Zora was glad he couldn''t see, because if he could, he''d no doubt be shaken watching a storm of anti-chitin mortar shells volleying down towards him.
… Well.
No point crying over spilt milk.
He''d been planning on busting the gate open with a directed spell, but he''d seen the fungus mortars work before—they could absolutely decimate a brood nest under concentrated fire, and there had to be twenty, thirty, forty shells flying at him. Enough to give even several high-rank Mutant-Classes a hard time.
Now, he could move out of the way, but he''d also seen how easily the shells could be swept away by a particularly strong gust of wind. This wasn''t the first time he''d come under mortar fire, and instead of honing his ability to use more creative spells, he''d spent the past two years honing his ability to creatively use the same spells he''d been using.
After all, why cast a different, perhaps less effective spell when he could instead cast a tried-and-true spell, just with a bit more flair and power behind it?
So he pressed his wand to his lips.
“... While I was marching down here, I was reminded of a rather interesting series of children''s novels by the name of ‘The Earthen Princess’. Have you heard of its opening line?” he said, gathering strength in his throat as he lifted his right wing. “The child of ill omens wakes to the sounds of bees buzzing, clouds crying. She throws her window open to glare at the sky, and the winds of the world washes both away; the child of ill omens deserves nothing but silence at dawn.”
Then he swept both his wand and right wing to the left, flicking the spell up into the sky—and the winds of the world moved, a heated gale sweeping across the open plains and knocking the mortar shells into each other to make them detonate mid-air. Sparks crackled like fireworks, shrapnel rained on his head.
The long spell sentence he just cast had all but the effects of a simple ''strike'' spell, but by linking what he understood of the word with a powerful scene he''d read from a children''s fairy tale, he was able to imagine the effects of ''strike'' much better. Having visual references to strengthen the manifestation of his spells had been helping him out a ton, and since he now had wings he could flap to generate tons of wind, most spells he could cast now manifested in the form of powerful wind. Wind ''strikes'', wind ''barriers'', and wind ''pick up my skillet, crack an egg, and whip up far western pancakes for breakfast''.
About ninety-five percent of the new spells I''ve been casting since I left Amadeus Academy don''t really have anything to do with fighting, though.
Some ''warlord'' I am.
He was able to cast a lot of spells now that he''d honed his imagination properly, but most of those weren''t combat-related—there was more to life than fighting, and in truth, he found himself using his spells for mundane day-to-day chores more often than something grand and dramatic. His spells were really good at making common everyday things he always had to do by himself super convenient. He could cast ''wash my hair with water'', ''iron my clothes'', ''put on my shoes'', ''re-bandage my wounds'', and ''cook my breakfast'' all at the same time and be ready for the morning within minutes. As for spells related to combat?
He was still working on developing new combat spells outside of the most basics ones, considering it wasn''t nearly every day he had to fight a small army like the one in the stronghold in front of him, and he very rarely needed spells other than the most basic ones to get the job down.
Why use complicated spells when simple ones do the trick?
It''s much more enjoyable to use my spells for mundane stuff and make my life more convenient, anyways.
So, as smoke and ash fogged the plains and made him scrunch his nose, five hundred soldiers fired upon him with their rifles.
He wasn’t too worried, though.
If he could cast a certain spell once, it was only natural he could imagine himself casting it again.
“The child tries to leave her house, but when she opens the door, she finds a dirt wall standing in her way,” he said, throwing his voice at the fields of giant bug carcasses before him, and it was but a simple ''pull'' spell reworded to give it more power—the winds immediately jerked the carcasses immediately into his face to block the hail of bullets. The sound of metal screeching against chitin hurt his ears, but he placed a firm hand against the closest carcass and braced himself, pushing back against the bullets.
He pressed his wand to his lips.
“She pushes and pushes, but it’s not enough. The world is determined not to let her leave her house. So she goes into her kitchen, grabs a mallet, and swings.
“The wall caves; it shatters, flying forward and crashing into the little bullies in the village who tried to lock her in her house.”
And at the swipe of his wand, he whipped the wall of carcasses forward with a tremendous gust of wind, sending it volleying forward like a tidal wave of biomass. The rampart soldiers couldn’t stay where they were. Forty giant carcasses slammed into the gate, the walls, the guard towers, knocking those who were too slow to duck off the ramparts, and demolishing the large wooden gate in the process.
He blinked. Admittedly, he did use his wand that amplified all spells cast on it tenfold, but he didn’t think he was strong enough to just send carcasses flying like that.
I’m definitely kicking your ass by the time I get back, Marcus.
