Re: Tales of the Rune-Tech Sage Chapter 682: Bandit Becometh the Raided II

The sudden, unnatural crack of dozens of crossbows, immediately followed by the piercing whistle of over a hundred bolts slicing through the air, caused the faces of the caravan guards to drain of all color.

Immediate panic erupted amongst them.

They scrambled desperately for any available cover, diving behind the carriage walls and clambering onto the roofs in a frantic attempt to shield themselves.

However, it proved utterly useless.

The bolts tore through wood and reinforced panels as if they were mere paper, punching through both cover and flesh with terrifying ease.

Thwack!!

Before the surviving guards could even comprehend the first volley—

A second downpour of projectiles descended.

Thwack!

Then a third.

Thwack!

And a fourth.

By the sixth round of firing, the battlefield had transformed into a gruesome spectacle of impaled bodies and shattered defenses.

Only a meager handful of the more robust guards remained alive—those few who managed to barely protect themselves from the relentless barrage.

But their survival was ultimately meaningless—

For the elite strike unit had arrived.

Kavakan, Mogal, Havel... and alongside them charged the battle-hardened survivors of previous raids.

What ensued next was not a battle; it was a sheer massacre.

Even without Alex micromanaging and issuing direct orders, the engagement concluded with remarkable speed and absolute decisiveness.

It served as a potent testament to the profound evolution of his forces—not merely in terms of numbers or individual prowess, but critically in their coordination, equipment, and the overwhelming technological advantage they possessed.

The enhanced crossbows’ rapid-firing capability alone had single-handedly transformed what should have been a challenging conflict into a completely one-sided slaughter against a caravan defended by more than four hundred men.

As had become their established routine, once the last vestiges of resistance were extinguished, the troops immediately commenced the task of recovering any reusable bolts—warfare habits now deeply ingrained.

A few began to celebrate quietly amongst themselves.

However, Alex did not spare even a single glance at the carnage unfolding behind him.

His gaze remained fixed intently ahead—directed towards the far side of the desolate basin.

"Leave everything behind. Form up," he commanded calmly through the comms system.

Instantly, the unit leaders—his original companions, each outfitted with comms earpieces—relayed the directive.

There was no hesitation, nor any complaint, from the assembled group.

The entire force reformed into their designated formation with disciplined efficiency.

Alex personally led them several hundred metres forward, away from the remnants of the caravan, before bringing them to another halt.

They waited patiently.

A chilling, damp wind swept across the sparse, red soil. The atmosphere grew heavy, clinging to the skin and making each breath feel burdensome. A thin veil of fog drifted across the distance ahead.

Alex stood perfectly still, his gaze unwavering and steady.

And soon, the others began to comprehend the reason for his actions.

Shapes started to materialize from the dissipating mist. A large contingent—marching in perfect unison. Approximately one and a half thousand strong.

And leading them prominently at the forefront, was Brock Peyton.

Peyton’s face contorted into a furious grimace as his gaze landed upon the utterly annihilated caravan lying behind the Fortuna formation.

Alex’s expression, conversely, turned solemn.

His eyes immediately locked onto the figures flanking Brock Peyton—four distinct presences radiating the formidable energy of Combat Masters.

‘Excellent. All of the Lost Heathens’ Combat Masters are present… this saves me considerable trouble,’ he mused with calm detachment.

"Alex Fury!!!" Brock Peyton roared the moment his eyes recognized him.

"Do not dare to shout my name with that filthy mouth of yours," Alex retorted, his cold voice carrying clearly across the battlefield, reaching the ears of every member of the Lost Heathen ranks.

"I will kill you... and then I will drink wine from your skull!" Peyton snarled menacingly.

"As expected of a savage thug," Alex replied evenly. "I granted you the opportunity to resolve this peacefully, yet you deliberately chose violence. This… is the direct consequence of your choice."

He paused for a brief moment before adding, his tone dropping to a chilling whisper,

"Enough pointless talk. Come forth and face your demise."

"Annihilate them all!" Peyton bellowed, his rage reaching an uncontrollable boiling point.

A vanguard of five hundred soldiers broke away from the main Lost Heathen force and surged forward aggressively.

Peyton, while perhaps impulsive, was certainly not foolish.

The caravan had served as deliberate bait, intended to lure Fortuna into a vulnerable position. However, Alex’s forces had obliterated it within mere minutes—long before the main army, trailing just out of sight, could close the distance.

This vanguard comprised primarily of hired mercenaries—individuals drawn in by promises of substantial coin... or rather, berserk stones, upon Fortuna’s eventual defeat.

