Happy birthday to me :D
Now please stop asking very specific questions what happens afterwards everytime I post a chapter. The review section is losing their meaning when half I get every chapter ask me what happens. If you want me to DM you my outlines instead of waiting how the story unfolds, then sure.
I started this story as a platform for constructive feedbacks... so, yeah. Not much writing when the "reviews" I get aren't... well, you know.
Maybe I should just move on to my original story I'm working on. But the Humanity-Fuck-Yeah of it all pulls me back here, and I still have things to learn as a writer. Do trust me when I say I still update this fic's plotlines from time to time.
Every single day, making shit up in my head.
That, and it's motivating to know despite not updating for months, I still get followers. Last update I had 300, which now increased to 391.
Again, happy birthday to me. Of course my birthday isnt the date I posted this chapter. Can't say the exact date for privacy.
And since it's been so long, let me bless you with a long 7K word count chapter.
March 13, 2025
(I know it's really late, but happy new year to my followers lol)
Start
The moon hung high as John had started to regret his decision to join the escort unit upon hearing the portcullis creaking in climb.
Why did he agree to this again?
(AN: It's been months since last update so I figured to write a summary of last chapter.)
Ah. Right. Kaeya couldn't ice bridge to Springvale an entire caravan of industrial materials with all sorts of risks. While Visions are undeniably potent especially in trained hands, elemental constructs don't tend to stick around for too long without constant pour of elemental energy.
The worst that could happen is not when Abyss forces detected them and set up an attack on the shoreline. It's when Kaeya will have to maintain platform integrity to ensure everyone and everything doesn't drown, with every enemy ranged unit challenging that effort with concentrated fire.
It'd be a shitfest.
They could opt to transport cart by cart. Don't put all your eggs in the same basket as they say. But the problem is that it'd take days. Or weeks.
All these factors led to the agreement in the headquarters to take the conventional land route. It had its own set of risks, but nothing as suicidal as defending yourself while on thin ice. Literally and figuratively.
Simply enough, better to suffer on land than on a temporary platform.
Jean Gunnhildr is risk averse when putting lives on the line, but the benefits couldn't be ignored. It wasn't an easy decision for many to have the entire logistics company run the operation. They're compelled to send everything to minimize reliance on a single Cryo user for supply allocation, letter exchange, and personnel transportation.
Time is not on their side. Their logistical bottlenecks served as constant reminder.
The sooner the proposed facilities are established, the sooner war materials can be manufactured. Assets that'd aid establish proper logistics between the city and Springvale. Which then would allow wider avenues of assault to push back the Abyss Order should the town's proximity be secured, resulting less lives to be lost in the long run.
A country can have the strongest military in the world, but that means nothing when you cannot put them or their essentials where you want to.
John scrolled through the System's window texts detailing the mission. A little odd that while his powers screwed with reality, his "in-game" [Map] and anything related to navigation were subject to a fog of war mechanic.
That shouldn't stop him. It was his insistence to contribute, not the Knights of Favonius who wanted him safe in the city; they don't know his powers and he didn't have the brain capacity to explain concepts foreign to their culture.
If something went awry, he could improvise thanks to the flexible functionalities of this powers. It had helped him in many tasks that required utility that mere paper and pen can never achieve, which was why he believed himself awfully needed to manage a factory as a technical officer.
While he could have crossed the river along with Kaeya, John was eager to prove his mettle; it's high time getting back at the filthy xenos after all they've done.
Eagerness that dwindled when the iron gates creaked open.
Okay. Maybe he should have went with Kaeya alongside the team of journeymen who will be responsible for coordinating construction efforts. Sneaking on ice in the middle of a lake had no danger of being beaten to death at least. But arguably, drowning sounded worse.
Ematol lightly slapped his shoulder, giving a teasing look at his rigid stance, "Hey. Chickening out already?"
John hummed flatly, readjusting the belt fasteners of his steel kettle hat for the umpteenth time.
He eyed her armor set and of those in the other squads. The Knights of Favonius made slight modification for his unit. Low light environment and aiming necessitated complete removal of visors, unlike to the frontline troops expected to fight in line formations, who are all on standby on the gate front where the Acting Grand Master stood silent.
Her figure had an awe-inspiring vibe with that ready expression with the small army at her command.
"I just realized just now this is going to be your first mission." Ematol teased, "You know, they say you can never forget your first time."
John rolled his eyes with a scoff. At this point, he might as well ask. Anything to distract himself from the thoughts of a gruesome (second) death. "So… what was your first like?"
"Explosively exhilarating."
"And your first mission?" He snorted softly.
"Explosively frightening."
"And your first failed operation?"
"Explosively painful."
"… What is it with you and explosions?" John had a sensible chuckle, smirking awkward at her quirks.
