Galloping towards danger without hesitation.
The premonition of imminent death caused adrenaline to surge, blood rushing to the brain.
This was certainly not Mika’s first battle, but previous skirmishes, gang wars at Heaven Port, those were mere trifles.
Now he had to step up, outnumbered, facing the elite troops of Mulong’s regular army.
They discovered someone approaching.
The sentry on duty blew a sharp portable whistle as a warning, causing those resting and even those sleeping to awaken instantly, springing into combat readiness.
Outside the giant rock cave knelt Su Yizhana, who had completely accepted her fate. It was, she thought, the best arrangement—to kill her and thus deprive Uborio of his leadership, putting an end to the war.
Mulong could no longer afford to lose; it was only Uborio with a personal grudge against Aran, leading fanatic followers to their deaths in a meat grinder.
Two men guarded Su Yizhana. The weapons forged by Mulong’s traditional techniques, with intricate black patterns, reminiscent of Damascus blades but slimmer and sharper, gleamed with deadly cold light in the sunlight filtered through swirling sand.
The rest were also ready to engage when the figure in the sandstorm became clear—they confirmed the enemy was just one person.
This was entirely suicidal!
The leader of the ten-strong elite team, with hawk-like brown eyes and a cold glare like lightning, shook the blade to familiarize himself with its weight, and then made a buzzing motion.
As a Chiliarch, how could a mere pirate doctor pose any threat?
The warhorse and packhorse were fundamentally different. Facing the murderous intent ahead, the packhorse Mika rode suddenly stiffened, almost throwing Mika off.
The Chiliarch’s voice barely fell when the blade light reached him.
Mika dodged nimbly, landing steadily on the rocky ground.
A spray of crimson erupted where the blade cut the packhorse’s back, its blood much hotter than a human’s, scalding Mika’s face like fire.
This completely unleashed Mika’s beastly nature.
Liszt and the others must have set off for Drifting City by now, how wonderful.
Slashing through the wind, the blade cleaved towards Mika, who stepped aside and dodged, only losing some hair. Immediately, he twisted the sword around and stabbed back, chaotically but always aiming for vital points.
The Chiliarch blocked continuously, the sound of swords clashing ceaselessly. Within a few exchanges, Mika’s grip split and his hand went numb, blood streaming onto the ground, still warm.
Too easy for the Chiliarch, this Black Sail doctor was at best a decent pirate warrior, nothing more.
The Chiliarch’s blade pierced Mika’s left shoulder just as he wondered; the cunning counterstrike swapped injury for injury, tearing the artery in the Chiliarch’s left forearm, causing a sudden loss of strength.
One move incomplete, another followed.
The Chiliarch would no longer underestimate his foe. With a swift turn, he retreated eight feet, the gap in strength and technique too large. Like a beast pouncing, he twisted his waist sharply, his long sword whistling through the air, creating a bright silver arc, swirling left and right, ferociously advancing.
Mika was full of openings; the elegant Silver Sword was too delicate for battle. Wanting to parry, he wasn’t even sure which direction to guard.
Su Yizhana closed her eyes, unable to watch. This pirate doctor came to die over a few jokes.
The one-armed man knew if he didn’t intervene, the doctor would surely die.
A fist-sized stone fell from a Wind Erosion Rock, fast and precise like a bullet.
The Chiliarch paused his steps and dodged aside, evading the strike.
The stone hit the desert ground with a dull thud, creating a large pit.
The Chiliarch scanned the surrounding rocks, realizing they had more enemies.
The other elites formed ranks, wary of an ambush.
Magnus, cloaked as a wanderer, stood out. Unlike the others, he needn’t hide. Traveling by day and resting at night, his pure black steed Zhao Yue, a top hunter from Gureg’s royal hunting grounds, snorted white mist, racing through winds and sands, crossing rivers and breaking ice, unafraid of the desert swelter. This text is hosted at novel~fire~net
His entire life had led to this moment, the strike that would take Zote’s life.
A detour through Boneyard, taking the fastest route to Black Rock City, where he had stayed for days in Kelor Hospital.
He roughly understood the situation.
Magnus leapt from the twenty-meter-high Wind Erosion Rock, his mechanical arm carving grooves into the rock face, landing firmly on the ground.
Mika’s shoulder wound continued to bleed, his lips pale; he didn’t understand but knew he had temporarily escaped death.
"Shouldn’t the Princess stay behind the main lines? Where are you taking her?"
Magnus had no interest in Mulong’s politics.
About thirty years ago, Zote’s men were unrivaled, his special pursuit team oppressing the world.
Zote’s elite squad had ceased operations, their final message being that Zote had joined the Eternal Sect, dispatched to Mulong.
By rights, this should have been announced to the people of Aran. Yet the Royal Court didn’t. Politics was not a public game; few had met Zote and lived, dated three to four decades back. Even if true, under the Church Court’s pressure, it had to be false.
Zote could not regain power, his most terrifying aspect wasn’t his swordplay but his political acumen.
This matter needed addressing. Besides, Magnus didn’t dislike heroes who faced death; he was much the same.
"Since you’ve seen it, there’s no need to let you live. We attack together."
The Chiliarch saw that the newcomer was no easy opponent.
Eight men surrounded Magnus.
But Magnus didn’t even draw his sword.
With a single hand, he stormed into their ranks, the encircling blades slashing down like a furious storm.
Magnus’s mechanical right arm swung, catching a blade, sparking violently. He twisted, breaking the blade in two, then grabbed the broken piece, tossing it to sever the fingers of one holding a sword. Fingers fell, and the sword dropped.
Yet outnumbered, Magnus was surrounded.
The fingerless man switched to his left hand, trying to retrieve the fallen sword, but Magnus’s scorpion-tail kick sent the hilt flying with great force, the buzzing like a tiger’s roar. The blade buried into the thigh of another, sending him staggering.
The encirclement tightened, soon trapping him.
With his left hand, Magnus choked the throat of the disarmed man, using him as a shield.
Magnus seemed to have eyes in the back of his head—a cold blade slashed towards him, yet he already stood atop it. With a spinning kick, he smashed the attacker’s head, sending him flying.
In an instant, half were downed with injuries.
The Chiliarch’s right shoulder moved slightly; even so, it was barely disabled, the mechanical arm lacked flexibility. He aimed for the weak points, striking the chest and right side of the abdomen, targeting the heart.
Mika felt something was wrong, holding a vial of toxin made from Flying Electric Snake Glands, prepared for a concealed strike, but feared harming this ally.
Magnus had no need; his footwork dodged, drawing his sword—an ordinary-looking military issue, but under the fierce sunlight, it shimmered brilliantly. Swiftly he moved, dancing with the wind, darting across the chaos like lightning, blades flashing like a silver storm of wings.
There was nothing a sword couldn’t solve, the only concern being its speed.
The sand receded, leaving a hundred feet of cleanliness.
All the Resistance soldiers, including the Chiliarch, fell in turn, their blades shattered into countless pieces.
Though none had died, they were severely weakened by numerous shallow cuts, their strength sapped.
Magnus spared their lives, leaving even the one who lost four fingers alive.
Magnus, who had narrowly survived, understood the weight of life.
Life imparted a certain truth—without understanding it, survival was impossible.
Magnus asked Mika with concern.
Why the hell is this? It’s the late 27th century, and there are still damn heroic entrances , making me look like crap.