After exiting the village, we arrived at the enemy camp. Garrick groaned faintly as we carried him into the medical tent, our movements practiced, but cautious. A stern-looking female healer stepped forward, eyeing us briefly before issuing her order.
"Put him here. I’ll heal him later," she commanded, her tone brisk and indifferent, as though this was just another routine task.
"Okay." We gently lowered Garrick onto the bed, playing our roles perfectly, then stepped out of the tent into the open air of the bustling camp.
The smell of smoke and steel lingered. I joined a group of enemy soldiers huddled around a campfire, their faces flickering under the dancing flames. We exchanged stories and laughter—an uneasy camaraderie in the chill of the night.
"So, you guys encountered that mace-wielding bastard too?" one of them asked, voice laced with venom.
"Yeah, but we were lucky that no one died among us," I replied with a practiced smile, hiding the disgust bubbling beneath my skin.
"That bastard… next time, I’ll crush his skull."
"You’re the one who couldn’t even react to a simple attack," another scoffed.
"Shut up! I was caught off guard that time!" he snapped defensively.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Caught off guard, alright," the other one mocked, shaking his head.
"What about you? Who did you encounter?"
"I faced off against the tall bitch,"
"But man, why are those failures trying so hard to fight back?" someone else sneered.
"Do they really think they can win against the Empire?"
A soldier leaned forward, his eyes glinting with something dark. "Also, can we do whatever we want to the survivors?" he asked, licking his lips.
"You horny ass."
"Probably," he replied with a shrug.
"Hahhh, I’m getting excited just thinking about it."
I felt the tension in my comrade spike. His hand crept to his dagger, eyes narrowed with rage. I reached over and gripped his wrist firmly, stopping him before he made a mistake. Then, through the link of telepathy, I sent a clear message:
'Calm down, guys. If you don’t, you’re going to ruin our plan. Hold it for now—you can release your anger later.'
He exhaled slowly, his grip loosening, but I could still feel the fury burning just beneath his skin.
I attempted to expand my senses to scan the camp, but the damned system restricted my perception to a six-meter radius. Frustration rose in my chest. I pushed it aside and sent an internal order to my allies: find the enemy commander—locate and eliminate him.
We split up, each of us blending into the enemy ranks, chatting, drinking, listening—gathering every scrap of information we could.
"The commander was really pissed off this morning, man," one soldier muttered over his mug.
"Yeah, we should avoid doing anything that can annoy him… He might kill us."
"Yeah, for sure. Considering how high his pride is."
"This mission’s gonna be hell," another added with a weary sigh.
I approached with a casual gait, masking my presence under the weight of false kinship. "Hey, guys. Having a tough time, as always?" I asked, throwing in a hint of emphasis for effect.
"I mean, our commander… This is—" the man shook his head.
"Just this morning, he killed a squad captain. The guy only suggested we get some rest."
"He was a good captain too," another murmured bitterly.
"What’s the plan now? It’s hard to fight with all those obstacles in the village," I asked, prodding carefully.
"We don’t know."
"The guy’s probably planning something with the elite squad."
"Elite squad?"
"Ahh, you’re a newbie, huh? They’re knights chosen by the Empire because of their skill."
"That’s amazing—being chosen by the Empire," I said with just the right note of admiration.
"Amazing, my ass. They’re just a bunch of assholes with skills and egos ten times the size of their heads," he replied, gesturing toward a row of tents.
After enough idle chatter, I followed some of the soldiers to their tents to rest. I laid on the cot, feigning exhaustion, pretending to sleep while my ears stayed alert. Two hours later, the rhythmic breathing of deep sleep filled the space.
I sent out a telepathic message to my allies:
"I found where the commander is. Let’s begin the second phase of the plan."
I extended my hand. Mana surged in the air, responding to my will. I absorbed it quietly—efficiently—leaving the enemy soldiers dead where they slept, their souls fading in silence.