"Why curious? Don't tell me…" She feigned a shocked expression. She wiggled her eyebrows with a cheeky grin. "Have you never had that kind of explosion?"
"What." He raised an eyebrow.
"Ya know." Ematol gave him a Cheshire grin. "A mutual explosion."
He kept his apathetic demeanor, but a blush reddening his cheeks betrayed his thoughts.
Ematol crossed her arms, leaning on one leg, smiling with taut lips. "Wait. Don't tell me you're still a vir-"
John's hand practically teleported to her mouth, muffling her manic giggles with his palm.
"Not in public." John looked around for those who heard. His arm was gently shoved aside by Ematol.
"My sweet summer child," she tutted. "If you had told me, I'd have popped your cherry back in my apartment."
"What the fuck."
"Hey." She gave a casual shrug, the mischief in her tone apparent, "Death's just around the corner. Might as well live a little."
Her half-playful half-gloomy disposition layered with a suggestive smile had him considered her perspective.
… Behind all that knightly appearances, they're people who have brushed shoulders with death many a time. Got to work off that grim reality anyhow.
"Not in fucking public." He really wanted to tape her mouth, but something primal in him urged to plug her mouth shut. Not with his hands.
"Obviously not, sweetcake," she chuckled, winking a saucy one. Her gloved fingers traced his shoulders as she leaned close. Her honeyed eyes reflected the moonlight. "Still got a minute to get rowdy. I know a spot. It's now or never~"
His brain short-circuited.
She snorted as she jabbed his shoulder, laughing so unladylike. Her amusement was ended with a stern cough from behind.
"Sergeant," said a feminine but authoritarian voice, "if I didn't know better, I'd report you for sexual harassment."
Ematol froze. Her head turned like a creaky wooden doll, panic on her face. Her teasing smile turned thin. "Dear sister Phonia… I… was just playing?"
"That's Communication Officer Phonia to you," the brunette knight wearing glasses wedged herself between them, "if my nuthead of a sister is giving you any trouble, let me know. I can't promise I can put back some sense into her, though."
"Psh. Killjoy." Ematol rolled her eyes, crossing her arms.
"The last thing we need are distractions," rebutted the stern officer.
"We have time." The bomb devotee tried to move past her, but Phonia countered her movement in sync. The two moved like opposing basketball players, as he watched with mild amusement.
"I won't tolerate my dearest sister ruin her career because she got a little heated."
"It's not like he'd hate it!"
"You're making assumptions! You think anyone fancies one with a screw loose?"
"You think you can catch a boyfriend with how boring you are?" Ematol, with her index, pointedly pressed her sister's clavicle.
"At least I don't get head injuries thrice a week!" Phonia's hand went for Ematol's ears.
"Ow ow ow! Hey! Unfair!" Ematol gripped her sister's wrist with a growling scowl. She couldn't move. She dared not to.
"Now you know how painful it is hearing your squabbles. It's not even half to that of your experiments." Phonia turned to him, ignoring her sister struggling. Huffing, she said, "I can only apologize in her behalf. I'm sure you can understand her lab accidents clearly had some effect to her mental well-being."
"John! My comrade-in-firearms! Help!"
Blankly, John averted her gaze, not one to engage in their shenanigans. His attention was to the catapult positioned in the main road. He noticed just now it had changes. An apparent upgrade.
Someone jury-rigged a damn motor. The same one salvaged from transport balloons he asked the Investigative Team to be modified for blacksmithing.
Many knights organized munition in neat rows. He remembered those disposed wine barrels repurposed as explosives. The ones he used to hide from all the knights who he thought wanted him rotting in a dungeon as Diluc offered asylum.
"Don't ignore me! You… you traitor! I thought we're friends!"
"Please. Behave." Phonia secured her glasses with a gentle nudge of her index, "Your promotion requires you put effort in appearances, sergeant. I can't even believe I'm working under you when we both know I'm the brains while you're… you."
Ematol pouted.
He wasn't attentive to the two who traded verbal blows in his back. He was more interested in the… motorized catapult. Strange as that sounded.
A team of knights all hauled barrels to reload the catapult's bucket shooting at ten second intervals, where one made sure to light its bright fuse.
Its wooden beam mightily shot in quick sequence, as civilians watching in the balconies stared in awe at its arm swinging in a blur. Before, it took long minutes of manual cranking for the engine to ready a shot. Now, it hurled explosive barrels in mere seconds.
Faster if the trigger process was automated, rather than having its arm locked manually by a knight, and unlocked its hook by another smacking it off with a wooden mallet.
The crowd cheered so loud and feral the gunshots from the battlements sounded muffled. He thought it was an overreaction to the catapult at work, until he saw Commander Jean Gunnhildr running straight first through the gateway as platoons followed behind. Then the mercenaries. Then archers.