<hr>
[Name: Zora Fabre]
[Grade: C-Rank Mutant-Class]
[Class: Magicicada]
[Swarmblood Art: God Tongue]
[Swarmblood Aura: 1926/2000 (96%)]
[Points: 27]
[Strength: 13, Speed: 10, Toughness: 10, Dexterity: 10, Perception: 14]
[// MUTATION TREE]
[T1 Mutation | Resilin Tymbal]
[T2 Mutations | Acute Tympana | Hollow Abdomen]
[T3 Mutations | Diurnal Plates | Hyaline Wings | Segmented Setae]
[T4 Mutations | Hemelytra | Visual Acoustics | Organic Digestion | Endothermic Surge]
[T5 Mutations | Quadrarms | Pestilent Acoustics | Triple Ocelli | Abyssal Echo | Resurgence] 1500P
<hr>
He strode fifty metres forward through the smoke and ash, unbothered by the shouting and the scrambling footsteps around him. He moved past the broken debris. Travelled through the gatehouse. Sunlight failed to reach him for a second as shadows cooled him, but then he emerged into the outer bailey where fungus buildings rose along the walls: armouries, barracks, forges, ant stables, and training grounds. A stronghold well-equipped to handle a siege. Even the soldiers that’d been so rattled just moments earlier were fanning out, crouched low and aiming their rifles at him from every conceivable direction.
If he could see, he’d be really, really worried.
Maybe I shouldn’t have given away so many points to the people I came across.
There’s… at least a thousand Ant Class Soldiers scuttling around.
Pursing his lips, he stopped right past the gate and tilted his head to the side, craning one ear to listen, deeply. A hundred footsteps hammered through the barracks on his left, lugging around heavy mortar shells. Four lines of twenty-five each formed behind him, sealing off his path of escape. Three hundred bolts slid back, bullets loading into chambers, sawtooth obsidian edges scraping out of sheaths. All in total, there were three hundred soldiers with bolt-action rifles, a hundred guards with chitin shields, a hundred mortar units who wouldn’t fight, and the rest were in melee.
… Well.
A few extra hundred points wouldn’t be all that helpful at my current stage.
Two years, two months, and two days. That was how long he’d been marching for. Excluding the points he gave away to people who needed them more, he’d obtained about six thousand points over the course of two years—he’d unlocked all his tier three and four mutations, but never got around to working on his tier fives. The reason was simple: between raising his attributes and increasing his Aura, he just didn’t have enough points to throw around.
And it’s not exactly because I didn’t have enough points, he thought. It’s because nobody told me the cost of raising attributes past level ten increases drastically.
From level one to ten, the cost of raising any attribute by one level was the current level squared. However, it came as an unpleasant surprise when he realised, to raise his perception from ten to eleven, it cost him ten squared times two the amount of points. Instead of it being a hundred points to go from ten to eleven, it cost him two hundred instead.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
Thankfully, raising his Aura was still straightforward as ever. One point for one level. He’d taken the liberty of raising it to two thousand for the time being, because he simply never found himself in a situation where he had to cast that many spells—so to that end, even if he felt he was a little underpowered in terms of raw attributes to be facing off against a thousand well-trained, well-armed soldiers, he didn’t feel like he didn’t stand a chance against this stronghold.
Far from it.
He was Thousand-Tongue Zora, and his Swarmblood Art—in the words of the fifteen War Commanders he’d already defeated—was still pretty ‘bullshit’.
“... Unfortunately, I am a magicicada.” He sighed, pressing his wand to his lips as three hundred riflemen fired on him from the barracks, the training grounds, the ramparts, the guard towers. “I don’t quite like the rain. It makes me cold. I much prefer it when the ground’s a little… fiery.”
He didn’t cast this one on his wand. He let his spell diffuse across the ground, spread outwards like a ripple, and in an instant—fire spilled out from under his cloak, washing over the outer bailey with a heated gust of wind. The incoming bullets missed him through the haze as he started walking forward again, paying no mind to the flames consuming the fungus buildings, eating up the organic walls as soldiers shouted and evacuated from their burning hiding spots. His tier four mutation, Endothermic Surge, made it so his body was actually more energetic in higher temperature environments, and that was the only reason why he didn''t particularly mind his own flames. He''d be cooking himself with his own spell otherwise.
Now, the other end of the stronghold—the other gate—was just a hundred metres across, and it was a straight line from where he was to where he wanted to be.
And so the long march continues.
Ten metres across. A hundred more bullets fired at him from every conceivable direction, none in sync. He didn’t have to look at the riflemen. He spoke "ward", and with an invisible barrier forming around him, most bullets merely bounced away from him. The few bullets that managed to pierce through were slowed enough that they merely deflected off his Diurnal Plates—his tier three mutation, the thin black chitin plates growing across most of his limbs that gave him a bit of additional toughness.
