On the nameless island, violent explosions and flashes of fire sent plumes of dust soaring several meters into the jungle sky. A thick stench of blood filled the air, and intermittent shrieks of agony sent chills down the spine.
"What are you standing around for? Can't you hear?! Go save them!"
A middle-aged man with a long, narrow face and a gloomy expression swept his gaze across the his subordinates who were standing still like wooden stakes, gritted his teeth and growled.
Nearby, three soldiers in water-patterned bronze armor snapped out of their daze. Panicked, they rushed into the smoky haze and dragged out two of their comrades, both a mess of blood and torn flesh—desperately beginning emergency treatment outside the treeline.
"How are those two useless bastards?"
Seeing that the group had been busy for a while with no improvement, Dacres, the squad captain of the Imperial Guards, couldn't help but step forward and demand an update.
One of the soldiers treating the wounded, drenched in sweat, replied frantically:
"Serrano's leg is broken, Andris has a through-and-through wound in the abdomen, they're bleeding out fast. We're out of healing potions, and the unit physician didn't come with us, so we can't stop the bleeding at all!"
"Then get them to the nearest water source! The Sea God's blessing will heal them, do I have to spell out everything for you?!"
Dacres' face was stormy, his scolding bitter with frustration.
The three soldiers shuddered under his cold gaze and immediately scrambled to carry the two gravely wounded comrades toward a nearby stream.
"A bunch of Idiots. I honestly don't know how they passed the graduation assessment."
Watching them flee like frightened rabbits, Dacres gritted his teeth, suppressing a swell of fury.
"Forget it. They're just green recruits pushed in by higher-ups to pad their resumes. Not worth getting angry over."
From behind, a burly man with a bandaged left eye stepped up and patted him on the shoulder, offering a bitter smile.
Since the beginning of this chase, this old friend of his, who was once known for his composure had grown increasingly volatile, cursing and kicking more often than giving orders.
The soothing words brought a trace of calm to Dacres' oppressive demeanor as he glanced back at the large man, his expression softening slightly.
"Sorry, Andrew… I lost my head."
As he spoke, his gaze paused on the bandaged eye of the burly warrior, a flash of guilt flickering in his eyes.
That lost eye—should've been his.
If this longtime comrade hadn't shoved him out of the way at the last second and taken the hit instead…
The bloody scene replayed in Dacres' mind, turning his face grim with a familiar, bitter shame.
What was supposed to be a simple pursuit mission had spiraled into an unforgettable nightmare.
Along the way, a constant stream of unpredictable "accidents" had kept them scrambling:
—Talking trees.
—Animated grasses.
—Hairline tripwire enchantments woven from strands of hair.
—Explosive glyphs triggered when the weight of a dead comrade was lifted…
And above all else, that fugitive—elusive, master of hexes and illusions, and somehow still alive and kicking even after taking two Orichalcum secret arrows straight to the chest…
These endless traps and setbacks had taken a heavy toll, they'd suffered grievous losses.
Even he, a demigod, had nearly fallen.
If he returned now, dragging behind him a bunch of battered survivors, the outcome of his career and likely his life, was all too easy to imagine.
Even if the [Council of Ten Kings] were lenient, acknowledging his years of loyal service and choosing to spare him, the flood of blame from the various divine-blooded noble houses alone would be enough to drown him in spit.
After all, they'd spent considerable gold and favors to plant their godspawn heirs into the prestigious Imperial Guard for a little resume burnishing.
And now? Not only had they failed to come back polished, but nearly half of them were dead or maimed inside and out.
Someone had to take the fall for this disaster.
And unfortunately, given the circumstances, he was the most suitable scapegoat.
Unless... he could turn things around and capture that bastard, maybe only then could he get a sliver of redemption.
Dacres sorted through the tangled mess of thoughts in his head, rubbing his temples where the pain throbbed.
Then he turned to his comrade-in-arms with solemn resolve gleaming in his eyes.
"Don't worry. Once we capture that bastard and return to report at the Sea God's Temple, I'll take full responsibility for the casualties. I won't let any of it fall on you."
"Captain, I—"
The burly man barely opened his mouth when a panicked shout erupted from the direction of the stream.