The two sisters ceased their bicker.
A quarter minute later, cracks of gunshots was heard. Steady and rhythmic like a vigorous heart, contrary to the ones on the wall with no timing.
What a fucking girlboss. He couldn't have fallen harder. Okay, maybe not that hard, but just imagining her commanding the frontlines elicited a strange sense of adoration.
Ah. He would love to see himself fighting besides her one day. But he had a task to clear a way for the caravan while the main force takes all the heat.
What a life living as an industrialist artificer making guns for knights in a fantasy setting. Many a time there were urges to slap himself for reality check, and admittedly the feeling may never subside. Maybe it's not such a bad thing as he started to learn to love the feeling. Nothing was bland and boring – but personally, he'd rather have this siege dealt with.
"Anytime now," Phonia closed besides him, readjusting her bandolier. She pulled a flare gun from her hip holster and loaded a shell.
"Aw yeah. Time to test these babies!" Ematol stood on his other side, bearing a grenade launcher on one hand and short-double-barreled shotgun on the other.
"Hmph." John summoned his quad-barreled pistol once more, inspecting its shiny surface finish. Lightly armored with only a cuirass, vambrace, greaves, and a kettle hat, he opted for a supplement. He checked his game inventory a wooden shield he got from a hilichurl, varnished and all that. Jean commented a captured shield could stain their image, but he couldn't care less.
"Ready, guys!?" Ematol raised her guns like a joyful child. Exempting her stern-faced sister and himself, everyone shouted heatedly.
The two aloof officers only shared a blank look.
John turned behind. Alongside her personnel, Captain Hertha inspected the straps and fasteners of the balloon transports carrying industrial materials that could dictate the course of this war. Her dual holsters intrigued him. A technological contrast to her sheathed sword belted to her waist. The ones in her command had little talent for combat, but their single-shot pistols compensated for that.
Just as she had planned since the day their workshop turned into a firearms factory.
The 6th company was notably the first company to fully embrace firearms in their arsenal at an official capacity. Especially after partaking in their succesful ambush that fateful night. The experimental platoons after them were just that, experimental.
The headquarters' workshop adjusted in haste. And so the latest models, relatively few in numbers, are only issued to the transport and escort forces.
He had no rights to complain their quad-barreled Model 2s are produced a quarter the rate to their muzzleloading antecedent. Whereas the one-barreled variants, all reserved for logistics personnel, are made quicker.
Not to mention the ammunition that passed strict inspection; Alchemy Chief Albedo's formulation for the priming explosive and propellant charge proved reliable. As for their casing?
... He'd rather not think about it. They had no hydraulic presses, so each case was handforged and pressed into shaped. Somehow. With whatever makeshift they came up with, be it mundane or... magical.
The fact that large-scale production started as fast as John had introduced the design was no miracle; as Jean said, Diluc busied himself coordinating talents from the city's metalworking industries. The industrial capacity of the quaint city is already pushed to their limits, especially when the demonstration was just this afternoon!
What could be used, was used. It'd have been a waste for clocksmiths and their tools left idle during the course of the siege; trigger assemblies and clock parts did have overlapping similarities. Though he'd bet the artisans aren't in the know what they're making all sorts of springs, gears, and small hammers for, just as Wagner and his apprentice had signed an NDA for security concerns.
First, the motorized catapult. Now, the clockwork-esque reworking of the Model 2. He wasn't the only one with talent. The native humanity of this world may be primitive, but they're far from stupid.
His busy-brained trance was broken by the star-like anomaly in the sky. There it was. A red signal flare shot from outside the walls. Even he was mildly surprised as he saw it. Someone else took initiative to invent flares without his input.
This world felt so... alive. Organic. Dynamic. Adding to the credence his actions have impact. That he existed. That the people in this setting are more than NPCs when things have changed in ways he couldn't have predicted.
And it all started with him.
It's like I'm the center of the universe, John thought, scoffing at the idea of borderline arrogance. Some voice in his head even went so far to make a notion he was some main character in a novel. In a way, maybe he was.
His existence had brought a ripple effect so strong, its splash stirred a tsunami when all he wanted was to make something better than a sword.
How many would have died in a timeline if he didn't take the initiative? If he didn't insist joining up with the explosive-crazed Ematol? If he kept silent of his views of mechanization to Captain Hertha? If Captain Albedo hadn't eavesdropped and gave him the opportunity to experiment in Wagner's smithy?
The catapult team stopped their operation and pushed the war engine through the gate, as others pulled carts of barrels following them from behind.
It's starting. They'll give them a cover and that's where they come out.
He hoped he wouldn't shit himself.
