Chapter Seventy-Two: A Sight to Burn the Eyes

The return of the Ice Shackles truly startled the mage from Smitha. Ice Shackles was his most adept skill, and a sudden ambush like this typically left opponents barely enough time to turn and instinctively raise their shield—a good reaction in most cases. Yet the enemy's counter was so skillful that it suggested at least seven or eight mages were present in their ranks, all working together with exquisite coordination, clearly an elite force.

The mage raised his hand and fired a missile, knocking the rebounding shackles aside so they landed harmlessly on the ground. He retreated several steps, flinging an Ice Arrow to harass the enemy. The emergency squad immediately raised their shields; the Ice Arrow struck and vanished soundlessly, dissipating on impact.

These magic-resistant shields were engraved with elemental dispersion arrays, accelerating the dissolution of spells and providing magical resistance. For primary skills like Ice Arrow, simply blocking was sufficient; no further attention was needed.

Though the emergency squad’s individual strength was inferior, their equipment was first-rate. The kingdom had invested heavily, both to restore order in Mossia City and to bolster the survival of its emergency teams. Their gear was even superior to that of the military’s own elite units. In contrast, the Smitha mage could only cast spells empty-handed, looking rather shabby.

Meanwhile, the Smitha warrior saw his ambush fail and immediately charged forward, sword raised. Yellow battle energy surged, condensing at the tip of his blade; with each stride, the yellow glow became a meteor, aiming to pierce the emergency squad’s formation.

Just as mages had their spell techniques, battle energy had its own: focusing all energy into one point or drawing it from the whole body—these were only possible after one’s battle energy evolved to orange. At the red stage, body parts acted independently: if your hand was weak, the energy in your hand lacked force; if your leg faltered, its energy was useless. But once orange was reached, energy could be mobilized; yellow battle energy was even stronger.

This method of focusing all strength into a single point for assault was known as "Pinnacle Strike." Though textbook in nature, it was not something those with mere red battle energy could withstand. Even if the armor could not be pierced, the sheer force would cause grave injury, and the speed was such that red battle energy users could not evade.

The Smitha warrior wielded Kevin's sword and shield, both of the Thunder Knight Order—no ordinary gear. On the continent, a color grade higher in battle energy was considered a father-son disparity; now two grades higher was more akin to grandfather-grandson. No wonder the Smitha warrior was fearless.

He charged swiftly; the emergency squad barely had time to raise their shields. The Smitha warrior smirked inwardly, when suddenly something struck his ankle. His footing faltered, and he nearly pitched forward.

Unperturbed, he used his shield to support himself, rolled aside, and retreated two steps. Glancing at the ground, he saw a groundhog wielding a mallet, baring its buck teeth at him before darting back underground.

Clearly, one of the emergency squad’s familiars. Any mage with sufficient mental strength could form such a contract. Groundhogs weren’t even magical beasts—among animals, they were lowly. Virtually any mage could summon one.

Pinnacle Strike was incredibly fast; tripping someone at such speed was difficult. Though wind, fire, water, and earth magic had options, the squad’s skill level wasn’t high enough to keep up. If they tried a trap or mechanism, it would likely be smashed instantly. Even stabbing his leg mid-charge, the warrior’s adrenaline might prevent him from noticing, and his charge wouldn’t necessarily be broken.

Yet the groundhog’s mallet struck precisely at the right ankle, just as the right leg was retracting and the left stepping forward, causing the right to deviate. If uncorrected, his right would step on his left foot. No matter how strong, wild, or reckless, stepping on one's own foot meant stumbling—he couldn't kick through his own leg.

Every skill has its weakness; exploiting it allows an easier counter, even victory. This is how the weak can defeat the strong. The strong aren't guaranteed victory against the weak, otherwise the continent wouldn’t have so many protagonists challenging their betters—usually a father-son dynamic, but sometimes the son prevails.

A true assessment of personal ability must consider past battles and circumstances: reactions, experience, fighting habits, favored weapons, tactical intelligence, preferred spells, cunning, terrain and weather preferences, even luck. At present, there are hundreds of spells and battle techniques, some even individually crafted. If you don’t know the enemy’s skills or lack judgment, you’ll be at a disadvantage. The simple ranking of mage levels or warrior stages is only basic reference.

Some nations have tried to quantify reactions, experience, and intelligence, even graphing them, but mainstream opinion holds this is foolish. Experience and intelligence grow rapidly, far faster than battle energy or magic power; assigning numbers misleads, not to mention values are just the estimator’s own guesswork.

Now, two “fathers” stood among a group of sons—likely seasoned challengers—and felt the weight of pressure.

“Who are you people?” someone in the emergency squad asked.

No one replied, but Kevin spoke from behind: “Officers, please don’t misunderstand. We’re just passing hunters.”

Everyone was startled, unsure what Kevin meant.

“You?” The squad leader hesitated. “You’re hunters?”

“Yes, we’re actually hunters,” Kevin replied lazily. He could see that the two Smitha men were much stronger than the emergency squad; if a fight broke out, the squad might not be wiped out, but casualties would be severe. Yet they were only the vanguard—if they could stall for a while, the main force would arrive, making victory easy and perhaps bloodless.

Thus, delaying was Kevin’s specialty. The more bizarre and illogical his words, the better—surprise and confusion would force explanations, buying time.

“You’re really hunters?” the squad leader seemed cooperative, but still puzzled. “Why do you have Ice Shackles?”

Kevin laughed. “That’s just a joke. These two friends forced me to tell stories. I accidentally referred to them as two dumb dogs, eating filth, faces covered in sores, howling stupidly, and so I got…”

“Shut up!” The Smitha warrior, sensing mockery, barked angrily.

