Baron Rydell swung his sword in a wide horizontal arc, the steel biting into a man’s shoulder and driving him back with a scream. Before the blood had even hit the deck, Rydell slammed his shield into another soldier’s chest, grabbed the man by his collar, and hurled him over the railing. The splash below barely reached his ears.

  Chaos roared around him.

  The ambush had exploded into a full battle far faster than he expected, and now the riverbank and the ship’s deck were a storm of steel, shouting, and flying fire from spells. Rydell had climbed aboard the moment the first arrows struck, his men flooding after him over the wooden ramp, and for a heartbeat he allowed himself to believe they were winning.

  Arzan’s soldiers were retreating step by step. Several bodies lay slumped near the mast, arrows jutting from their chests, and two terrified men had even leapt into the river to escape, paddling desperately as three of Rydell’s own soldiers shouted after them.

  Rydell allowed himself a thin smile. They had momentum—real momentum.

  But he wasn’t foolish enough to think victory was already in his hands.

  Two problems still stood in his way.

  The first was simple numbers—far more men were climbing out from the ship’s lower cabins than he had expected. It made sense; if the cargo truly held mana cannons, then Arzan would have stuffed the vessel with extra guards. Rydell cursed himself for not planning for that.

  The second problem was far worse.

  To win completely, they needed to kill the Enforcer leading this convoy.

  Even now, Rydell could hear thunderous explosions shaking the riverbank as Mage Loun traded spells with the Enforcer somewhere behind the trees. Loun’s flames snapped and boomed in the night, lighting up the sky in angry bursts—fire that should have melted through any normal man.

  But an Enforcer wasn’t a normal opponent.

  As Baron Rydell turned his head, he caught sight of the Enforcer chasing Mage Loun across the riverbank, a crude stone axe clenched in the man’s hand. The weapon hadn’t come from the ship—Rydell had seen it appear out of thin air, shaped by mana in a single heartbeat.

  Mage Loun answered with a roar of flames, throwing up walls of fire so bright that the trees nearby flickered like torches. But the Enforcer barely slowed. Stone crawled over his skin like living armor, each plate forming and hardening until he looked more like a walking sculpture than a man. Even so, he kept charging, his steps cracking the dirt beneath him.

  Mage Loun was a peak Second-Circle Mage—more than enough to burn through normal soldiers—but against an Enforcer, he looked almost helpless. Every fireball forced the man back a step, yet the next moment the Enforcer was already leaping forward, crashing through the flames as if heat meant nothing. None of Rydell’s soldiers dared to go near them. They had all seen what happened the moment the Enforcer had stepped off the ship—three men cut down before any of them had even drawn breath.

  A cold pulse of fear thumped in Rydell’s chest, but he forced himself to turn back toward the ship. Shock hit him like a slap. There were barely any enemies left. Most of Arzan’s men had already abandoned the fight entirely—he saw one leap over the railing with a scream, splashing into the river, followed by two more who scrambled away like rats fleeing a burning barn.

  On the bank, the last remaining soldiers of the enemy force were staring wide-eyed at their fleeing comrades, confusion turning into dread. Their morale was collapsing with every heartbeat.

  Rydell’s instincts sharpened. This is it. The opening we needed.

  He drew in a deep breath and barked, “We are going to go flank that Enforcer and kill him. You all understand?”

  His men froze, their faces tightening in uncertainty. It was one thing to fight foot soldiers, another to face a monster wearing a man’s skin. But when Rydell turned his glare on them, their hesitation broke. One by one, they nodded and began to move.

  They leapt off the ship, boots splashing in shallow water before pounding across the bank. They formed a rough semicircle behind the Enforcer, who was too busy dodging [Firebolts] to notice them closing in.

  Then the man finally sensed movement. He twisted half an inch, just enough for a firebolt to slam directly into his chest. The blast lit up the night, and the Enforcer staggered, stone armor cracking and smoke curling off his torso.

  Three soldiers lunged at the Enforcer, blades flashing in the fire-lit night. For a heartbeat, Baron Rydell thought they might finally bring the man down, but then the Enforcer’s skin hardened, turning to stone right before their eyes.

  With a grunt, the Enforcer shot out his hand, grabbing one of the soldiers by the throat and slamming him into the dirt with a sickening thud. Before the second attacker could even react, the stone axe came down in a brutal arc. Blood sprayed across the riverbank.