Both men's expressions changed as they bolted toward the commotion.
"What happened?!"
"Poison! Someone poisoned the upstream water!"
The three guards, pale with fear, gave trembling replies.
Behind them, the two wounded soldiers—dragged hastily from the stream, now looked deathly grey.
Not only did their injuries not improve, but their bloody wounds were festering rapidly.
Bang!
Dacres roared and slammed his fist into a tree thick enough to require two men to encircle, shattering it like kindling as he stared toward the upstream in fury, seething internally.
—Fucking animal!
The other soldiers wore expressions of pure rage as well.
In all their lives, they'd fought all kinds of enemies, from Titans to divine beasts and many more, but most of them believed in strength and fair battle: stripped to the waist, shouting challenges, charging in for a proper brawl.
You win, you stand; you lose, you fall.
Even the so-called "clever" types usually had crude tactics, at most laying down a few auxiliary spells or traps before the fight.
But this guy?
Poisoning water? Digging pits? Setting up traps? Ambushing from the shadows?
He had turned scheming into his primary method of warfare, a twisted artform of underhanded tactics.
When the hell did the Oceanus Sea breed this kind of shameless lowlife?
"That bastard must still be nearby! Andrew, take two men and get the wounded to the shore. The rest of you, follow me to chop this bastard into pieces and feed him to the fish!"
Dacres' voice was like thunder, dark and sharp.
Without waiting for any objections, he and another demigod deputy captain, a man named Sanos, led the remaining four guards into a pincer maneuver upstream.
By now, their trauma from being outplayed was so severe that both demigods directly ignited their divine flames, channeling massive torrents of magic into a cloak of blazing blue fire that surged around them like a tangible aura, stretching over ten meters wide.
With themselves as the vanguard, they tore forward like rampaging gods.
Wherever the twin beams of searing light passed, chaos followed.
The forest on either side of the creek exploded like thunder on flat land—roots tore, leaves scattered, dust and shockwaves rolled across the terrain.
Six of them?
Perfect. They split up. It seems that the plan worked.
At that moment, up near the mouth of a cave upstream, Lorne confirmed his guesses through the ripples of sound and magic signatures as a small breath of relief escaped his lips.
On the battlefield, crippling enemy soldiers was often more effective than outright killing them.
On one hand, the screams and blood disrupted enemy judgment and morale; on the other, the wounded need to be transferred and resettled after being disabled.
At least one other soldier, sometimes two, would be pulled away from combat to carry them, multiplying the number of non-combatants in an instant.
That was Lorne's original plan too, so, he hadn't intended to go for the kill straight away.
But he had grossly underestimated the almost perverted regenerative capabilities and sheer tenacity of divine-era species.
Especially under the Sea God's protection, these group of Atlanteans, blessed with divine blood, could heal rapidly simply by soaking in water, no matter how serious their injuries.
In the end, Lorne had no choice but to adjust.
When possible, he now went for fatal blows, minimizing the risk of future threats.
That said, his primary goal this time was to escape, not win a battle.
If two injured soldiers and a single vial of poison could tie down one demigod and two elite Golden-ranked guards, then that was a trade well worth making.
At present, according to the tips of [Blessing of the God of Craftsmanship], the key components needed to repair the Wings of Icarus boiled down to two things, bird feathers and high-quality wax.
Fortunately, he still had a stash of feathers in his inventory, ones he had secretly gathered during Circe's molt.
Considering the Eagle Witch's feathers, they would likely far outperform those from any mundane seabird.
Now, all that remained was the wax.
During his time recuperating on the island, he'd vaguely remembered seeing a few beehives in the southwest region.
If he was lucky, they might still contain usable beeswax.
However, time was running out, he had to move fast!
As the booming thunder of destruction grew louder outside the cave, Lorne made his decision.
Before his pursuers managed to trap him inside, he would make his move, bolt from the cave and take a gamble.
"There! I see him!"
The six guards who had rushed over finally spotted their quarry as they clenched their teeth in fury, and launched themselves toward the one responsible for so much carnage, determined to bring him down.
(End of Chapter)