Kevin didn’t mind. “It’s nothing, just friends joking. You officers have worked hard coming out at night—too bad there’s nothing going on.”

“I said shut up!” the warrior roared, clearly worried Kevin might use code or hints to communicate with the squad.

Kevin just smiled. “What, aren’t you hunters?”

For a moment, the two Smitha men hesitated, as if thinking that if they could bluff their way out, it would be good. But then realized they’d already attacked—could it really be forgotten?

“This hunter’s pretty strong, huh?” The squad leader tried to keep the conversation going.

Kevin laughed: “Ha! Their brains are all muscle. When they sensed something behind them, they attacked without checking, offending you officers. Please don’t hold it against us. Luckily, no one was hurt—everyone’s fine.”

The squad leader nodded. “That sudden attack did startle us! Good thing we’re well-trained. Don’t do that again, alright?”

The two Smitha men: “…”

Kevin replied for them: “We understand. It won’t happen again.”

“So you really are hunters?” The squad leader clearly grasped Kevin’s intent, happy to delay until reinforcements arrived.

“Yes, truly hunters,” Kevin answered with a smile.

“Well, if you’re hunters, let’s leave it at that. Just be careful next time.” The squad leader nodded.

The tension was odd—pleasant talk on the surface, as if it were a misunderstanding, but underneath, fists clenched, swords gripped tight, bodies taut with nerves.

“Wait!” the Smitha mage spoke up, but in his hometown tongue—only the warrior understood. “They seem to be stalling.”

“You mean their main force is behind us?” The warrior’s reaction wasn’t slow. (Hometown tongue)

Others couldn’t understand, but guessed the gist, and the tension increased. The mage continued, “If the main force comes, we won’t escape. We have two choices: give up or take these two hostage.”

The warrior edged closer to Kevin, ready to grab him at a moment’s notice. Kevin saw his intent but was helpless, weak and unable to resist. Suddenly, something was shoved into his hand—he instinctively gripped it. Only the professor was nearby; it must have been him.

It felt like a packet of powder. Kevin remembered the professor, during their last battle, had thrown quicklime into the enemy’s eyes. Apparently, facing these experts, the professor had little confidence, so secretly handed Kevin some quicklime.

“Can we leave now?” the Smitha warrior asked.

“Well…” The squad leader hesitated, “Your sword and shield aren’t right. Give them to me for a look—hunters aren’t usually allowed such gear.”

“Oh, those? We found them,” Kevin quickly replied. “We’re about to turn them over to the state.”

“I see. Then… hand them to me first,” the squad leader said.

Silence fell. The warrior finally laughed loudly, “Stop pretending—I know you’ve figured it out!”

He grabbed Kevin, pinning him in front, sword at his throat. “Don’t come closer or I’ll kill him!”

“Calm down!” the emergency squad shouted anxiously.

Kevin remained calm, “You’re mistaken. I’m worthless—if you want a hostage, take the professor!”

“Shut up!” the warrior bellowed in Kevin’s ear, making his head spin.

“From your accent, you’re foreigners, right?” the squad tried persuasion. “You have diplomatic immunity; there’s no need to take hostages.”

“Save your breath!” The mage rushed over, grabbing the professor.

“Don’t follow!” The two Smitha men began retreating.

Kevin sighed, “You think you can escape now? Surrender.”

“I’d love to cut out your tongue!” The warrior lifted Kevin by the collar, shouting in his face.

Suddenly, Kevin’s left hand swung, flinging quicklime straight into the mage’s face. The mage hadn’t expected this—he thought Kevin, restrained, would attack the warrior if he struggled. But instead, Kevin launched a surprise attack.

At close range, Kevin’s eyes stayed on the warrior, while his left hand, guided by peripheral vision, splattered the mage. The mage screamed, clutching his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” the warrior asked, punching Kevin to the ground. Pain seared Kevin’s back, and he spat blood.

“My eyes burn!” the mage cried.

Suddenly, the professor also flung a handful of quicklime. Though old and weak, the professor caught them off guard as their attention was on their wounded companion. The professor’s surprise attack caught the sixth-stage warrior unprepared.

The warrior screamed; the mage grew nervous. “What happened?”

“My eyes burn too,” the warrior groaned.

Arrows whistled—the emergency squad hadn’t retreated far, and launched an attack. Kevin and the professor were now out of reach, no longer effective hostages.

As arrows flew, the two Smitha experts showed their skill. The warrior erected a battle energy wall; the mage conjured a 360-degree shell of ice, forming a huge half-sphere on the ground. Water mages had good recovery abilities; in a moment, his eyes would be magically restored, and then they could escape unhindered.

Kevin and the professor, outside the ice sphere, knew they had to flee before becoming hostages again. But Kevin was gravely wounded, barely able to crawl. The professor hurried to help him.

Magic and arrows rained down on the Smitha men, but the sixth-stage mage’s ice defense was not easily breached. Their sight was about to recover.

Just then, another groundhog burrowed up from beneath the ice sphere, carrying a tiny crossbow, flashing its buck teeth, and fired two shots at the pair’s groins, then cheerfully disappeared underground.

“Ah!” the two Smitha men shrieked. The mage’s ice defense dissipated as his mental focus broke. Arrows and spells crashed through; their sight still gone, they could only shield their heads and endure the blows.

“We surrender! We surrender!” pierced by several arrows and seeing the enemy show no mercy, they dropped to their knees, hoping their foreign status would at least grant them a trial.

The attack ceased; the emergency squad relaxed. Torches multiplied, and the main force finally arrived. Overhead, the sound of drake-hawks circling filled the air. Kevin, at last, drifted into deep sleep—saved.