Incursion (VII)

A cloud of steam burst from the Macewalker's internal systems, filling the air with a thick veil of smoke and the sharp hiss of powerful vapors escaping. It had certainly been dealt a great deal of damage just now, but it was far from being down for the count. After all, the large red scope serving as its eye could still be seen gleaming through the swirl of gases curling up against the downpour.

A lone silhouette rose atop the contraption, gradually straightening into the unmistakable figure of a sword-wielding warrior. The gunmen taking aim at him had ceased fire for the moment, but their weapons remained trained, ready to fire at the slightest hint of movement.

Surprisingly, the first person to make a move wasn't the figure being veiled by the rising smoke, it was Victor. He sauntered to the front, glaring at the unyielding figure reigning beyond the billowing smoke.

The terrorist casually swiped his hand through the air, sending a ferocious gust along the path he had motioned with his hand. The purpose soon became clear— with that single gesture, he had summoned winds strong enough to sweep away the smoke with casual ease.

Now, the enemy that had been beholden to the barrage on gunfire mere moments ago stood tall for all to see. Before now, Victor had only caught brief glimpses of the black-haired boy in uniform, but now that he was so pompously standing atop the disabled Macewalker for all to see, the image of his foe summoned a newfound wave of wrath inside of him.

He carefully observed the toppled Macewalker. Now missing a leg, and with its prized autocannon—once responsible for a ferocious salvo—sliced clean off at the hinges, the advanced war machine had been reduced to little more than a hindrance.

The only thing left for him to possibly make use of was the mounted missile rack that was surprisingly still attached to the cockpit.

"Haah..." Victor's lips parted with a frown, he looked up at the sword wielding boy whose gaze was slightly higher than his and said: "You...just who do you think you are, boy?"

"No one special," Cyril's replied, mapping their numbers with only his eyes. "I'm just here to buy some time, I guess?"

"You're here to buy time, eh? That was a mistake, and it's going to cost you your life."

"Oh? Are you sure about that? I've been watching you, you know. The spells you use are powerful, but they take too long to activate—You're a loop caster, aren't you?"

Victor visibly flinched at the boy's words. Veins pulsed at his temples, but his anger never surfaced—instead, he funneled it into a maniacal grin that twisted his face into something far more malicious than mere cold indifference.

"Looks like I was right, judging by your reaction. Your index is too low for burst casting, so you have to verbally stack chants to amplify your spells and refine your control—otherwise, you won't be able to properly account for all the variables involved, especially the vectors."

For a magician, chants were more than just mythical words of power—they were the equivalent of complex calculations, a fundamental aspect of their craft. Chants allowed them to mentally assemble the core components of a spell, enabling their Index to project the intended image onto the surrounding manites with precision.

Some magicians naturally had the power to omit their chants so long as their Index had a strongly defined image of the spell they intended to cast, or if they had the aptitude to evoke the spell on instinct.

Either way, chanting was a surefire way to increase the proficiency of one's spells regardless of the situation.

"And? What advantage does that give you?" Victor growled, "It certainly won't change the fact that you're going to perish here." his rejoinder echoed across the battlefield, much to Cyril's acknowledgement.

"It gives me a better chance— The fact that you have to use those chants to boost the power of your spells meant that your index can't be much higher than mine, I doubt you can even hit me from there without charging up your spells first. That's why you needed the Macewalker."

"Oh, well the-"

Slash

The sharp sound of metal pieces grinding breached the battlefield. All at once, the three terrorists—four including Victor—lifted their gazes in response to the sound. It came from Cyril's sword, Ascalon, the blade that was just used to penetrate the three-dimensional sensory device on top of the Macewalker's cockpit.

Although the machine had been downed, its sensory module was still protected by a persistent cube-type magical shield—likely designed to prevent enemies from gaining easy access. However, the multilayered barrier above the cockpit failed to stop Cyril's blade; it slid through as if the shield were made of butter, piercing straight into the core of the sensory device.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Sparks erupted at the point of impact, dancing along Cyril's blade even as he removed his sword from the damaged machine.

"A mithril sword? Hmph, what a sorry excuse for a Regalia. But now I understand—no wonder a weakling like you managed to bypass the Macewalker's defenses. That blade siphons mana from magical constructs, and lets it cut through them with ease."

"It's an imitation—the same one I just used to mow down your forces. I know." Cyril replied, waving away the man's remark. His brutally candid nature up to this point hadn't been for nothing, neither side was standing around simply because they wanted to.

In Cyril's case, he was assessing the best was to move forward with his assault, and based on the brief interaction he observed between Victor and his men just now—done with only their eyes—it was fair to assume that they were all playing the same game.

He's still strengthening that wind spell from earlier even while he's talking to me. It might get a bit tricky if I try to engage them head on, chances are they're going to be ready for that.

