Chapter 29
I decided to ambush outside the cabin, realizing the Mazok didn’t know my exact location. This approach also had the advantage of revealing their actual positions.
I waited in a large tree hollow on a small hill overlooking the cabin. I noticed a group of Mazok approaching earlier than the time they’d storm the cabin.
‘So they fully surrounded it before approaching the cabin.’
I ambushed the approaching Mazok group, taking down eight. But even with a suppressor, the gunshot noise wasn’t negligible. A Mazok I failed to kill while reloading escaped and joined others. The Mazok seemed skilled in forest combat. I missed the chance to counterattack and died.
Next, I changed positions to count their numbers. I couldn’t get a full count at once. Over five attempts, I switched spots and learned there were twenty-one. Among them were Moraiots Sing and Shirund Zen, whom I already knew. Fortunately, they were far apart, and as high-status individuals, they weren’t the first to act.
‘Spreading their forces widely is advantageous for surrounding, and since elders and heirs of prominent families likely know stronger magic, they’re probably accounting for unexpected situations.’
That judgment was correct. Even the Mazok soldiers alone were overwhelming.
‘But there’s a weakness.’
Through ambushes, I discovered that before the Mazok formed a encirclement around the cabin, their arrival times varied. Typically, three formed a team, and three teams supported each other. From what I recalled, this was called a squad. Here, Shirund, a Mazok assisting Shirund, and Moraiots each led a squad.
‘But each squad leader stays at a distance from their teams, filling gaps in the encirclement. After all, Mazok have Communication Magic.’
Commonly called Whisper, this included entities like Demi speaking directly to the surface of one’s consciousness, enabling communication over distances where normal conversation was impossible. For Mazok, their Communication Magic involved transforming voices to reach distant Mazok.
‘Each team seems to stay only within visual range in this forest. But because of Communication Magic, unless I take out a team in one surprise attack, they’ll call others.’
Knowing my limits, I tried about twenty times to find the optimal ambush spot around the cabin. Most times, I couldn’t surpass the initial eight, though once I killed nine but died to Moraiots’s Blood Thorn. Even if I defeated Moraiots after a few tries, I saw the remaining Mazok rushing toward me, so I judged the fighting location was poor.
‘The cabin is surrounded by a clearing, so no matter where I fight, the battle sounds carry, and Mazok’s magic can link with Communication Magic.’
So, I decided to charge at the Mazok before they reached the cabin, striking first.
‘The Mazok headed straight for the cabin because they learned from the magic school’s forest keepers that to navigate Yurmus Forest without getting lost, they needed to use cabins as bases. Since they’re not wandering but rushing with full force, naturally, each team stretches out based on running speed or the importance of individuals. If my guess is right, the teams and squads will be much farther apart than when fighting in the cabin clearing.’
Leading the charge was Moraiots, a prominent family heir with yellow eyes, dark blue skin, and spiral horns above his ears. From my studies, the Sing family was a warrior clan that valued bravery and cruelty, excelling in Combat Magic suited for facing many enemies. Most of the soldiers I faced were from Sing family branches, and ‘Blood Thorn’ was their signature magic.
‘But all that magic…’
I emerged from a tree trunk beside Moraiots as he ran. Mazok have sharp senses, often noticing hidden foes, but their detection weakens while sprinting. Moraiots, clearly startled, slowed down, which led to his downfall.
‘…is useless if you miss the chance to use it.’
I had already used my handgun on Moraiots. No matter how fast Mazok magic was, it was slower than the Glock 45. Moraiots fell, bleeding from his forehead.
The gunshot rang out, but no Mazok appeared immediately.
‘Some distance? Then I might have time.’
As I hoped, the next three Mazok appeared. But I missed one, and the rear guard discovered me. To ambush each Mazok, my presence and the deaths of prior Mazok had to remain unknown until the end.
‘Not all are as fast as Moraiots. Some teams are closer together. Moraiots acted alone even at the magic school, so he’s likely independent by nature.’
My guess was right. Each Mazok wasn’t easy. I experimented by changing ambush spots and attack methods. On the thirty-third try, I defeated Moraiots’s vanguard. But such a fight creates unease even from a distance. No matter how successful my ambush, the stench of blood from the Mazok I killed and the silence from birds fleeing the gunshot were unavoidable.
The gunshot was the biggest issue. Suppressors work well in noisy places but not in quiet ones. Shirund’s main force, unsure of what happened to Moraiots, didn’t rush in blindly but cautiously spread their encirclement.
‘I need to change my attack method.’
I picked up a sword instead of the handgun. This made my challenge harder.
For me, the Glock 45 was a magical tool that drastically closed the gap between me and the Mazok. But in swordsmanship, I was never superior. I was clearly outmatched by Moraiots.
Still, using a sword was worth trying.
‘First, these Mazok are fools who enjoy fighting, so if I wield a sword, they’ll meet me with one. Second, they underestimate me, so even when they could win with magic, they give me one chance. Lastly, I’m not that outclassed.’
When I first faced Moraiots, his sword moved unpredictably. But I could see and counter its trajectory. I lost five times in a row, but on the sixth, I struck back. Not because my swordsmanship improved, but because Moraiots’s trajectory was consistent across regressions, and I exploited it.
‘This is doable.’
I recalled Rebilton’s words. Swordsmanship is a complex game. Even with a large gap in strength and skill, knowing where to place your sword and how to apply force lets you compete, like wrestling.
‘…This isn’t the end.’
I also knew about the Hunter’s Sword, not just basic swordsmanship. Observation was key. Watching an opponent repeatedly—dozens, hundreds of times—to identify habits, wounds, diseases, and weaknesses, then weaving that into swordsmanship. A limping giant boar struggles to turn, so dodge by twisting. A giant deer with a severed right ear always approaches from the right. Challenge a diseased giant wolf on the coldest day. Stab a spear into the heart of a giant bear with a hunter’s spearhead still lodged. That was the Ruure Hunters’ way.
Ordinary people don’t get the chance to observe someone so intensely. But I was different. Moraiots’s first attack was always a feint to gauge the opponent. His left shoulder wasn’t fully healthy, likely from an old wound. He had no diseases but an excessive disgust for filth.
“Moraiots Sing.”
“…How do you know my name?”
And Moraiots was weak to provocation.
“Who wouldn’t know the weakest blood of the Sing family?”
“…You wretch!”
Moraiots’s first attack seemed to target my legs but shifted to my neck. But I wasn’t fooled from the start. A feint only works if it deceives; otherwise, it’s just inefficient. My blade slit Moraiots’s neck in the shortest path.
When needed, I called Mazok names to insult them, lured them from afar pretending to be an ally, or feigned death to rise and gut them. The more I used the sword, the better my swordsmanship against Mazok became. It wasn’t rapid skill growth; I wasn’t that talented in swordsmanship.
I simply treated Mazok like practice dummies. I learned where to start cutting, which parts of their attire to avoid, and what attacks were more lethal. It was less skill accumulation and more knowledge accumulation. After cutting a hundred Mazok, I saw their individual traits. After a thousand, I gained a holistic understanding of the Mazok race—as mere targets to cut down.
It was different from shooting. A gun carries little information. The target is far, only a finger moves, sensation comes from the shockwave of bullet and powder, and I aim for a point. A sword is close enough to hear the opponent’s grimace and shallow breaths, drenched in our blood and fluids, swinging my whole body, feeling exhausted muscles and burning lungs, aiming for a line connecting two points.
Unknowingly, I was approaching the ‘Mazok Hunter’s Sword.’