…
Barrels of explosives fell upon the heavens. The hordes of hilichurls on the end of the bridge were torn apart. One survived, clambering on the ground. It looked up, its horned mask faced an end of a barrel.
Bang!
The creature burst into smoke of black and red.
Huffman thanked his helmet that muffled most of the blast. He was one of many who saw guns with skeptical glare at first; he had little confidence to hold what spat thunder in his hand.
It took no time to appreciate its firepower.
He holstered his spent hand cannon to take out another, shooting a red-maned flame-masked hilichurl swinging its torch in a berzerk. Bang! The lead ball crashed through its leg. It tripped hard. Clambering, its thick nails clawed against dirt desperate to regain footing. But before it could do so, Huffman unsheathed his sword and cleaved downward with every muscle in his body - metal bashed against meat and bone.
A gun on his hand and a sword on the other. An odd combination he could get used to.
The bridge bottlenecked the monsters. Arrows raining down upon them thinned their ranks. Those that survived were struck to death by a loud volley of whizzing bullets.
Gunsmoke smothered their vision. But unnatural elemental forces blew them to the side, leaving a trace of light teal wind.
The Lieutenant Huffman's silhouette melted alongside the knights in lines of five ranks. The frontmost bared their hand cannons like wolf fangs. One rank twenty strong thundered through hordes. They holstered their spent hand cannon to get another.
Collective gunshots echoed across the landscape. They pulled back as the other rank stepped in their place as all released two volleys, downing scores of monsters.
With most dead, the remaining ranks aimed at their ugly towers and log barricades. Hilichurl shooters atop them fell as they were shot. The lead storm overwhelmed the wooden structures, destroying chunks into splinters - revealing more hilichurls in hiding.
And a handful of hesitant abyss mages shielded behind trees farther back. Their magical trickery summoned dark fog as monsters poured out.
Mercenary spearmen weaved through knights, their long polearms sticking up like stalks of wheat. They ran off the bridge, their thumping boots transitioned stepping from cobblestone to dirt, endagering themselves under catapult fire.
But an explosive barrel falling to them was blown away by Anemo, its trajectory redirected to a tightly grouped hilichurls who thought numbers equaled strength. No matter how zealous the lucky ones charged, none couldn't brave the wall of spears. They stopped like a school of fish caught in a fishing net. They clubbed their polearms like swatting off flies. Their clubs rattled against spears.
Acting Grand Master Jean steadied herself atop securely stacked crates, her ornate armor reflecting orange lamp light, giving her a good look on the battlefield. The freelancers fanned out their long weapons in a semi circle, locked in melee, resisting savage blows. A hilichurl snapped a spear in half. Meanwhile, the knights reloaded as others held oil lamps above heads.
The abyss mages observed.
five… six… seven.
When she heard of the catapult's fire rate upgraded, she couldn't believe the report. Its lethality is proving to be perfect against the mass of monsters rippling like rough waves of the seas, as hundreds more suicidal pawns joined the endless tide.
Behind them were ranks of archers stationed near the gates. They rained volleys of arrows, their officer yelling "Loose!" every few seconds with experienced consistency.
eight… nine…
She looked for any important target. The vague silhouette of a mitachurl deserved attention. A little hard to tell in the dark and shrubbery. But in the chaos, the lumbering motion of a rectangular silhouette was telltale.
… ten. Jean turned behind. She craned to the coming explosive.
Jean's armored foot pressed hard, stabbing her sword at an angle. Formless wind whirled around her blade. Crouching, she jumped high, her armor did little to weigh her down. Her body swung with tempered power, riposting the explosive with a blast of teal Anemo.
"Hah!"
The barrel bounced far. With a flash of explosion, bodies and limbs blew apart.
The wall of spears loosened, giving way to gun-armed knights who formed longer lines. Two ranks, each forty. Eardrum-shattering volley fire downed the collection of monsters. But the Abyss forces had many more at their cold disposal.
The landscape turned dark and smoky from the Abyssal corruption leaking from their remains.
Jean thrusted a strong gush of Anemo to redirect yet another barrel and swept off blinding gunsmoke in between with her powers.
The letters and casualty reports on her desk added fuel to her blow. The reports gave way of visualizing the defense of Springvale. Leaving another day with no progress will turn sour.
But of course, this operation was not to squash Abyss forces once and for all, but to deceive them the Favonius are going all out - a battle which should provoke an equal response.
She should send a messenger to cease support fire, seeing the skirmish handled unexpectedly well. It'd save fuel for their engines, whatever they're called, and munitions. But then she'd need to send runners for all involved.
A problem flares solved. She summoned her flare gun and aimed high. Psh! The night was lit as if a star descended. Arrows stopped raining. So did barrels. The gun-armed knights high on the battlements ceased fire.
