a helpful tool. He never said he actually needed it.

Jon spun and fired full-auto at the floor around him, imbuing the SMG with sheer focus and commitment to his will: that this roughly circular pattern of bullet impacts would be a valid expression for a spellcharge.

Three seconds later and his guns clicked. He threw the other one away and got to a knee, taking out a chisel Wiz had given him for this occasion to carve out the control core of the formation — the most important bit that he absolutely shouldn’t whiff.

He spent fifteen long seconds hammering away, tuning out the noise of the outside world to focus on the intricate details of the control glyph. Bullets landed around him just as he was one mark away from completing the glyph.

As soon as he hammered in the last mark, he rolled aside and brought up the SMG, shouldering it and spraying in the general direction of the hall’s great doors. The mercenaries who’d come in knew what sort of weapon made that full-auto sound, and they hit the deck faster than a dead man could.

Jon turned and ran. Bullets chased after him, but the haze made it difficult for the mercenaries to even pick out their target. He ended up gunning for a smaller side corridor, as the secret passage only led back up to the top of the castle.

The mercenaries kept firing into the now-empty great hall. “Hold fire!” their sergeant said. It was a stupid thing to be wasting ammo on ghosts, and besides, the mages were almost done drawing with chalk.

On either side of the door were two mages who were scribbling a spell formation on the floor with chalk sticks. They cautiously stepped out of cover for a few seconds to draw the other parts of the formation right under the frame of the opened doors, but no one shot at them.

Finally, they finished the 10-meter formation for the wind funnel. A gentle wind blew into the great hall, slowly, but surely, pushing out the haze.

With the haze dispersed, the mercenaries swarmed into the hall with guns pointed forward. They checked the side corridors, but they couldn’t find a single enemy.

Meanwhile, Jon followed the corridor until opened up to a stretch that had walls and doors on one side, and pillars and arches on the other, opening up to a courtyard.

The courtyard was enclosed on four sides by various buildings housing a miscellany of accommodations and function rooms. Narrow, paved footpaths criss-crossed the courtyard, and there was a gazebo towards the center, a bit to the side.

Remembering the layout of the place, there should be an escape tunnel in the building directly across from where Jon was now.

Shouts of mercenaries echoed from further behind him; they should be clearing out the hall by now.

He didn’t trust the timing of his spellcharge, or even whether it would work — better to run. Putting on a new set of night goggles, he made for a mad dash, sticking to the side of the courtyard near one of the buildings.

Just when he was almost to the other side, steel boots clacked against the hard stone of the open-air corridor ahead of him.

He ground his feet to a stop and hit the dirt. Even though his heart was beating loud in his ears, he controlled his breathing as much as he could just in case even that was too loud. The grass was decently tall around here, but whether it was tall enough, he could only hope.

An armored figure, covered head-to-toe in precisely crafted and intricately gilded articulating metal plates, strode through the corridor in measured steps. Resting on its shoulder was a monster-hunting sword — more like a slab of steel — covered in splots of dried something. Its armor, too, was burnt and dented in many places, covered in more splots in others, but it was otherwise intact.

In one hand, it dragged a gold-gilded knight by the collar, the rest of his armor making a rattling sound as it bumped against the uneven surfaces of the floor.

The armored figure stopped. Its helmet looked towards the courtyard.

It was looking in Jon’s direction, but it was still the dead of night. What were the chances that Lord Bowyer had good detection skills? Was he actually looking right at him?

Jon’s muscles tensed as he readied to get up and fight — or roll away to evade an attack, and then get up and fight. Still, he stayed frozen until that very last moment he could.

“I can see you, you know?” Bowyer said, his voice muffled behind the helmet. He let go of the knight he’d been dragging with him, letting him fall flat like a discarded doll.

Even so, Jon refused to move. He knew a guy, once, who took the enemy’s bluff too seriously and needlessly exposed his position. The enemy’s surprised face engraved itself into his memory.

“So you think I’m bluffing?” Bowyer said. He unsheathed a sword, one among many, from his left waist. Putting his left foot forward, he held the sword by the hilt with his right hand like a javelin, and pointed it straight at Jon.

Danger bells went off like an antivirus from the late 2000’s, and he rolled aside right before a sword dug into where he’d just been lying. There was so much force in it that it kicked up a small plume of dirt, and the sound it made was like someone crashing a car straight into a sandy berm.

As sand and dirt came falling back down on him, Jon stood up and presented himself to his opponent, but only for a split second. He whipped out a pistol and fired straight at Bowyer’s head.

The man didn’t even budge for it. The bullet exploded on his helmet, leaving it smoldering, and maybe a little warm.