The plates also grow darker during the day so I can absorb more heat from the sun, and because I have Endothermic Surge unlocked as well, my stamina just recovers faster while I''m under daylight.
I have to finish this fight fast, then.
It''s nighttime, and once my Aura''s completely drained, I''m out.
Twenty metres across. Realising scattered bullets wouldn’t work on him as long as his invisible barrier was up, the riflemen moved to concentrate heavy fire from only a few specific directions. Now that could break through his relatively weak barrier. Pausing for a moment, he spoke “flare” and let the spell diffuse everywhere, causing crackling sparks to explode in the air around the stronghold.
He couldn’t see them himself, but alongside the flames washing across the ground, he imagined the stronghold was pretty bright—too bright, perhaps. Soldiers shouted, tried to coordinate their shots, but they couldn’t shoot what they couldn’t see. He kept walking slowly, steadily, careful not to drain his Aura too much.
Thirty metres across. A hundred Ant-Class soldiers in light chitin armour charged him from the front with sawtooth blades. They were just the vanguards, the scouts to poke at the chinks in his armour. He whipped his wand into a sword and cast “burn” on it, his blade erupting with living flames. The first wave of soldiers hesitated, and that was their mistake. With an underhanded slash, he sent a wave of fire at them, forcing them to jump out of the way. A few more wild, lazy slashes flinging small fire fans at them, and he had them all backing off or parting to the sides of the stronghold; none wanted to face his blade in battle.
They could probably surround him and beat him up, but in hundreds of tongues across the Attini Empire, ‘fire’ was a cognate word that shared the same meaning as ‘fear’.
Seriously, all of you. Just jump me at the same time. I swear I’m not as powerful as you think I am. Every time my ''ward'' blocks a bullet, my Aura''s draining a ton.
Of course, he wouldn’t say that aloud, but just seeing the vanguards staying a wide berth from him when they were all big, battle-hardened men made him laugh inside a little. Apart from the mandatory marching on foot, he’d done only a bit of exercise to physically bulk himself up over the past two years. His strength attribute was one thing; he wasn’t a stickman anymore, but his physique was still far from intimidating.
That didn’t seem to matter to the Shield Guards, thankfully.
Forty metres across. Nearing the halfway point, a wall of vines, mushrooms, spikes, and a hundred Ant-Class Shield Guards blocked his way forward. Two hundred more riflemen stood in waiting behind them, rifles poking through gaps between the shields, and—fire. He furrowed his brows and dug his heels into the earth as he spoke “ward” louder, strengthening his barrier as the concentrated fire pushed him a step back. His Aura was starting to drain really, really fast now. He had to do something different.
As more bullets bounced off his weakening barrier, he knelt and furled his wings forward. He had two pairs now. Hyaline Wings was the one that could help him glide and dash in short bursts, but the tier four mutation, Hemelytra, was the second pair that was armoured and sturdy as any shield. Still can’t actually fly, though, he grumbled. Bullets bounced off his physical Hemelytra as he took a second to think, ponder, and listen; he could bash through the wall of guards with brute force, but he didn’t really want to kill anybody.
He’d never done it before, and he wasn’t going to start now.
Hm.
But they can’t say I didn’t warn them.
“I’ve gotten rather good at picking mushrooms over the years!” he shouted, letting his spell ripple across the stronghold, across the burning mushroom buildings by his sides. “But I was taught by locals that you should always be ‘plucking’ them instead of ‘cutting’ them! Apparently, if you pluck them, it sends a signal to the spores that the mushroom is gone, so they know to start fruiting more mushrooms sooner!”
It was a roundabout way of saying he wanted to ‘pluck’ the mushroom buildings out of the ground, but it did the trick. He had to put all his strength into his voice and then some, because lifting entire buildings into the air with fourteen men’s worth of strength simply wouldn’t be possible—but casting the spell onto his wand and then amplifying it worked. Two, four, six, eight burning mushroom barracks groaned as they ripped into the air, and the bullets stopped slamming against his wings. Everyone paused to stare at the hovering balls of fire, eyes wide, jaws hanging, and he couldn’t fault them for it.
It really was bullshit.
He whispered “drop”, the buildings fall just a bit towards the wall of soldiers. They were wise enough to scramble and run away from this one, because if any of the buildings landed on them, they’d surely be crushed and pulverised. Not that he was deliberately trying to throw the buildings onto them. He didn’t want any of them to die, but as he rose to his feet and continued strolling along the stronghold, he hummed to himself with his flaming blade dragging behind him.
Nobody stopped him.
Nobody wanted to stop him.
They really, really could put up an incredible fight if they wanted to, but again—fear was a powerful deterrent.
“... You are as strong as the rumours make you out to be.”
