Chương 125: Brutal Enemies 2

Dimitri was still holding the Burrower in place, which sounded noble and looked like someone had asked a castle gate to survive an argument with a landslide. Every hit from the Glassfang Burrower slammed into him with enough force to make the sand jump. His shield took the worst of it, thank every generous god with decent customer service, but even the Bastion of the Iron Wall could not turn all that punishment into a friendly handshake.

The creature kept hammering at him with simple strikes, basic attacks in the same way a falling boulder was technically just "gravity doing its job." I had both pistols ready, my grip tight enough that my fingers were probably filing complaints with management. Then June moved. And because it was June, even a basic attack somehow came with the energy of a royal performance.

She stepped into position, raised Stormweaver, and pointed the deep blue scepter toward the Burrower as though she was correcting a servant who had brought the wrong tea. The sapphire at the crown caught the brutal desert light and flashed, silver rings along the shaft glimmering as mana gathered around it in smooth, controlled currents. Her expression sharpened into something proud and focused. Naturally.

Even while fighting a giant sand beast with crystal teeth, she still looked like she expected the battlefield to acknowledge her cheekbones.

"Observe carefully," June said, voice crisp and polished.

"Even a lesser spell becomes decisive when cast by someone of my caliber."

"Great," I muttered.

"We're weaponizing self-esteem now." The air around her scepter cooled. Not much, but enough for me to notice, which was impressive considering the desert was currently roasting us like badly seasoned meat. Blue mana curled around Stormweaver's sapphire focus, gathering into a round, rippling ball of water. It hovered for a heartbeat in front of the scepter, smooth and shining, like a floating marble made of pond water and rich-person confidence. Then June flicked her wrist. The water ball shot forward.

It was not huge. It was not flashy enough to make the sky gasp or the sun rethink its career. It was a basic attack. A neat, compact sphere of water fired with clean precision. And it smacked straight into the Burrower's plated side. The result was immediate. The monster jerked. Not a tiny twitch either. Its whole body recoiled, armor plates scraping together as the water burst across its sandstone hide.

Moisture spread over those compacted plates, darkening the dusty surface and clinging to the sand stuck between its armor seams. The creature made a harsh, grinding sound that was not quite a roar, but absolutely sounded like it wanted to speak to the manager of getting wet. I blinked.

"Well, would you look at that," I said.

"Big scary underground blender has a problem with bath time." For something that looked like it had been assembled out of desert rock, broken glass, and unresolved anger, that little water ball had hurt it. Actually hurt it. The creature's movement stuttered for a moment, its claws digging awkwardly into the sand as the dampened grains clumped against its body. The system had not been lying. Water was bad news for it. Good. Fantastic. I loved when information was useful and not just an obituary written in advance.

The Burrower still had its attention locked on Dimitri because Iron Vow was doing its beautiful, terrifying job. That meant the rest of us had a few precious seconds to attack without immediately becoming dental floss for a crystal-toothed shovel worm. So I did what any responsible, mentally stable gunner would do. I started shooting the problem until it became a smaller problem. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

Thunderclap came up in my right hand, heavy and familiar, its blacksteel frame gleaming darkly under the sun. The silver lightning engravings along the cylinder seemed to flicker as I lined up my shot. The revolver felt smoother than my Practice Piece flintlock, more balanced, more demanding, like it expected me to be impressive and would be deeply disappointed if I embarrassed us both.

"Alright," I said, narrowing one eye.

"Let's make your armor regret having a subscription plan." I fired once. The first blue mana bullet snapped out of the barrel with a sharp crack. It streaked across the sand in a thin, glowing line and struck the Burrower along the side where June's water had left its plates damp and clumped with grit. The impact sparked blue against the darkened sandstone armor. The creature flinched. I fired again. The second mana round hit near the first, punching into another plated segment. This time, I saw it.

A faint fracture of light ran across the armor where the bullet landed, not a crack exactly, but something more like the protection around that spot had been forced to loosen its belt after a huge dinner. Thunderclap's armor-breaking effect was building. Layer by layer. Shot by shot. Like the revolver had looked at the Burrower's natural defense and said, "Cute wall. Be a shame if someone gave it trust issues." I squeezed the trigger a third time.

The third blue mana bullet slammed into the creature's hide with a brighter flash. The overlapping plates shuddered, and several grains of compacted stone chipped away from the edge of the impact point. The Burrower's body twisted slightly as if the hits were finally getting past its outer shell and tapping on the soft, expensive parts underneath. Three basic attacks. Three clean hits. And the difference showed. The armor that had seemed so stubborn before now looked less confident.

