Chương 46: Fifteen Chances to Miss

The Firian leader's glowing fist moved before Sieghart finished compressing the second bullet. The man didn't strike Edric directly. Instead, he planted one foot against the ground, twisted his hips, and drove his fist into the air before him. The resulting pressure wave exploded across the eastern section of the camp. Heat and force struck the defenders simultaneously. Shields bent, enchanted barriers shattered, and loose weapons became dangerous projectiles as soldiers were thrown away from the leader.

Edric crossed both arms in front of his face. The blast lifted him from the ground and sent him tumbling backward. He struck the remains of a collapsed tent before rolling across the scorched earth. His short knife disappeared somewhere in the smoke. The ice swordsman stabbed his weapon into the ground and held on, but even he slid several meters. Frost spread around his boots before immediately evaporating beneath the approaching heat. The green-Aura spearman jumped with the blast instead of resisting it.

He twisted in the air, landed upon the remains of a barricade, and immediately prepared to charge again. Most defenders lacked that level of control. Men and women crashed through tents, supply crates, and one another. Several didn't rise after landing, while others struggled to breathe after the heated air burned their throats. The formation disappeared. One strike had created an opening wide enough for the Firian leader's followers to exploit. They surged forward with orange veins shining through the smoke.

Their momentum changed instantly. Moments earlier, the ordinary Firians had advanced cautiously behind their leader, unwilling to separate from the protection he provided. Now they rushed through the broken line with flames gathering around their hands. The defenders attempted to regroup between the tents. Their Aura users stepped forward, but the difference in strength became painfully obvious. A swordsman surrounded by yellow Aura swung at an approaching Firian.

The enemy caught the blade against one burning forearm and punched him in the stomach. Another Aura user enlarged his shield until it covered three people. Two Firians struck together, shattering the magical construct and sending all three defenders backward. The camp's Aura users were pushovers. That judgment was harsh, but Sieghart couldn't find a kinder description while watching them collapse.

Their abilities might have been effective against ordinary soldiers, but the empowered Firians ignored most of their advantages. Even the stronger defenders struggled. The ice swordsman could injure their enemies, but maintaining his freezing Aura against the surrounding heat consumed enormous energy. The spearman possessed enough speed to kill isolated targets, yet the smoke prevented him from seeing safe paths through the battle. The golden archer had already emptied two enchanted bows.

Her third weapon produced only ordinary arrows, which barely pierced the Firians' strengthened bodies. The defending officers shouted for reserves. No organized reserve appeared. Sieghart searched the camp for Captain Harlan. The man should have been coordinating units, directing reinforcements, or fighting wherever the defensive line suffered the greatest pressure. Sieghart couldn't see him anywhere. Perhaps the captain remained near the command tent, attempting to understand reports from every direction.

He might be leading another section of the battle beyond Sieghart's limited view. Neither possibility felt reassuring. The camp needed someone visible. Soldiers surrounded by smoke and flames couldn't draw confidence from a commander they couldn't see. Without clear leadership, each group fought only for the ground immediately around them. The Firians fought with purpose. The defenders fought to survive another few seconds. Sieghart finished shaping his second bullet but didn't release it.

The leader's pressure wave had filled the battlefield with dust, canvas, and moving bodies. A rushed shot could strike one of the defenders. He kept the projectile spinning above his palm while searching for the red-haired man. The leader emerged through the smoke near the center of the broken line. Several arrows remained buried in his chest. He pulled one free, and the wound began closing before the mana projectile vanished. His heat reserves had decreased.

The orange lines across his body no longer shone with the same painful brightness, but he remained strong enough to decide the battle by himself. Sieghart needed to drain him faster. The enemy leader raised one hand and caught the ice swordsman's blade again. This time, instead of heating the metal, he pulled the man closer and struck him with his forehead. The swordsman's helmet crumpled. He fell to one knee. The Firian lifted his fist to finish him, but the green-Aura spearman attacked from behind.

His weapon pierced the leader's lower back before the man released another burst of heat. The blast forced the spearman away. The leader turned and pulled the spearhead from his body. The wound glowed, smoked, and began healing immediately. Sieghart clicked his tongue. Every injury consumed heat, but the defenders couldn't inflict wounds quickly enough. Their strongest attacks occurred separately, allowing the leader to heal between them. A coordinated assault might work.