He spared a glance over his shoulder, taking note of the exposed pod's position behind the toppled Macewalker. Since the machine had collapsed onto its side, it acted as a natural partition that sectioned off a portion of the container yard.

Cyril's lips slowly curved upward, defying the odds. Even with blood soaking through his uniform, trailing down his cheek, and adrenaline surging through his veins, his body had somehow reacted on its own.

This again? I think I'm picking up too many of her bad habits.

"Alright, let's go again shall we." Cyril mused aloud, he took a half step forward, only to be halted by the brilliant flash of a gun muzzle igniting on his right. Without even thinking, he shifted his head to the side, evading the fearsome shot by a hair's breadth.

"I'm done. No need to hesitate any longer you guys, we're already running short on time. Kill him." Victor stepped forth, brandishing the destructive spell that had willed a symphony of tempestuous gales to coil around his palm like a wicked serpent.

"I don't know who you are..." he said, leveling his hand at the highschooler. "...but it was a mistake to ever get involved with us. You're going to pay dearly for making me look like a fool boy."

Cyril didn't reply, he gritted his teeth and steadied his breathing in a bid to summon every ounce of strength slumbering in his core. Once his mind settled on the best course of action, his body followed suit and he moved.

Relentless in his pursuit, the boy cut across the battlefield with incredible speed. Several gun muzzles lit up at once, unleashing a barrage of dazzling projectiles—but none found their mark. Since the rate of fire was concentrated in a single direction, the wave of bullets became easier for him to evade.

Cyril leaped, deflected and outright dodged the bullets coming at him, much to the frustration of his opponents.

"Shit, why can't we hit him?!" one of the men yelled, his voice rising above the ceaseless wave of gunfire. He took aim again, realizing with growing dread that the determined boy was heading straight for him, cleaving through the barrage of bullets without slowing. Panic took hold. The man broke for cover behind one of the newly arrived automated vehicles—but when Cyril saw that, he smiled.

His trajectory had perfectly aligned with the man that had just scuttled out of view to take cover behind the automated bus riddled with holes. The gunfire didn't stop, his other armed companions failed to notice the machination's at play, but Victor's eyes went wide from the shock.

It hadn't stemmed from the descent of their highschool foe—no, the real threat lay behind him. The Macewalker, a machine that ought to have been down for the count sparked with new life as soon as its flickering scope-like eye monitor registered the sight of it's lost target, the same one that had claimed it's leg.

"Damn it—that's why he took out the sensory module! He's planning to get us caught up in the crossfire! Everyone fall back! The Macewalker's about to fire, and without the sensory module, the missiles can't home in anymore!"

Apparently, the three-dimensional device mounted atop the machine's cockpit did more than just help it scan the environment and maintain balance. It also fed data into the Macewalker's targeting systems, working in tandem with the scopelike eye-monitor to enable missile homing. The system allowed projectiles to lock onto specific targets using both spatial and visual data.

Now that it was destroyed, the machine could still unleash explosive salvos—but its missiles no longer had the ability to differentiate friend from foe.

A mechanical whir echoed as the Macewalker's internal systems swiveled the missile rack to its limit, angling just enough to catch Cyril's retreating form. A soft metallic click followed—then, without hesitation, over half a dozen missiles launched in a synchronized burst, screaming through the air in pursuit.

In mere moments, the missiles caught up to Cyril, inching for his back, but he simply pivoted his weight onto his right leg and dove out of the direct line of fire at the last second, leaving his opponents to fend for themselves.

"Tear it apart—Zephyr!" Victor roared, unleashing the charged spell with a powerful lunge. A spiraling vortex surged forth from his palm, devouring everything in its path and transforming into a hellish cyclone as it obliterated a large portion of the missiles caught in its grasp.

The few projectiles that escaped his spell's pull slammed into nearby automated vehicles, reducing the terrorist's numbers even further as heat, shrapnel, and pressure tore through the yard. Even Victor wasn't spared—jagged, searing fragments pierced his skin, and the concussive force battered his body—but he couldn't afford to relent.

A wave of simultaneous detonations followed, releasing a searing gust strong enough to topple cargo containers and hurl Cyril sideways. He crashed into one of the metal boxes, denting its surface on impact before slumping to the ground.

"Grrraaaaghhh!" Victor growled, bracing himself as he dropped to one knee, supporting his wrist with his other hand. The vortex enveloped the blast wave and tore straight through the downed Macewalker, but his objective—the Nephilim's pod—still lay behind it. If he lost control now, the entire mission would be for nothing.

With every ounce of grit, Victor forced mana into his wrist, barely managing to arc the infernal blast upward at the last second, redirecting the raging column of flame into the sky.

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