Plundering Worlds: I Have a Shotgun in a Fantasy World-Chapter 42: Three Seconds

The sun hung low on the horizon, bleeding red across the western sky.

Kael stopped on the ridge and looked out. The light was warm, golden at the edges, deepening to crimson at the center. Clouds stretched across the heavens in long, ragged strips—painted orange and pink and violet by the dying sun. They moved slowly, drifting east, casting shadows that slid across the hills like living things.

It was beautiful.

For a moment, Kael just stood there, watching the sky burn. Then he lowered his gaze.

The road ahead cut through fields—terraced plots that had once been cultivated, now overgrown with weeds. The irrigation channels were dry, cracked mud running through them like scars. Wooden poles stood crooked in the earth, remnants of fences long abandoned. Beyond the fields lay the village.

Small. Maybe thirty houses, clustered together around a central square. Thatched roofs. Mud-brick walls. A well in the center.

Kael walked forward. The fields gave way to the village outskirts.

The first body appeared twenty paces from the nearest house—an old woman, face down in the dirt, one arm outstretched toward the village, the other twisted beneath her. Her back was torn open, slashed with deep wounds that had bled her dry.

Kael stepped past her.

More bodies littered the ground. A man slumped against a doorway, throat cut ear to ear. Two children huddled together near the well, their small bodies hacked apart. A middle-aged woman sprawled across the threshold of a house, stomach opened, intestines spilling onto the ground.

The village was silent. No wind. No birds. No movement. Just the dead.

Kael walked through the square, his boots crunching on something. He looked down—bone fragments, small ones, fingers maybe, or toes. He kept walking.

The smell was thick here, rot and decay sweetened by the sun. Flies swarmed in black clouds, lifting and settling as he passed. Kael scanned the houses—doors broken inward, windows shattered, blood smeared across walls and dried to rust-brown in the heat. Furniture overturned, belongings scattered. They had looted everything.

He stopped in the center of the square and looked around. No survivors. No one left. Just silence.

Kael turned toward the forest. The trees stood dark against the fading light, a wall of shadow rising beyond the village. If the bandits had a camp, it would be there. He started toward the tree line.

He made it three steps.

Sound. Hooves, multiple, coming from the west road.

Kael stopped and turned. A group emerged from the dying light—riders, seven of them, mounted on horses. They moved slowly, laughing, passing a flask between them. Behind them, dragged by ropes tied to the saddles, were bodies.

Four corpses—villagers, by their clothes. Farmers. A woman. An old man. Two younger men. Bound at the wrists, pulled face-down through the dirt, their clothes torn, skin scraped raw from the road. Blood painted a trail behind them.

The riders were loud, drunk, celebrating. One of them kicked his horse forward, yanking the rope. The corpse behind him jerked and tumbled, limbs flopping. The others laughed.

Then they saw Kael. The laughter died. They slowed, then stopped.

For a moment, no one moved. Kael stood in the center of the square, surrounded by the dead. The riders sat on their horses at the village entrance, silhouetted against the red sky.

One of them—a thin man with a patchy beard—leaned over and spat. "Oi. Who the fuck are you?"

Kael said nothing.

Another rider, younger, grinned. "Maybe he’s from the village. Maybe we missed one."

The others laughed. Then one of them dismounted.

He was broad-shouldered, wearing mismatched pieces of armor—leather, iron.

A sword hung at his hip, sheathed in dark leather too finely stitched for the rest of his gear. The hilt was wrapped in clean cord, the guard unscarred, the pommel engraved with deliberate care.

It did not belong on him.

His face was scarred, features uneven from old injuries. His eyes were cold, flat.

He walked forward, boots heavy on the packed earth.

The other riders dismounted behind him, fanning out. They carried weapons—axes, spears, cudgels. Their movements were loose, confident, predators who’d never met resistance.

The leader stopped ten paces from Kael. He looked at the bodies scattered across the square, then at Kael. Then he smiled.

"You here to complain?" His voice was rough, mocking. "You got a problem with how we run things?"

Kael’s gaze swept over them. Seven men, armed. The leader’s Qi was visible—faint, but present. Third-Rate. The others were weaker, barely trained.

Kael’s voice was flat. "You did this."

The leader laughed. "Yeah. We did." He spread his arms. "Whole village. Took everything worth taking. Killed everyone worth killing." He grinned wider. "And you know what? No one’s gonna stop us."

One of the riders behind him sniggered. "The Empire’s too busy fighting itself. The sects don’t care about mud farmers. We do what we want."

The leader’s hand drifted to his sword. "So I’ll ask again. You got a problem?"

Kael looked at him, then started walking forward.

The leader’s grin faltered. "Oi. I’m talking to you."

Kael kept walking.

"I said stop!" The leader drew his sword and lunged.

It was fast, practiced—years of killing weaker men had honed his instincts. The blade came in high, aimed for Kael’s neck, a clean decapitation strike.

Kael didn’t break stride. His right hand rose, two fingers extended. The blade met them.