Alex calmly retreated from the front line, deliberately clearing space for his eager strike unit.

He observed the approaching five hundred—disorganized, reckless, and charging headlong towards them.

Then—

Thwack! Thwack!! Thwack!!!

Fortuna responded without a moment’s hesitation.

A devastating storm of bolts rained down upon the attackers.

The charging force collapsed almost instantaneously.

Over seventy percent of them fell within the initial moments of the volley.

Even more horses were struck down, turning the enemy’s advance into utter chaos.

The survivors broke ranks, panic spreading like wildfire as they attempted to flee, trampling one another in a desperate and chaotic retreat.

Without needing any explicit command, Fortuna’s formation advanced—prepared to press the attack and finish the engagement.

[Link]!

Alex activated the modified goblin spell.

The formation pulsed with surging power, stamina, and defensive capabilities, seamlessly binding each participant into a singular entity.

Instantly, the individual load was lightened, with burdens now evenly distributed throughout the entire group.

More significantly, this allowed the support casters to function with enhanced efficiency and discretion.

Once the connection was forged, Eleanore and Mordor, concealed within the ranks, commenced their buffing spells.

Unlike conventional techniques, there were no overt bursts of power or visible emanations to betray their locations.

Every augmentation flowed flawlessly through the established network, precisely reaching its intended recipients.

Alex offered a subtle nod to himself and was about to shift his focus back to the five leaders of the Lost Heathen formation when an alteration occurred.

It felt as though time had abruptly ceased.

Or more accurately, his perception of it decelerated to an almost imperceptible pace.

From his forehead, the diminutive Fortune-Suppressing Dragon manifested.

It gracefully hovered above the Fortuna formation, extending its minuscule limbs towards them.

And then—

Leveraging the link established by the [Link] spell, the dragon began extracting fine golden threads from every member of the Fortuna company.

These threads emitted a faint luminescence, pulsing with a substance profounder than mere mana—a resonance tied to fervor, allegiance, and intention.

Within its grasp, the dragon meticulously gathered and shaped these threads.

Gradually, a singular artifact took shape.

A token...

A command token.

With a swift movement of its small talon, the token was propelled directly into Alex’s hand.

He caught it by reflex.

It possessed a peculiar sensation.

Tangible, like carved wood, yet indisputably an energetic construct.

Alex’s gaze darted as he scrutinized it intently.

Engraved upon its surface, in the ancient script of Rune-Tech, were two inscriptions—

On one facet: Army.

On the reverse: Fortuna.

‘An Army Fortune-Suppressing Token…?’ Alex deduced.

The instant his fingers closed around it, an overwhelming connection coursed through him.

He could perceive each and every member of the Fortuna company—

Their unwavering loyalty.

Their steadfast belief.

Their resilient morale.

It was as if the token itself incorporated an advanced, inherent, and intricate iteration of the [Link] spell.

Beyond that, it was performing an additional function.

It was drawing upon the collective emotional resonance of the formation… refining it into a subtle, enigmatic force within its core.

The Fortune-Suppressing Dragon had not yet concluded its task.

It drew forth additional golden threads from the formation, subsequently tapping into the energy now conserved within the command token.

In its tiny appendages, the energy fractionated—splitting into four smaller spheres.

For a fleeting moment, Alex experienced an overlap of his thoughts with those of the dragon.

And within that instant, the four spheres underwent a metamorphosis.

A banner.

A breastplate.

An armband.

A cap.

Each item materialized instantaneously, sculpted by instinct, purpose, and resolve.

Then, with equal rapidity, the constructs were reabsorbed into the command token.

A deluge of information flooded Alex’s consciousness.

The banner signified the unit fortune of the Main Force. The breastplate symbolized the Strike Unit. The cap corresponded to the Marksman Unit. The armband embodied the Autonomous Unit.

The dragon emitted a small, weary exhalation.

Its energy clearly depleted, it swayed unsteadily back towards Alex and—without preamble—re-entered his forehead.

It penetrated directly into his Mindspace… then traversed OmniRune itself, retreating to the Sanctuary beyond.

Barriers, protective measures—none appeared to impede the creature’s passage.

Alex could only offer a wry shake of his head at its blatant disdain for the established order of existence.

The instant it vanished, time resumed its normal flow.

The cacophony of the battlefield surged back to life.

Before him, the Fortuna company launched a ferocious charge, directly assailing the primary contingent of the Lost Heathens.

Acting purely on instinct—

Alex channeled his mana into the ethereal command token resting within his grasp.

***