  Rydell winced, but another burst of fire cracked through the darkness.

  More [Firebolts] slammed into the Enforcer’s chest, throwing him backward. His armour shattered under the heat, plates snapping off and clattering on the stones. The flesh underneath hissed and burned, but even injured, the man’s skin rippled and hardened again as he forced his body to take the impact.

  He rolled, kicking another man away before springing back to his feet.

  “Damn it…” Rydell muttered. Fighting one Enforcer felt like fighting an entire squad. And things weren’t getting better. Mage Loun’s flames were slowing—his mana clearly thinning—and none of the common soldiers dared to charge in after watching their comrades die in seconds.

  Only the archers kept their nerve, sending arrows down from the treeline. But the Enforcer just snapped them from the air, catching them like they were nothing more than thrown twigs.

  Rydell’s stomach tightened. He could tell the Enforcer was stalling—gathering mana, hardening every inch of his body for another burst.

  He drew in a deep breath and roared. “Don’t just stand there! Attack him—attack, or I swear I’ll skin all of you alive!”

  The effect was instant.

  The wavering line of soldiers stiffened, terror replacing hesitation. Then, finally, they surged forward. Spears jabbed out, swords swung from both sides, the air filled with cries and clashing steel.

  This time, the Enforcer didn’t dodge. He stepped into the blows, taking them full-force. His axe whipped around toward a soldier—the man barely ducked left in time—and another soldier seized the opening, plunging his spear into the Enforcer’s side.

  Baron Rydell almost cheered when Mage Loun finally hurled another volley of spells at the man. Flames streaked through the night like burning comets, and for a heartbeat it looked like the Enforcer might actually fall. Bombarded from all sides, the stone-skinned brute swung his axe wildly, trying to carve out space for himself, but the attacks kept piling on. The firelight rippled across his hardened body, cracks forming where blades had struck.

  Just when Rydell thought the man would collapse, the Enforcer twisted to the side—dodging a [Firebolt] that burst like a star against the ground—and snapped his gaze toward the ship. For a terrifying moment, Rydell thought he was coming straight for him. His grip tightened around his sword, sweat chilling under his armor.

  But instead of climbing aboard, the Enforcer sprinted past the wreckage, reached the bank in two strides, and dove into the river. His body vanished beneath the dark water with barely a splash before the current swept him away.

  “Don’t let him run! Use arrows and spells!” Baron Rydell roared.

  His men responded instantly. Arrows rained down in sharp arcs. Fire crashed into the water, exploding into walls of steam that rolled over the bank like fog. Rydell coughed hard as the hot mist washed over him. When the cloud finally thinned, the river was empty.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  The Enforcer was gone.

  Rydell swore under his breath, the frustration coiling tight inside his chest. His Knight hurried up the muddy slope and asked, “Should we go after him, my lord?”

  Rydell hesitated only a moment before answering, “Send two men after him.” Then he shook off the thought, already turning toward the ship. “But it’s not important. We were here for the shipment. Let’s move and see what we’ve gotten.”

  His words ignited his soldiers. Cheers rose at once as they surged into the ship, boots thudding against the wet planks. From the deck, Rydell heard the thumping of doors being broken open, the sound echoing in the night like distant drums.

  He waited on the riverbank, anticipation buzzing through his veins. A minute later his men returned, lugging out crates soaked from river spray. They cracked them open, and wide grins spread across their faces.

  Inside were strange, polished constructs—harsh lines, compact barrels, mechanisms of metal and crystal. Rydell recognized them instantly.

  Mana guns.

  He lifted one, feeling the cold weight settle into his palm. The design was unlike anything common soldiers ever handled.

  “Did you find the mana cannon?” he asked.

  “Yes, my lord,” one of the men answered proudly. “There were a lot of them. We’re bringing everything out slowly.”

  A slow smile crept over Baron Rydell’s face, triumph washing away his fears. “King Thalric will surely make me a count after this,” he murmured, already imagining the glory.

  But in his excitement—in the noise, the steam, the chaos—Baron Rydell did not realise one crucial detail. Not a single “corpse” on the ship was still there.

  ***

  Bran hauled himself out of the river, every inch of his body screaming as cold water clung to his skin. The current had tossed him around like a rag, smashing his back against hidden rocks and pulling him under more than once. By the time his fingers finally caught onto a root on the riverbank, he felt as if someone had carved lines of fire down his ribs which was somewhat true.