CLANG.

The sword stopped dead. The leader’s eyes went wide. Kael held the blade between his index and middle finger, the edge pressed against his skin. Qi flowed through his fingers, coating them, turning flesh harder than steel. It didn’t cut.

The leader stared. He pulled, trying to wrench the blade free. It didn’t move.

Kael’s voice was quiet, cold. "A sword isn’t meant to be forced." He looked at the man’s grip. "You’re holding it too tight. Your wrist is locked. Your shoulders are tense. The cut has no flow, no intention. You’re just swinging steel."

He twisted his fingers slightly. The sword bent. The leader gasped, muscles straining.

Kael continued, tone flat, like lecturing a child. "The sword is meant to glide, to follow the body’s momentum. The edge leads, the body follows. You cut with the entire form, not just the arm."

He released the blade. The leader stumbled back, gasping.

Kael looked at him. "That’s not how you use a blade."

Silence. The other bandits stood frozen, staring. The leader looked at his sword—the edge was bent, warped where Kael’s fingers had gripped it. His hand shook.

"You... what are you?"

Kael took a step forward. The leader flinched.

"First-Rate," Kael said quietly.

The words hung in the air. The bandits’ faces went pale. First-Rate. To them, it was a myth, a story told in taverns—Wuzhe (warriors) who could kill with a touch, move faster than sight, project their Qi like weapons. Gods among men.

The leader’s sword fell from his hand, hitting the ground with a dull clang.

"Run," Kael said.

No one moved.

"I said run."

The youngest bandit broke first, turning and bolting toward the horses. The others followed, scrambling, shouting, desperate to escape. The leader stood frozen, staring at Kael.

Kael’s gaze was empty, cold. "You have three seconds."

The man turned and ran.

Kael watched them mount their horses, yanking the ropes free, abandoning the corpses. They kicked their heels into the horses’ flanks, riding east in a chaotic scramble.

Kael stood still. He counted. One. Two. Three.

Then he moved.

Qi drove down into his legs, flooding his feet with force.

The distance between him and the fleeing bandits vanished almost at once. He reached the first rider in two breaths, closing the gap as if the ground itself had shortened beneath his feet.

The man didn’t even see him coming. Kael’s hand lashed out, gripping the back of the rider’s neck. He yanked, and the man flew from the saddle and slammed into the ground with a bone-breaking crunch.

Kael was already moving to the next. A spear thrust toward him. Kael sidestepped, caught the shaft, and snapped it with his bare hands. He drove the broken end into the rider’s throat. Blood sprayed. The man toppled.

The third rider drew a bow. The arrow loosed. Kael tilted his head—the arrow passed by, so close it grazed his hair. He closed the distance. His palm struck the rider’s chest. Qi surged. Ribs shattered. The heart stopped. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

Aether: +0.9

Four left.

Kael blurred. He appeared beside the fourth rider with a single chop to the base of the skull. The neck snapped. The body slumped.

Three.

The fifth swung an axe. Kael caught the handle mid-swing, twisted, and drove the axe into the rider’s own stomach. The man screamed. Kael silenced him with a strike to the temple.

Two.

The sixth abandoned his horse and ran on foot. Kael walked after him, casual, unhurried. The man glanced back, saw Kael approaching, and screamed. Kael’s hand shot forward. He gripped the man’s head and twisted. The body dropped.

One.

The leader was still riding, whipping his horse desperately, trying to reach the tree line. Kael walked. The leader glanced back, and his eyes met Kael’s. And he understood—there was no escape.

Kael accelerated. The gap closed in seconds. The leader threw himself from the saddle, rolling across the ground. He came up on his knees, hands raised.

"Please! Please! I’ll leave! I’ll never come back! I swear!"

Kael stopped in front of him. "You killed them all."

The leader sobbed. "I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I was just following orders! The boss—he made us—"

"Oh?" Kael said. "Where is he?"

The man froze, then answered too quickly.

"In the forest. Deeper in." He swallowed. "There are fourteen more." His voice dropped. "I’m third. The second and the first—they’re both second-rate Wuzhe."

He rushed the words out, afraid of the silence that followed.

"I can take you there. I can lead the way."

"No need."

The man’s face crumpled. Tears streamed down his cheeks. "Please... I have a family... I have—"

Kael’s hand moved. He gripped the man’s head and drove it into the ground. Once. Twice. Three times. The skull cracked. The sobbing stopped.

Kael stood.

Seven bodies.

He looked back at the village. The sun had set. Darkness had fallen. The dead remained. He bent, picked up the sword and its sheath , tested its weight once, then let it hang loose at his side.

Kael wiped the blood from his hands and walked back toward the square.

[Aether: +1.0 — Third-rate Wuzhe]

[Aether: 3.2]

He glanced at the notification. Seven lives. Stronger than the starving bandits on the road, but still barely worth the effort.

Kael reached the square and looked around one last time. Then he turned toward the forest. The second-rate Wuzhe were waiting for him.