After finishing the silent absorption of mana, I stepped out of the tent and signaled the others with a brief nod. One by one, they emerged from their spots across the camp, faces calm but eyes sharp. We regrouped under the cover of darkness, moving swiftly and silently through the maze of tents, keeping our presence faint—no footsteps, no breath, only shadows gliding through enemy territory.
We arrived at the area where the elite squad's tents stood—larger, cleaner, and guarded by a faint pressure in the air. The aura of the knights chosen by the Empire still lingered even though they were inside. The place reeked of arrogance and power.
We positioned ourselves behind crates and scattered supplies, blending with the environment while keeping a clear view of the tent entrances. The night air was heavy, the flames from the nearby torches flickering low. Every sound, every shift in the wind felt louder.
We waited.
The minutes dragged.
Then, from inside one of the tents, voices echoed faintly. The sound of boots against hardened earth followed.
“...he said he’ll be here soon,” one voice muttered.
“That man better not waste our time,” came another, sharper tone. “I hate waiting for someone who thinks he’s above everyone.”
We didn’t move. We just listened—watched.
Soon, silence returned.
Then, the main flap of the largest tent stirred.
The commander was about to come out.
The tent flap parted—and the commander stepped out.
The moment he did, I raised my hand. Mana surged at my fingertips as I chanted under my breath, shaping the air with lethal precision. A burst of wind magic shot forward like a silent blade through the night.
But just before it hit his chest, one of the elite knights stepped in with sharp reflexes and deflected it with his shield.
The spell veered off—still powerful enough to slice clean through the commander’s arm.
"Aghhhhhhh!" the commander screamed in agony, clutching the bleeding stump where his arm had been.
But his scream was cut short.
Thwip.
Thwip.
Thwip.
Thwip.
Arrows rained down in rapid succession—one pierced his skull, another drove into his spine, a third sank deep into his thigh, and the last found its mark in the most painful place of all. He collapsed without a final word.
"Everyone wake up there is an enemy" one of the knights shouted in panic, eyes darting in my direction.
But that single moment of distraction cost them dearly.
They turned toward me—all focus, all rage.
Too late.
I had already sent the message through telepathy.
'The commander’s dead. Retreat.'
Without hesitation, we turned and bolted through the narrow paths between the tents, ducking under ropes, leaping over crates. The chaos behind us erupted like wildfire.
"Pursue them!" one of the knights roared, his voice shaking with fury.
Meanwhile, back at the medical tent, Garrick moved with brutal efficiency.
The healer turned at the faint sound.
Thunk.
The dagger flew straight from Garrick’s hand, embedding itself cleanly in the center of her forehead. Her eyes widened, body stiffening before she crumpled to the floor without a sound.
The other soldiers inside—the wounded—looked up, confused for a heartbeat.
Then the second dagger came out.
A soldier sitting on a cot reached for his sword, but Garrick was already in motion. He lunged forward, grabbing the man's head and slamming it against the tent pole with a dull crack. Bone split. Blood smeared the wood.
Another man screamed and stumbled back, knocking over a tray of bloodied bandages. Garrick pivoted, ducking low to avoid a scalpel thrown in desperation. He rolled across the ground and came up beneath the man’s guard, jamming a third dagger under his ribcage. The man gasped—once—and fell.
A nurse tried to flee, but Garrick hurled his dagger again. It spun end over end before striking the back of her neck. She hit the ground face-first, unmoving.
The last soldier, injured but armed, charged Garrick with a fevered shout, swinging a crutch like a club. Garrick sidestepped smoothly and grabbed the man’s arm mid-swing. With a swift twist and a brutal pull, he dislocated the soldier’s shoulder. The man howled in pain. Garrick answered by jamming his elbow into the man’s throat, collapsing his windpipe. He let the body fall.
The tent grew silent, save for the sound of blood dripping from blades onto canvas. Garrick stood in the middle, breathing steady, eyes cold.
No screams. No survivors. Only still bodies and spilled blood.