Re: Tales of the Rune-Tech Sage-Chapter 516: Ungentlemanly Operation I

CH516 Ungentlemanly Operation I

***

In an undisclosed forest...

A military formation advanced cautiously beneath the canopy, armour and boots muffled by damp leaves and loam.

"Sir!"

A forward scout burst from the treeline and saluted sharply.

"We found corpses ahead. They bear the Herzog family colours. It looks like they were ambushed here, sir."

"What? What are those Herzogs doing across the border?" the commander snapped. "And who killed them?"

"Lead us there."

The scout turned around and guided the formation off the path, the soldiers failed to notice the strange smile at his lips.

When they arrived, dozens of bodies lay strewn across the forest floor. Blood still glistened wetly on the earth, seeping into roots and moss.

The commander swept his senses through the surrounding area, but he perceived no hostile presence nor lingering aura.

"Search the bodies," he ordered. "Find out how they got here."

Though the dead belonged to a rival house — and had likely trespassed — having them die here without explanation was an invitation to a territorial war no one needed.

The soldiers broke formation and approached the corpses.

The moment the first soldier touched a body—

Pucchi!

A dagger punched through his throat.

He wasn’t alone.

Every soldier who had stepped out of formation was stabbed in the neck almost simultaneously. They fell without understanding what had happened, choking on their own blood.

Because the ones who killed them...

...were the corpses they had just touched.

"Amb—!"

Before the commander could finish shouting, an energy arrow tore through his chest.

The projectile was so solid, so tangible, it may as well have been a physical arrow.

His eyes lifted.

Far in the distance, beyond the edge of his perception range, stood an archer.

’A Saint...’

He died wondering why a Saint would bother ambushing a unit whose strongest member was only a mid-stage Veteran.

With their commander down, the formation fell into brief chaos.

Before the deputy commander could restore order, the blood pooled on the forest floor suddenly stirred.

It rose.

Thin strands of crimson twisted into bindings, wrapping around the soldiers’ legs and arms.

The binds were weak — the blood too diluted and spread — but the brief restraint was enough.

The ’corpses’ moved again, not hesitating for even a moment as they cut down the soldiers.

Only four soldiers managed to break free of the ambush, fleeing blindly through the trees for their lives, not realising they had been intentionally left to escape.

Someone needed to tell the tale after all.

The ’corpses’ began calmly clearing the scene of anything that might betray who they really were, leaving behind only what they wanted to be discovered.

"We’re done here, Deputy Commander," one of them said.

"Good."

The man concealed behind helm and armour lifted a hand. The blood scattered across the forest floor slithered back towards him like obedient threads, carrying away the last traces of their presence.

He then signalled toward the distant archer.

Moments later, the group melted into the wilderness, leaving only the dead behind.

And if one bothered to check the fallen soldiers’ crests, they would discover they belonged to...

House Holt.

--

Elsewhere in the Virellian Empire, near the imperial border with the Confederacy, a long smuggler caravan slipped through an unofficial route in the Dragonmourn Highlands.

The path cut through a narrow ravine carved by seasonal waters between towering rock faces.

"Halt!"

A squad of humanoid, dragon-like figures stepped into view.

Draconians.

They resembled lizardmen at a glance, but their draconic skulls, upright posture, and calculating eyes marked a clear difference. These were not mindless beasts, but intelligent beings

"Sir! We have your tribute," the lead smuggler called out, a crooked-faced, middle-aged man with a practised smile.

He gestured behind him.

Two large men hauled forward heavy crates and set them down. When opened, they revealed a glittering assortment of gold objects.

Not all of it was pure gold.

But it shone convincingly.

The Draconian leader grinned, baring serrated teeth. With a wave of his clawed hand, his men seized the crates and hauled them toward their mountain settlement without further inspection.

The smugglers were allowed to pass.

They disappeared through the ravine, and onwards towards the Nearmarch Confederacy.

Later, inside the crude mountain village, the Draconians gathered in excitement as the crates were opened for distribution.

Gold!

Be it their bloodline or their instincts— they could never resist its allure.

The village chief supervised as the glittering haul was divided according to the tribe’s customs.

Then—

Click.

A faint, unnatural sound echoed from within the emptied crates.

Several Draconians froze.

BOOM!!!

A violent explosion tore through the heart of the village.

Rock shattered. Flames and shrapnel blasted outward. Most of the gathered villagers were killed instantly.

Only the strongest warriors — those at the peak of Elite rank and above — survived the devastation.

They did not know it, but the tribute had been a trap.

The gold pieces had acted as inhibitors. While packed together, they suppressed a dormant spell circuit hidden within the crate. The moment the last of the gold was removed, the circuit completed—

—and the enchanted formation triggered.

"ROOOAAARRR!!!"

A roar of pain and fury rolled across the Dragonmourn Highlands.

Far along the ravine path, the smuggler caravan halted mid-stride.

The colour drained from the leader’s face.

He didn’t understand Draconian speech, but the emotion in that roar needed no translation.

Rage, agony, Wrath...

Then came answering roars from multiple directions.

The dragonkin of the highlands— Draconians and lesser dragons alike— had entered a frenzy.

And those roars were getting closer.

Very quickly, the smugglers realised a terrifying truth.

Whatever had happened, the dragonkin believed they were responsible.

And they were coming.

The smugglers broke into a desperate run, racing for the edge of the highlands. If they could just make it out, the dragonkin would not pursue beyond their territory.

That was the hope.

But as always, reality was cruel.

The dragonkin caught them before they had covered half the distance.

There were no negotiations, no pleases nor time for lies or bribes.

The smugglers were torn apart.

Their screams were swallowed by the mountains.

ROAR!!!

But the slaughter did nothing to calm the enraged Draconian chief. Instead, it convinced the other dragonkin that a coordinated human betrayal had occurred.

A purge began.

Dragonkin spread through the highlands, hunting down every human presence they could find.

Within hours, all smuggling activity through the passes ground to a complete halt.

Just outside the highlands, in a small, derelict village often used by smugglers to resupply before braving the mountain routes, a thin man wiping down tables in a shabby inn suddenly paused.

He stepped into the back service area.

Pressing a finger into his right ear, he spoke quietly.

"Objective executed."

***