“I know you’re here to kill me,” Bowyer said, taking a few steps forward into the courtyard, “but won’t you listen for a moment?”

Jon shot him again, this time aiming right for the eye holes, but Bowyer just tilted his head ever so slightly, causing the bullet to harmlessly glance off. Even with that, he still continued to speak.

“Westerens is sliding into a mud pit. What was once a land of plenty is now impoverished. Only the king prospers, and even now, he turns a blind eye! And to this, what does the Order reply? They also turn a blind eye!”

Jon stepped back as Bowyer stepped forwards, discreetly dropping a grenade as he did.

“As an agent of Ravena — no, the Lady Herself must surely have a say in this matter! I am only someone trying to fight these injustices, and if I must raise armies to do it, how am I at fault?”

Bowyer stepped on the grenade. A blast erupted from beneath his foot, engulfing him in smoke and fire — but all that did was make him skip. He pulled his foot out of the small crater in the ground, not even seeing it as an annoyance.

“All I ask from the Theater is a ceasefire and some time to talk,” he continued. “Besides, ‘Reaper,’ my men are almost here. You are already no match for me, but what more outnumbered?”

The tactical situation being what it was, Jon closely considered doing anything that would give him precious time. He didn’t, however, consider anything coming out of Bowyer’s mouth as even a little sincere.

The man was practically an arms dealer trying to stir up an armed insurrection to usurp the throne. Although Jon had nothing to say about the current king, he doubted that Bowyer could do much better.

As someone who had participated in regime change operations before, he wholeheartedly believed that most corrupt systems were better left to die a natural death rather than having someone come in and stir things up at the wrong time. Anything less than a long-term vision grounded in reality would leave the country in a hundred-year cycle of coups, nepotism, and sick economic policy.

The guy in front of him looked like he could do all three at once. Still, Jon didn’t think his chances in a direct confrontation were too good.

“Talk?” Jon said, intending it to be a question.

Unfortunately, at this exact moment, his spellcharge worked. From the center of the great hall exploded a tsunami of flame that roared out of the windows and adjacent corridors, shaking the very air in a slow blast. Although the structure itself remained standing, everything and everyone inside had been flash-cooked. Anyone who had been spared from the heat instead dropped dead from carbon monoxide poisoning.

***

Name: Jon Fuze
Level: 10
Kills: 247 → 261
Kills to Next Level: 22 / 50 → 36 / 50
Skill Proofs: 4

| Skill Claims |

Aerial Lockbox (Unlocks Lvl. 15)
Blood Connection (Unlocks Lvl. 15)

| Skills |

Summon Scribetool (Tier 1/3)
Perfect Motion (Tier 1/1)
Hastened Sight (Tier 1/4)
Force (Components: 1)
Fire Manipulation (Tier 1)
Ice Manipulation (Tier 1)
Magnetic Manipulation (Tier 1)

***

Having witnessed Jon say “Talk?” followed by the massacre of all his men, Bowyer took this as a solid “no.”

Just as he was about to cut down Jon where he stood, there was another explosion from the top of the castle.

Bowyer looked up, watching the entirety of the lord’s quarters turn into rubble propelled far into the night sky. Lord Wiz had been cooped up in there, and he wouldn’t believe that the old man would die just like that from an explosion of that magnitude ... but Jon was still just standing there, eyes focused on him. It was a fearsome, unfazed look that only killers gave when their kill was assured.

“You killed Wiz,” Bowyer muttered.

Jon had no idea how he came to that conclusion, but if it helped fake Wiz’s death... “I did,” he said.

“I don’t believe it.”

Bowyer’s words clued him in to the fact that the lord was beginning to grossly overestimate his actual fighting abilities. There was no getting out of this situation anymore, so he might as well push this overestimation as far as it could go.

He recalled what Wiz had said impressed him the most: the magic chain.

So, he brought it out, making it snake through the air around him.

Bowyer’s eyes went wide. A mage assassin? He’d fought mages and assassins before, but not someone who could do both! And what’s with that magic control?

He recalled Wiz’s techniques. The first time he saw them, he remembered thinking they were all very magely and dignified — but what if all their majesty and nobility were stripped away, leaving nothing but killing efficiency? Even a simple candle flame could be turned into a decisive weapon in an instant, and in the hands of someone with magic control as good as Jon’s, all of magic was his slave.

For the first time since their meeting, Bowyer dropped his knees and put his strongest foot behind the other.

... But some outcomes weren’t decided in one battlefield alone. Behind the scenes were grander forces who would decide the ultimate outcome.