Everyone recieved it well... and so too should a few other groups. As to how far flares shed light, surely it reached even those in the wilderness miles afar.
Everything is working.
The alchemical device proved better than fire arrows. Someone referenced Fontaine's maritime culture from their rich library. The Investigation Team had the means to reproduce the effects with Klee's slow burning formulation.
The flare revealed movement from the distance. More oncoming monsters poured out from their savage base. And most concerningly, brutish mitachurls. Their rectangular shields were all distinguishable. But the amount of hilichurls to their brawny counterparts was ill proportioned. Perhaps there were more somewhere. Hidden for an opportunity.
The enemy blew their heavy horn. Every hilichurl took no time at all to make a hasty retreat. Like disturbed insects, they all scattered. Some tripped running and clambered just as fast.
They're already sending their heavy weights? Jean thought concerningly.
If this was a game of chess, the hilichurls were pawns in every sense. Disposable pieces not meant to kill, but bait to lure valuable pieces out of position or as screen to elude intent.
In this skirmish, they were sent to tire the opposing force. But the knights have not spent a pool of sweat exchanging blows. Only in reloading and shooting. Their guns minimized fatigue as a combat variable. Moreso for being in the defensive.
The coordinated assault meant they've sent their main forces this early. Abyssal commanders must have realized they've sacrificed pawns for nothing. The enemy learned that a little late and they've paid for it. More likely, with whatever manner of spycraft the Abyss Order employed, they never had learned their platoons had been armed with guns in two days' time since its debut.
Which signalled the transition to a real battle. Just as planned. If not a little early than estimated.
Jean pointed her sword forward. Two seconds later, a signaller tooted a horn with a simple, upbeat melody. A hundred knights accompanied by mercenaries marched, gaining ground each determined step.
The rattle of wheels alerted her ears. She hopped down the crates. Knights bent and carried them, following the gun platoons. Archer platoons paced off of the bridge to give way to the catapult towed by knights who pushed and rolled all four of its large wheels.
"Master Jean!" A knight waving for her attention. He pointed at dozens of unarmed mercenaries limping to the bridge.
Jean jogged to their center while they made way. With both hands gripping her sword, she leveled its hilt to her cuirass. Her Favonius Sword glowed apple-green as bright as sunlight. Everyone marveled at the Anemo energy whirling around their proximity.
...
John was awed at the battle afar. This epic spectacle went on with nothing to record. Just when he didn't have a phone in his pocket! Getting transmigrated was weird enough, but somehow it felt worse to exist without a phone in hand.
Volleys of gunshots echoed. The small army pushed north-east where the Abyss Order base was abound. Their many slapdash of fortification is seen sprinkled across the mountain side, speckled by torch light.
Man, holy shit. I'm living in a fucking dream.
The knights employed pike-and-shot. At the back were a few hundred archers who delivered death from above, while an automatic catapult shot supporting fire.
Then there's Jean batting bombs like a damn baseballer.
Guns and bows. Clubs against spears. Catapult with magic. All synergized in this assault like a plethora of instruments in an orchestra. Weapons of different eras back in his homeworld, working alongside local elements derived from native magic-fuckery.
Sincerely, what the fuck.
He can't imagine getting used to this. He wished he had his phone. A damn shame he lost it somewhere.
Taking a final look, they treaded the grassy path. Thankful his heartbeat didn't drum madly, he wondered if it was his unnatural disposition as a game character. If he was at all, whatever he is now.
Still, he was nervous. Reasonably so when the next twenty to thirty paces is hidden in darkness.
He may have the physiology of a game character paired with the psychology of a player in the safety behind the screen; the danger he percieved can be seen as illusion, but the consequences of his actions are not.
He can still feel pain, and people are dying. Simple as that.
At least none pushed carts. The transport balloons for this mission are half of what the entire city has. Losing them all didn't just mean halving their logistical capability. It meant risking hundreds of lives if this mission failed outstandingly. Thousands, possibly.
More reasons he abhorred its abysmal speed. They're just so fucking slow compared to the trucks back in his homeworld. So far, his skepticism was left unchallenged. They can't even ride the pseudo-blimps when one has to rein it like some donkey.
No steering system. No power transmission system. No altitude control system. How do these things even work?
This was the fucking plan? Travelling at walking pace in near darkness? The only comfort he has are the muffled steps of his comrades following the dirt path.
Maybe he'll divide some of his focus next on proper motorized vehicles. But even if Mondstadt have oil, he knew nothing intimate about internal combustion engines.
"Contact," warned Phonia. Everyone kept low. The women in the team had the hems of their skirts brush the ground. "I hear hilichurl making chatter."
The enemy might be on top of his concerns, but it irked him female knights wore knee-length skirts. They don't look thin and flimsy, but whose idea was it to have them wear loose fabric as their battle uniform?
