Chapter 41 

The voices were different—one full of hope, the other of dread. But both knew now: Curtis was no simple traveler. And the mage was not on the bandits’ side.

The momentum of the charge broke. Feet slowed. Fear seeped in.

Curtis struck again.

More spheres. More shattered men.

“You damn cowards!”
A voice roared among the bandits, booming with authority.
“Rush him! Close in! Get close, or his spells will tear you apart!”

Perhaps the bandit chief. Whoever he was, his shout snapped the survivors from their stupor. They surged forward again.

It was a sound tactical call. Everyone knew—mages were weakest in close combat. But it was also a desperate order. Over ten of their number already lay dead, torn apart by magic before they could even raise a weapon.

But even bravery meant little in the face of overwhelming power.

A rabbit may charge a lion with all its heart—but it remains prey.

“Not so fast.”

Manipulating water into cannonballs was child’s play to Curtis now. He had the time—and the power—to weave more elegant destruction.

From the soaked earth, water began to rise.

Every drop spilled in blood and death now danced to his will.

SHHHRAAACK!

Ten tendrils of liquid formed whips, snapping across the clearing with violent speed.

CRACK! SNAP! THWACK!

The bandits had decent weapons, yes—but their armor was lacking. Most had protected only their torsos. The whips lashed low, targeting legs with cruel precision.

Screams erupted. Bones cracked. Men crumpled.

Those not instantly crippled staggered, too wounded to charge.

Curtis ’s assault did not relent. Even as the whips lashed, cannonballs continued to fly—slower now, but no less deadly.

CRACK. CRACK.

Some were struck in the skull—lucky ones. Others took the blast to the chest or gut and fell writhing, begging for mercy that would never come.

And still, the water flowed.

Each body that fell bled more into the battlefield, giving Curtis more fuel, more reach, more fury.

The field became a storm.

The mage had made the land itself his ally—and the bandits were nothing more than kindling in the flood.

“W-Whoa…”
“That’s… magic?”

A stunned whisper rippled through the line of mercenaries—warriors who had braced for death beneath the stampede of fifty bandits, only to find themselves now mere onlookers, spectators to an elemental slaughter.

What they had believed would be a desperate last stand had turned into a one-man storm.

Before them, the battlefield lay drenched in blood and water—mud soaked and dark. Screams were drowned beneath the roar of surging magic. The earth itself seemed to shudder beneath Curtis ’s will.

Over half the bandits were dead, their bodies scattered like fallen leaves. Others groaned in broken heaps, clutching shattered limbs.
And the one responsible?
Curtis . Alone. Untouched. Standing amidst the chaos like a god of judgment.

The air crackled with raw mana, heavy with the scent of iron and damp earth. Steam rose from the warm bodies and cooling waters alike.

By now, any sensible enemy would flee.

And yet, through the mist, one silhouette still charged forward—a figure screaming bloody vengeance.

“DIE, YOU BASTARD!”

The bandit leader. His eyes were wild, bloodshot with rage and madness. Spittle flew from his cracked lips. His sword gleamed with desperate fury.

He was beyond reason now—driven by pride, perhaps, or a refusal to die forgotten.

He hurled himself forward, leaping over a coiled water whip that hissed at his feet. For a moment, it almost seemed heroic.

Curtis turned his head, watching the man approach. His lips curled ever so slightly—not in fear, but in curiosity.

“Oh? So there’s a spine under all that shouting.”

There was skill in the man’s movement—clean footwork, a sharpened edge to the way he moved. Curtis didn’t know exact rankings, but he had enough battlefield experience to hazard a guess.

“He’s silver-tier, perhaps. Barely.”

He thought of Terity—his mentor, his benchmark. A silver-tier in name only was not the same as one nearing gold. There were levels within levels. This man? Likely just crossed the threshold.

“If my friend bet money on this one, I’d smack him.”

And compared to what Curtis had seen—the war between House Gaud and House Naroc, with dozens of silvers locked in lethal dance—this was a child’s tantrum.

The man thought that if he could just close the distance, he might stand a chance.

“Then I’ll make sure you never get close.”

Curtis drew more water to his hand—not into a single heavy blast, but dozens of compact spheres. Each orb shimmered like a drop of mercury, hovering around his palm. Then—he released them.

SHHH-SHHH-SHHH!

A barrage erupted, fist-sized projectiles of pressurized water shooting like a volley of magical bullets.

“W-what the hell?!”

The bandit leader’s bravado cracked. He tried to dodge, but it was too late. The distance between them was too short, the magic too fast.

THWACK! THUMP! CRACK!

Some he blocked, others he dodged—but most found flesh.

His armor—the finest among the bandits—tore like paper. His limbs bent the wrong way. Blood spilled in arcs. He collapsed, a mangled heap of metal and bone, his sword clattering to the dirt with a final, pitiful ring.

He’ll never fight again, Curtis thought coldly. Probably won’t live till morning.

He turned back to the mercenaries, who still stood in wide-eyed awe.

“You plan on watching all night?” he asked, voice steady as a mountain wind.

The mercenary captain snapped upright, startled out of his daze.

“N-No, sir!”

His tone was suddenly stiff with reverence. One did not watch a force like that and forget their place.

“One unit holds the camp. The rest—sweep the field. Clean up what’s left.”

“Yes, sir!”

The mercenaries scrambled to obey. Not that much remained to fight. The bandits had begun fleeing the moment their leader fell—scattering like rats from fire. Only the slowest, the wounded, or the stubborn remained.

The mercenaries’ job now was simple: mop-up.

The aftermath came quickly.

From within the central tent—where the merchant handlers had cowered in fear—emerged a flurry of figures, robes flapping, feet stumbling. They ran toward Curtis and dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the dirt.

“O great Mage! Please forgive us!”
“We didn’t know! We didn’t recognize your greatness!”

“Calm yourselves,” Curtis replied, brushing the apology away like an old cobweb. “Your caution wasn’t misplaced. The threat was real.”