  He dragged himself onto the mud, chest heaving, and lay there for a moment, letting the night air cool the burning pain inside him. Water dripped from his armour in heavy streams, making everything feel twice as heavy. Gritting his teeth, Bran sat up and unbuckled the chestplate, cursing as it scraped over a bruise. One by one, he peeled off the armour pieces and shoved them into the river, watching the current snatch them away. None of it was enchanted—no one would care if it sank into the bottom of the river forever.

  Only when he felt the weight finally leave his shoulders did he reach for the glass vial strapped to his belt. Bran pulled out a health draught and drank it in one go. Cool liquid slid down his throat, spreading warmth from his stomach to his limbs, knitting up torn skin and sealing the worst of the wounds. He hissed through his teeth as the healing prickled across his side.

  “Good thing those bastards don’t coat their blades,” Bran muttered, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Would’ve been dead by now.”

  Pain still lingered under his ribs, but at least he could stand. Slowly, very slowly, he pushed himself up, using a tree trunk for balance. He glanced across the river. Through the darkness, he could faintly make out the broken trees and the torches bobbing on the opposite bank.

  Bran gave a crooked grin.

  Let them chase.

  He turned and slipped into the forest, moving lightly due to his injuries. Training kicked in immediately: stay low, step on roots instead of leaves, avoid mud that holds footprints, and never walk in a straight line. He weaved through bushes, climbed over a fallen log, then deliberately doubled back, scraping his boot across the dirt to create a false trail before circling away again.

  He wanted whoever followed him confused and wasting time.

  As he moved deeper between the trees, Bran couldn’t help but grin wider, the thrill finally sinking in. The plan had worked. Perfectly. He imagined Lord Arzan’s expression when he would hear the full report—how Bran had held off a Mage and two dozen men long enough for the others to sneak away, how he had played his part so well that even the noble leading them wouldn't doubt him.

  “The fools probably think they won,” Bran whispered to himself, almost laughing.

  He wondered if they had noticed yet—how all the ‘dead’ bodies on the ship had vanished. Probably not. They would be too busy dragging out the crates, cheering over their new ‘spoils,’ too excited to look closely.

  Too blind to realise they had just carried the first piece of Lord Arzan’s plan straight into the heart of their own camp.

  They had moved only at night—just like Lord Arzan had ordered—so they could slip away after “dying.” It had taken weeks of training to pull the trick off. Every soldier had downed a stoneskin potion to toughen their bodies, copying the rocky hide that Bran could naturally summon. They had stuffed blood bags under their armour so that when arrows and blades struck, it would look real. All of this… just to hand their most treasured weapons straight into enemy hands.

  If Bran hadn’t known Lord Arzan’s real plan, he would have sworn the man had lost his mind.

  But knowing what was coming next, he could only grin at the thought of the faces on Thalric’s men once everything unfolded.

  He walked despite the deep ache twisting across his ribs and stomach. The health draught was working, knitting flesh and muscle back together, but it was still slow. Every few minutes he checked behind him, searching between roots and shadows for anyone following his trail. He didn’t see anyone.

  After nearly two hours of steady walking through the dark forest, Bran finally stepped into the clearing they had chosen beforehand.

  A soft glow from their small fire lit the clearing, and dozens of familiar figures sat around it—eating, laughing quietly, cleaning fake blood off their armour. When they spotted him, they immediately cheered. Bran counted them out of habit.

  All present. Not a single man lost.

  One soldier stood and walked toward him. “Knight Bran, we were almost going to come looking for you.”

  Bran scoffed, brushing leaves off his arm. “You should worry about yourself, kid. They only managed a few scratches on me.” He raised his voice, looking over the group. “Everyone here okay?”

  A chorus answered: “Yes, we are! Those bastards were far too lousy to harm us!”

  Bran nodded, a grin stretching across his face. “Good. Because this isn’t the end. Thalric can’t win a war with just a dozen stolen mana cannons, right? We’ve got to make sure they get enough to fill Fort Kaelgrim.”

  A few men chuckled at his sarcastic tone.

  “We understand, Knight Bran,” the same soldier said. “All of us are ready for another supply run.”

  Bran smirked, rolling his shoulders. “Good. Then let’s go strengthen our enemy.”

  ***

  A/N - You can read 30 chapters (15 Magus Reborn and 15 Dao of money) on my patreon. Annual subscription is now on too.

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