Seeing a large group of hilichurls numbering roughly twenty, and counting, holding torches that lit the clearing, he asked low, "So... what now?"
He summoned his four-shooter, aiming on one knee, but Ematol patted his hand down.
No one moved. For obvious reasons, he assumed they can't use guns for how loud they are. Or was it their limited ammunition? Excluding special rounds, each had equal the rough amount a typical musketeer carried in the blackpowder era.
Laughably few. But still, their eleven-strong squad translated to a platoon-strength of sword-armed knight, armored and all. Eleven in numbers, but comparably capable to the power of fifty. More if every bullet brought meaningful effect, unaffected by miss-probability.
Then again, the latter can recover from their fatigue post-fight, while the former had no magical means to restock ammunition on field.
"We have enough ammo, don't we?"
"Kind of," Ematol whispered, "we'll have to save them for the big fight."
John looked at her wrong. Ammo shortage or not, will they do nothing? They're supposed to clear a way for Captain Hertha's division. Not spend a minute letting these hilichurls pass by without getting bitten in the ass later.
None brought a sword or bow as back up. Then again, none can properly swing a sword or pull a warbow at full-draw respectively; everyone in this squad had support roles in alchemy or communication before, their fate now intertwined with gunpowder after participating in the ambush.
"They're here," Phonia whispered, pointing at the treeline.
They? Who? John saw pairs of glowing... marbles? Eyes, he corrected, seeing heads bobbing. Silhouettes weaved through trees and bushes. One, two, five. Before he counted to ten, flashes of metallic streaks struck the hilichurls.
Their numbers fell. Bodies fell. They raised shields, only to be struck from another unprotected angle. Neck shots. None missed. Arrows blurred from the treelines to the savages.
Half retreated to the path they took. Some arrows missed their mark whizzing by. Some didn't. Long sticks stuck out their heads. One by one, each kill collapsed as their momentum rolled their bodies like a tumbleweed, snapping apart the arrow shafts.
The last one had its shoulder struck, throwing off its club. It ran fast as it was desperate, but tumbled down as an arrow pierced its neck. Feathered fins stood out like a flagpole.
What the fuck. John stared wide with mouth hung open, digesting what he witnessed. It took them no longer than half a minute to bring them all down.
Their dropped torches carved light in the darkness. Their bodies smoked like pillars of black clouds fuming from a steam engine, and only then John processed that these mysterious archers had reflective eyes like quadrupeds. If it wasn't for their bows and arrows, he'd had mistaken them for special forces who donned night vision goggles. Not people with... animal features.
"Come on, lets get them back. Its the least we can do." Ematol jogged to the aftermath of the slaughter. Others followed.
"Huh? What?" John mumbled, still confused. More confused than shocked. What did she want to get back? Only after seeing they were plucking out arrows did his body move automatically. With efficiency in mind, he jogged past them to get the farthest killed.
"Good thinking," Ematol nodded at his choice. He pointed straight at the broken arrows with a raised eyebrow. She giggled in good nature. "Yes! Even the arrowhead, silly."
Wow... we're really that desperate? He twisted off the shafts with meaty noise. A little surprising he felt no disgust, though he distanced his head from the disintegrating bodies as if a snake readied to strike.
"Hey hey hey!" A young girl ran to John kneeling on one knee. "Thanks for getting 'em all, mister! Saves me some troub- eyuck!"
She stopped quick on her toes as she pinched her nose. Her feline ears atop her head twitched irritably. Behind her hips was her swishing tail.
Shock pried his eyelids wide as he turned to the voice. A civilian? A kid no less? Out here in the wilds?
"Blegh! Urgh. GroooOOOooosss!" She stuck out her tongue, taking a few steps away from the bodies of dead hilichurls. Swatting the air as if pestered by flies, she croaked, "Ew. Ugh. I forgot they stink this bad. Could you come closer, pleasy please?"
But her feline traits topped it all. His eyes glued to her cat ears, its fur was a mixed palette of black, white, and orange. They're... cat ears? Actual ones? Oh god, they just twitched. Just as how actual ones do...
"Um. Hello? I'd like to have 'em back, please? Like, now would be good." She frantically waved her palm to the stunned John. "What's with the blank stare? Never seen anyone with the Katzlein bloodline before?"
"Ah. No." He stood up and took two steps closer. He stretched his arm to the girl who snatched the arrows out his palm.
"Heh? You must be an outlander. But your armor says otherwise... oh well. Thanks again mister!" She turned tail - literally - and ran off to the group of cat-human hybrids who gathered alongside his squad. They chatted and compared who got the most kill like it was the most normal thing in the world.