Fifty metres across. Half the stronghold was already burning down. Part of it was because the whole thing was made out of organic material: vines, mushrooms, wood, and all the like, but the other part of it was because the layout of the place just wasn’t very fireproof. He was sure the bugs that regularly assaulted this stronghold don’t typically have fire-based abilities, but the way this stronghold succumbed so easily to just a few fire-related spells made him a bit… curious.
Tolania, the War Commander standing in front of him with a sawtooth obsidian-edged blade, couldn’t be over thirty. Beneath that ant helmet was a relatively young face who’d most certainly heard of his exploits across the northeastern end of the empire—and she’d been prepared for him for the most part, given how her soldiers were ready and the mortars were loaded by the time he marched out of the forest—so why didn’t she uproot the buildings and choose a more defensible layout?
That she was standing right in front of him, blade poised behind her in a battle-ready stance, was her answer.
“You want a duel with me,” he murmured, coming to a slow pause as he met her face-to-face, flames still crackling and eating away at the stronghold around them.
“I do,” she replied curtly, grabbing the hilt of her blade with both hands. “The truth is, I did not think my stronghold could stop you. You strode in here because you were confident you could break through regardless of my defensive strategy.”
“True. If I didn’t already have a hunch you were wanting for a duel, I would have stayed outside the walls and finished reciting the first volume of ‘The Earthen Princess’. Though you have the resources to sustain an extended siege defence, I doubt your soldiers would have been able to maintain morale for more than a few days.”
“Which is why there is only one real way to put an end to the Thousand-Tongue’s long march.”
With a calm, steady exhale, she pushed her Aura out and extended her killing pressure. He couldn’t resist a small smile then. She wasn’t a ‘weak’ opponent by any means—he’d no idea what her specific class was, but the fact was, she was a War Commander. All of the War Commanders before her had been leagues above their rank-and-file grunts, and… they’d all given him a good run for his money.
If this were his first duel, he’d probably be a little shaky.
“... Rules of engagement?” he asked, flourishing his blade before holding it off to the side, raising it parallel to the ground.
“One clean hit with our blades.”
“If you hit me, I’ll die. If I hit you, you don’t die.”
“Unacceptable.”
“You made your rule. I get to make mine too.”
Tolani didn’t look happy, but he was burning her stronghold down. Of course she was holding something against him.
Without another word, she stomped with her back leg, cracked the ground, and lunged forward with a hiss. A fluid and practised motion. The weight of her oversized blade was perfectly leveraged with her speed. She was a trained soldier, a battle-hardened warrior of noble descent—if she defeated him here and now, she’d be lauded as the hero who took down the Warlord of the Northeast, and no doubt about it: a fragment of ‘peace’ would return to the northeastern lands for a few months.
But he knew better.
He wasn’t here to fight humans.
He was here to hunt a bug, and he was no ‘Warlord’ for some ‘hero’ to take down.
So he chuckled, cheated, and spoke “fire”—pure, simple fire—blowing a small cloud of flames into Tolani’s face. She charged through, reckless, but she needed to see and he didn’t. In that split second when she lost sight of him, he leapt over her head with his wings and turned his sword back into a wand, sending a ‘swerving strike’ into the back of her neck.
He already knew where the chink in her armour was. He’d fought fifteen War Commanders before her, and they all donned the same steel.
As he finished flipping and landed on his feet, Tolani crumbled to the superheated ground, and he whispered “cool winds” onto his wand to extinguish the flames across the stronghold. He didn’t want to burn her face, nor anyone’s soles off. The soldiers here needed to be well enough in order to hold against the Swarm, so he felt he did a good enough job keeping collateral damage to a minimum—and now, it was fifty metres straight to the gate on the other side of the stronghold.
A thousand soldiers stood around him, watching in awe, and none stood up to him.
None wanted to stand up to him.
“... In human culture, we tend to lie during negotiations, after all,” he said, throwing the soldiers a casual grin as he started walking again.
Then he sighed when he realised nobody was in the mood to laugh, and he wished, dearly, that his friends from Amadeus Academy were here with him.
Whatever.
Cultural differences, I guess.
By the time he reached the end of the stronghold, someone had already turned the crank, lifted the gate for him. He listened. Closely. He gave a grateful nod to the soldier he couldn’t see, but they were above him in the gatehouse, and their breaths were cold, unsteady, uneven. They were afraid of him, and… well, there wasn’t much he could do about that. They were the ones who gave him the ‘Warlord’ title.
He passed the gate and began his long march once more, slipping his wand onto his waistband.
Now, there were no more strongholds on his way to the Capital, and there was just one more region he had to pass through before reaching his destination.
… I know you’re there.
I’m coming for you, Decima.