The collapse of the formation made coordination increasingly difficult. Sieghart looked for Edric again. His grandfather had recovered his knife and moved between wounded soldiers, helping them retreat from the Firian advance. His bow remained behind the broken shield where he had placed it. Edric should have withdrawn with the injured. Instead, he kept moving closer to the enemy leader. Perhaps he intended to recover the enchanted bow after Sieghart recharged it.

Maybe he was trying to protect the ice swordsman, who still hadn't regained his feet. The reason didn't matter. The distance between Edric and the Firian became dangerously small. Sieghart felt anger and fear surge through him. Fire Magic responded instinctively, sending a flicker of heat across his fingertips before he suppressed it. Fire would only strengthen the enemy.

"Damn it." Sieghart watched his grandfather duck beneath the burning arm of an ordinary Firian. Edric stabbed the man's side, kicked him away, and continued moving toward the wounded defenders. That placed him directly within the red-haired leader's path. The order to remain hidden no longer mattered. Being scolded by Edric would be unpleasant. Watching him die because Sieghart was afraid of drawing attention would be unforgivable. Did you know this story is from Royal Road?

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"It is better to annoy Grandpa than let him die." The second bullet remained too inaccurate for a single decisive shot. Sieghart also lacked the time required to compress and harden more projectiles individually. He changed the design. Instead of creating another durable hollow bullet, Sieghart grabbed as much sand as both hands could hold. Earth Magic compressed the material into fifteen rough pieces. They were uneven, fragile, and barely harder than ordinary stones.

Several contained visible cracks because Sieghart didn't spend enough time removing empty space between the grains. That was acceptable. He no longer needed one perfect projectile. He needed enough chances for one to hit. Sieghart arranged the pieces in front of his palms. Wind Magic surrounded them, making every pellet spin independently. Controlling fifteen objects at once placed far more strain upon his mind than controlling one hardened bullet.

Their rotation speeds differed, and several drifted away from their intended positions. Sieghart stopped trying to make them perfect. He focused upon the general direction of the enemy leader and compressed air behind the entire group. The Firian stepped toward Edric. Sieghart fired. Fifteen sand projectiles crossed the battlefield in a scattered burst. They moved slower than the hardened bullet but still surpassed ordinary arrows. The first struck a broken shield. Two vanished into the smoke.

Several missed the enemy leader and continued toward the Firians behind him. Others shattered against armor, releasing clouds of sand upon impact. One found its target. The projectile struck the red-haired leader's cheek. Its imperfect structure broke immediately, but the spinning sand tore a shallow line across his face. Blood sprayed from the cut before evaporating against his heated skin. The leader stopped.

His head snapped sideways from the unexpected impact, and the fist intended for a nearby defender missed by several centimeters. The wound wasn't serious. The interruption was. The ice swordsman rolled away before the leader could finish him. Edric grabbed the back of the man's armor and helped pull him beyond immediate reach. Meanwhile, the projectiles that missed the leader struck other enemies. One Firian received a spinning stone against his knee.

The weak projectile didn't penetrate, but the impact made his leg buckle. A defender drove a spear through his throat. Another pellet struck an enemy near the eye. He covered his face and groaned, allowing the golden archer to place an ordinary arrow beneath his chin. A third Firian turned toward the unexpected attack. The green-Aura spearman crossed the distance and pierced his chest before he could identify the source. The crude volley inflicted little damage by itself. It created openings.

On a battlefield filled with trained fighters, openings became deaths. System messages appeared across Sieghart's vision. [Black Magic gained 10 Experience Points.] [Black Magic gained 10 Experience Points.] [Black Magic gained 10 Experience Points.] More alerts followed as defenders killed enemies affected by the sand. Sieghart dismissed them before they obscured the battle. A stronger pulse traveled through his mana. [Black Magic has reached Level 4.] Reaching another level didn't suddenly provide the power required to defeat the Firian leader. Sieghart's aim remained unreliable, and his projectiles lacked enough hardness to penetrate deeply. Black Magic grew through combat, but the progression occurred in small steps. He couldn't depend upon a level increase transforming him into someone capable of defeating the enemy immediately. Apparently, the system believes gradual improvement builds character.