The sight reminded him of nerf darts or BB rounds. Cleaning up was a disproportionate burden to shooting, somehow. The group finished their collection. The knights handed back their recovered arrows, with more intact than broken, as the archers counted and distributed, chatting as they did so.
"Draff. We lost a sheaf," said a cat man to another, "half must've flew off, methinks. Other half broke."
"Could be worse," replied Draff with a light sigh.
The Katzlein kin glanced him briefly until they went back to the task at hand. A little irresponsible to take her out in a dangerous fieldtrip. Quite neglectful of her parents, he must say.
The two groups chatted, until John walked and waved to Ematol. He stared annoyed at his superior with pointed look, "you were expecting them and you didn't think to tell me?"
"Er... we didn't expect them to come at all. Intel said Springvale put all hands on defence."
"Yet they're here," John sourced an answer elsewhere. His System opened a thin and long window consisting of past dialogues. Scrolling, it highlighted relevant details. Ingredients. Potions. Hunters. Task. He eyed the seemingly oldest one in the group. "Oh yeah. You were tasked with gathering ingredients? For... potions and whatnot?"
"Game, too," the cat-eared Draff added, "whatever we can find. Our town's plagued with refugees thanks to them no-good Abyss Order!"
"Yeah," hissed the girl from earlier who collected brokem arrowheads in a pouch, "those nasty bunch's been a pain in the butt! Ain't that right, papa?"
"Aye!" The father catman patted her purring daughter. The cat kins grunted agreeably, the knights joined along. "An ancient enemy a problem since our ancestors."
Wouldn't be much a problem had you people have supressed rifles, John thought. He stared curious at their inhuman features. The Katzlein folks were lethal hunters, their effortless show of force told that much.
But they were only as effective as their equipment allowed.
He faced Ematol. "Not complaining about their help, but why and how are they here? A little odd the timing's perfect."
"They're here as escorts."
"They... they're here to escort us escorts?" John crossed arms. Are the Knights of Favonius so inefficient when it comes to night operations?
"We can't see in the dark." Ematol stared flatly.
... John conceded by raising his hands. That was fair. He spoke too soon.
A cat man gestured at their holsters. "Word on the street is ya'll got some high-tech imports from Fontaine."
"Yes. Imports. We had a secret deal with them." Phonia glared at him, mouthing the words: play along.
John kept his face as is, "Uhh where'd you hear it?"
"Secret? Ha. That knight captain, Kaeya, kept on and on 'bout it like its the best thing there is," Draff worded with skepticism, "said we're getting help. Help from who? Cavalry, he said. But do I see any horses? No. Didn't know what I expect but certainly not you lot."
"Hey! Just so you know, I killed an abyss mage!" Ematol proudly held her hips, patting her holsters. Other knights loudly muttered supporting remarks, buffling all the Katzlein.
"I'll hold you on to that, then, missy," Draff's ear twitched, "thought Captain Kaeya spoke code when he told to follow a bleeding star! Gah! Turned out literal. Didn't think the knights practice witchcraft."
"Science. Not witchcraft." John deadpanned. Maybe he was impatient, but it's a little odd people are yapping while some are out there dying from fighting. "Anywho. Not sure if I'm being too serious, but do you think we've wasted enough time?"
"Right. We're'ere to guide you to them." Draff coughed. There's a hint of fear in his eyes. "We've been avoiding brutes. Our arrows fly straight and true, but our bows fall short to their might."
"Brutes?" John asked Phonia.
"Mitachurls."
"Ah."
"Big scary, lumbering, horned-headed nasties they are," the kid grumbled, pointing at the darkness "See? Like that one - wait."
The hunters all turned to the source - panic struck their faces. Their pupils sharpened to slits. Some had their tails point down. Many had stiffened, too frozen to nock an arrow. The normal humans only saw darkness, but their fingers began unlatching their holsters.
"There's three of them. Sixty paces far. They hadn't seen us yet," Draff and the others looked around for anything else, "the red star must've caught their curiosity. Last I know most of 'em were sniffing 'round the town looking for something."
"John. You just had your Vision, right? Could you light up these torches?" Ematol unholstered her double-barreled shotgun. Unlatching its action, she loaded one chamber with an icy-blue shell and the other with ocean-blue. Locking, her gun clicked tight.
"Sure?" John pointed at the scattered torches dropped by the hilichurls. Pyro bullets shot from his fingergun rekindled them all, turning their area brighter. "Pew pew pew."
"Wait what you do- you want them to see us!?" Draff's tail prickled, "You wanna fight them head-on!?"
"We're on a time sensitive mission. We could lay traps, but the faster this goes, the faster we go." Ematol closed her shotgun with a click. "Sis. Light 'em up. Tell them we're here."