Not broken, not shattered, but weaker. The kind of weaker that made my trigger finger feel very optimistic and possibly a little smug.

"Oh, that's lovely," I said.

"Thunderclap is not just a pretty face. It also does emotional damage to armor." The Burrower slammed into Dimitri's shield again, forcing him to brace harder. His boots dug deeper into the sand, the shield ringing under the blow. He held, but I could see the strain in his shoulders. That thing was still hurting him, still chewing through his endurance one ugly hit at a time. Which meant we had to make every opening count. My mana stirred.

A sharper feeling ran through my arm, prickling beneath the skin, as if electricity and gunpowder had decided to hold a tiny business meeting inside my bones. I focused on Thunderclap, channeling power into the revolver's frame.

"Arcane Discharge," I said. The weapon answered. Thunderclap overcharged in my hand. Blue mana surged along the barrel, brighter and denser than before. The silver lightning engravings lit up in thin branching lines, crawling over the blacksteel like trapped stormlight. The cylinder gave a hard, metallic click as the gathered energy compressed into a single shot. Arcane Discharge overloaded the weapon's chamber, turning the next bullet into a burst of magical energy that would hit far harder than a normal shot.

A basic attack was one thing. This felt like stuffing a cannonball with bad decisions, lighting the fuse, and asking my wrist to be emotionally prepared. And because I was using my revolver, Thunderclap added its own weapon effect to the skill. Rhythmic Spark. Since I had already been hammering the same target with my previous shots, the skill caught that rhythm and stacked one extra little surprise into the chamber. If this landed, the Burrower would not just eat the main Arcane Discharge.

It would also get a bonus magic hit right after, like the bullet had brought a smaller, meaner friend who insisted on joining the conversation. The revolver suddenly felt heavier. Not physically, exactly. More like the moment itself had leaned all its weight onto my wrist. A glowing bullet formed in the chamber, packed with too much mana for a normal attack, humming with that dangerous little promise all weapons make right before they help you do something stupid and exciting.

I grinned despite the sweat running down my face.

"Hey, ugly!" I called.

"Special delivery. No refund policy. Terrible customer support." I pulled the trigger. The overcharged round exploded from Thunderclap with a crack that punched through the battle noise. The bullet flashed blue-white as it crossed the space between us, faster and brighter than the earlier shots. For a split second, it looked like a small piece of lightning had gotten tired of the sky and taken a job in pest control. It hit. Hard.

The Arcane Discharge shot slammed into the Burrower's weakened armor and burst outward in a violent flare of mana. The creature's plated side buckled under the impact, chips of sandstone armor snapping loose and scattering across the sand. Blue energy crawled over the hit area for an instant before sinking into the cracks left behind by Thunderclap's previous shots. Then Rhythmic Spark triggered.

A second pulse of magic snapped from the impact point a heartbeat later, smaller than the main blast but sharp enough to bite into the same damaged section. It punched through the weakened armor like Thunderclap had decided one insult was not enough and needed to add a final petty comment at the end. The Burrower roared. This one was loud enough to make my ribs feel personally included. Its head whipped back, glass fangs flashing, throat grinding out a furious sound that rolled over the dunes.

The roar was deep, raw, and ugly, like a quarry collapsing into a bad mood. Sand shook loose from its armor. Its claws dug trenches into the ground as it twisted against the pain. I would have celebrated, but celebrating while a giant monster was still upright felt like clapping during a house fire because one curtain stopped burning. So I kept shooting. Thunderclap lowered, then snapped back up as I lined up another basic attack.

"Still standing?" I said.

"Rude, but fine." I fired the revolver again. Another blue mana bullet cracked out and struck the Burrower's side, biting into the damaged plating where the armor-breaking effect had already done its quiet little demolition job. The impact made the monster twitch, its body jerking around the hit as more loosened sand and stone shook from its hide. Then my left hand came up with the flintlock. The Practice Piece was not fancy.

It had no dramatic engravings, no intimidating name, no aura of "I was handcrafted by someone with a thunder obsession." It was scuffed, simple, and looked like it belonged in the hands of a nervous student being told which end was dangerous. But simple did not mean useless. Sometimes simple meant reliable enough to ruin someone's afternoon. I lined the flintlock beside Thunderclap's smoking barrel.

"Your turn, little training pistol," I muttered.

"Try not to embarrass the family." I fired. The flintlock barked with a rough, familiar blast. Its shot tore forward and hit the Burrower a heartbeat after the revolver round, striking the creature's plated body with a sharp burst of force.