Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

The newly arrived rider galloped excitedly to the standoff between the two men. Seeing that Chilian had only a scimitar but no bow and arrows, he was overjoyed. However, upon noticing his elder brother hesitating to make a move, he grew puzzled.

But he quickly made up his mind—not to overthink it.

The newcomer untied the bowstring, strung his bow, and volunteered: "[Herde Language] If Brother won't act, then I will!"

But his elder brother pressed down on his horn bow.

The young boy looked at his brother in confusion, but the young man merely shook his head.

"Wait." The young man signaled his younger brother with his eyes.

Chilian, unable to find death even when seeking it, threw his head back and let out an anguished roar. He wiped his tears haphazardly, climbed onto his horse, and stubbornly headed into the depths of the mountains.

The two brothers trailing him neither stopped nor helped him, merely keeping a measured distance behind.

Time passed indefinitely before the silence of the wasteland was once again shattered by the thunderous sound of hooves.

A troop of black-clad cavalry appeared within the trio's line of sight. This time, the pursuers were no longer youths from various tribes but the genuine Paratu Cavalry.

The young man sent a signal arrow skyward.

The Paratu Cavalry, who had tracked his marked path along the way, heard the sound and spurred their warhorses toward the trio's location.

Leading them was none other than Seber.

Chilian, knowing his death was imminent, turned his warhorse to face his adversaries head-on.

Upon seeing the Barbarian Chief at the end of his rope and the guiding brothers keeping a watchful eye, Seber burst into hearty laughter: "Left for me? Wonderful! Simply wonderful!!"

Soon after, Seber noticed the Barbarian Chief pointing a blade at him while muttering a barrage of Herde words.

"Hmm?" Seber raised an eyebrow and asked the guiding brothers, "What is he saying?"

The older brother listened to Chilian's curses and then explained in his broken Anglu: "Chilian's headman... wishes to engage you in... warrior versus warrior... one arrow against one arrow combat..."

Seber's interest was piqued: "A duel?"

"Major, please don't act rashly," Anglu, sensing danger, hastened to dissuade him. "The Barbarian Chief knows he cannot escape today and seeks to bring you down with him. Please do not grant him the chance."

"Since when do you have the authority to control me?" Seber sneered at Anglu from the corner of his eye.

"Montaigne Civil Guard Officer ordered me to ensure your safety," Anglu retorted calmly. "I am no longer a soldier of the Paratu Army, so your rank as Major holds no weight over me. However, the Centurion's directive is my sole mission."

Seber scoffed dismissively and waved him off. "I know my limits."

He flicked his riding whip and slowly rode toward Chilian. Anglu helplessly gestured to his subordinates to prepare for anything.

Yet, as Seber faced Chilian, he did not draw his weapon. Instead, he reached into his pocket and, after some fumbling, pulled out an old, filthy pipe.

He clumsily packed the bowl with crushed tobacco leaves and painstakingly used a fire striker to light the tinder cloth, setting the tobacco alight in the end.

Chilian widened his eyes, baffled at the Herde leader's incomprehensible behavior. It wasn't until Seber placed the tiny object in his mouth, inhaling contentedly, that realization struck—this man was deliberately savoring Chilian's despair, his anger, and his imminent defeat.

"Laszlo, Robert," Seber thought silently, "are you watching?"

Immediately after, Seber began coughing violently from the harsh smoke—he didn't actually know how to smoke.

Chilian, boiling with rage, let out a furious cry and charged at the Herde man who dared humiliate him, slashing his scimitar wildly.

Still coughing, Seber in a flash drew the short gun from his saddle and aimed it steadily at the Barbarian Chief's chest before pulling the trigger.

A crisp "click" resounded as fire exploded, smoke erupted, and gunpowder ignited.

Chilian's chest now bore a bloody hole, and his back had an even more gruesome cavity blown out. His arms flung backward as he toppled from his horse.

"Idiot," Seber said coldly.

Chilian was dead.

But it wouldn't be long before Seber regretted letting Chilian die so easily.

...

[The valley where the Chilian Sect's camp resided]

The sun had fully risen.

Victory had been decided, and the brief yet bloody slaughter had come to an end.

The corpses scattered across the slopes were dragged to the bottom of the valley for tallying. Captives—men, women, and children—were corralled and placed under strict guard.

The injured cavalry rested on the slopes, waiting for the medics to tend to their wounds. The bodies of fallen cavalrymen had already been loaded onto carts, their lifeless faces covered by black uniforms.

Among the remaining capable cavalry, a small group pursued fleeing enemies, while most scoured through the ruins of the camp, searching for food, water, and spoils of war.

It had been an undeniable victory, a wasteland-style triumph, where the victors claimed everything as their due.

Unlike the impoverished Herde tribes Winters had encountered before, the Chilian Sect was unusually wealthy. The furs, jewelry, gold, silverware, and coins looted from the camp had already formed a towering pile.

"Centurion!" called Lannis, former commander of the Fifth Infantry Regiment and now a makeshift cavalry squad leader. He held a scimitar with a pearl-inlaid sheath, his face barely containing his delight. "This must be the Barbarian Chief's sword! I present it to you!"

Winters took the scimitar and asked, "Have the sentries been dispatched?"

"They have," Lannis immediately responded, his expression turning stern. "Riders have been sent out in twenty-four directions. No approaching cavalry within twenty kilometers will escape our notice."

"Tell everyone to prioritize gathering food, water, and horses—these items cannot be consumed or drunk. We need to leave quickly." Winters tossed the scimitar into the pile of loot, tapping Lannis on the head with his riding whip. "Don't worry about the spoils; they'll be distributed fairly among everyone."