Phonia whipped out her flare gun and shot a short-burning shell. Psh! The tiny red star flashed across the landscape. The forest was lit red as fast as it darkened.
Then, the ground thumped, loudening over time. It was as if elephants rushed to them. A deep monstrous shout resounded like the blow of a horn, eliciting panicked shrieks from the cat kind.
"Are you lot insane!?" Draff shouted on top of his lungs, nocking an arrow and pulling the bowstring at full draw with instinctive proficiency.
"There's only three of them, right?" John glanced at the cat man's hunter bow.
"What the hell do you mean only three!?"
"Just as he said," Phonia extracted the spent shell to put it in her pouch, inserting another load from her bandolier, "sixty paces far. Fifty now I approximate. They'll reach in fifteen seconds."
The Katzlein kin all braced facing the darkness. One of them shouted, "they're running to us!"
"Faster, then."
"Please leave the area," Ematol said to them. They were more than happy to comply. The Katzlein hunters all retreated to the treelines. "Everyone. Go back eight paces. Form a line!"
John mumbled curses, turning behind to run. Phonia and the other eight knights followed their sergeant. They left the area scattered with torches and into the dark.
-ix seven and eight. John turned on his heel and outstretched his arms stiff, his four-shooter was held unsteady with knuckle-white grip. "Can we shoot!?"
He may have the physiology of a game character paired with the psychology of a player in the safety behind the screen; the danger he percieved can be seen as illusion, but the consequences of his actions are not.
Weird how game psychology works.
John softened his grip, then steadied in a calmer focus. His index distanced from the trigger. He can still feel pain, game or not. His suffering will be shared if he fucks this up. Well I did fucking choose to be here.
If he wasn't alone, he'd be scared shitless feeling the ground shake.
"Just hold!" Ematol shouldered her shotgun. "Phonia! Light up!"
Psh The flare darted up. The red light reflected below on hulking humanoid monsters running with legs of monstrous proportion.
Fuck fuck fuck. His mind flashed a memory of that one time a mitachurl crushed a knight to a wall back at the city.
"One shield. Two axes." Phonia shouted flatly, dropping her flare gun and pulled out her four-barreled pistol to a steady aim.
Before the charging mitachurls took a step in the torch-lit area, Ematol's shotgun thundered once. Then twice. Two glowing slugs - Hydro and Cryo - flashed across.
Hydro crashed against a giant wooden shield. A burst of elemental water exploded like confetti. Cryo stopped their momentum - turned their bodies into statues of ice.
... I... What.
Blue white sheen reflected off of their surface. The three behemoths moved not even an inch.
... What the fuck. John gawked at yet another native physics fuckery. The embarassing feeling of stupidity struck. His grip loosened... all that panic for nothing. "So... uh. Now?"
Ematol dropped her shotgun, calmly sliding her grenade launcher out of its holster.
"Now."
End
Well well well. Been a while huh?
This chapter took a bit of my sanity. I've rewritten this for like... six times now. Seven? Eight? I was never satisfied and I'm stlll not.
Just so you know I wasn't inactive in the past six months. Been working on my original story in the sidelines. I can't tell much, but to give an idea, its inspirations comes from many titles.
Rimworld. And all of its DLC; Empire, Biotech, and Anomaly. I've had hundreds of hours playing this game. I took reference of its lore.
Gate jieitai. That manga where romans tried to invade Japan via a portal. Very fun concept. Modern vs Medieval with a pinch of fantasy.
Zero's Familiar. The worldbuilding was interesting. But I was more excited when a Mistubishi Zero fought off wyvern riders.
Release that Witch. The story where the protagonist used the powers of witches to kickstart the industrial revolution. The first few volumes were worth a read. The rest sucked. The plotlines were all over the place.
Total War 2: Shogun. A game my dear friend introduced to me. Playing it gave me perspective of how medieval armies fought. I couldn't envision armies clashing without this game.
Factorio. I never got to launch a rocket, lol.
All of them had a hand in this fanfic. Among other titles.
You could say it will be the reincarnation of my other fanfic, Out of Reach. I abandoned that one because I couldn't handle the concept. Never knew how to write a story that time. Took a leap of faith, and... it didn't go well. Taught me new things though.
It's the same reason I was burnt out with this story; it's getting too big. And messy.
If I'm still struggling writing this story, then it means I still have things to learn.
I have too many technologies to introduce and plotlines to unfold. So I found it annoying few of the "reviews" I get sounds like they want to co-author my fic. It's become a pet peeve of mine. A few ideas here and there are fine, but entertaining paragraphs upon paragraphs of "ideas" took some toll. If you want to write your own story, then write.
Anyways...
Happy birthday to me. It's late. I want to sleep.
Expect a chapter next week; about time I temper my discipline.