I would prefer an emergency button labeled "kill the terrifying fire man." His personal status remained unchanged. Sieghart was still Level One, and his main experience remained at zero. Whatever requirement controlled personal advancement had nothing to do with assisting in the deaths of Firians. The distinction no longer mattered. If Black Magic reached Level Ten during the battle, Sieghart doubted the improvement would arrive soon enough. The defensive line was collapsing now. He needed a better spell now.

The Firian leader touched the wound upon his cheek. His fingers came away coated in blood and grains of compressed sand. He examined them. Then he looked toward the direction the projectiles had traveled. The earlier hardened bullet had been a single attack concealed among arrows and smoke. This volley provided fifteen separate paths leading back toward the same section of the camp. The leader followed those paths. His glowing eyes passed over tents, barrels, and fleeing soldiers.

They stopped upon the narrow gap where Sieghart crouched. For a heartbeat, neither moved. The enemy leader glared at him. Sieghart felt the man's attention like another wave of heat. Recognition hardened the Firian's expression as he finally saw the person interfering with his attacks. The distance remained considerable, but the smoke had shifted enough to reveal Sieghart's small body, crimson hair, and raised hands. Now the leader knew. The dangerous water mage was a child.

Surprise appeared upon his face for only an instant. It quickly became anger. Orange light surged through the veins across his arms. The cut upon his cheek closed, leaving blood and sand against newly restored skin. Sieghart's concealment had ended.

"Great." The Firian stepped toward him. Edric noticed. His grandfather followed the enemy's gaze and found Sieghart behind the barrels. Anger flashed across Edric's face when he realized that the boy had ignored his order. Then he saw the leader changing direction. Edric immediately moved between them. He left the wounded swordsman beside another defender and stepped into the Firian's path with the short knife held before him. The weapon looked even more inadequate from Sieghart's position.

Edric and Sieghart shared almost no physical resemblance. One possessed white hair with faint traces of blond, while the other had crimson hair and a golden-tipped fringe. Their facial features were different, and nobody unfamiliar with the family would immediately identify them as grandfather and grandson. The Firian leader understood Edric's intention anyway. He saw an older man placing himself between a child and danger. Their connection didn't require matching faces. The leader's expression became cold.

He resumed walking. Edric lowered his stance. Sieghart cursed again.

"Do you want to get hit by my spells?" His grandfather couldn't hear him above the battle. Even if he could, Edric probably wouldn't move aside. A direct compressed stream risked passing through the leader and striking Edric. Another sand volley possessed the same problem, especially with Sieghart's poor accuracy. The large water spheres provided a wider impact, but the leader had prepared for them. He could evaporate water faster than the ordinary Firians and might simply punch through the attack.

Water alone wasn't enough. Sand alone wasn't enough. Sieghart looked at both materials surrounding him. The ground contained more loose earth than he could ever use. His mana could create an endless supply of water. He didn't need to choose. Sieghart raised both hands. Water gathered above the tents, swirling into a sphere visible across the battlefield. Nearby soldiers looked upward as its shadow passed over them. The Firian leader saw it forming.

He stopped approaching Edric and turned his full attention toward the spell. Heat gathered around his fists as he prepared to destroy the sphere before it reached him. Sieghart pulled sand from the ground. Streams of brown earth rose around him and flowed into the rotating water. The clear sphere darkened as sand spread through its interior. He continued adding material. The spell became heavier and denser. Mud rotated across its surface while compressed clumps of earth formed within the water.

Evaporating the outer layer wouldn't destroy everything inside. If the leader blasted the sphere with heat, the remaining sand and mud would continue forward. Water would drain his reserves. Mud would cling to his body. Hardened earth would add weight to the impact. The combination required more concentration than an ordinary water sphere, but Black Magic Level Four helped Sieghart maintain both elements. The massive muddy sphere grew above the camp. Soldiers stopped fighting long enough to stare.

Even the Firians hesitated when its shadow reached them. Edric looked over his shoulder. His expression communicated several things at once: relief that Sieghart possessed a plan, fear that the plan might fail, and anger that the boy had ignored every warning. Sieghart decided to address those emotions later. The Firian leader planted his feet. Flames gathered around his arms. Sieghart compressed more earth into the rotating sphere until it resembled a piece of the battlefield torn from the ground.

A giant water ball had failed to stop him. A handful of sand had barely scratched him. Perhaps several tons of mud would produce a more convincing argument.