The Dark Mage Of The Magus World-Chapter 90 - 91: Ambush

Hutson’s driver was a temporary hire from the caravan—a slave named Ed.

A man in his early thirties, thin and wiry, but experienced behind the reins.

Hutson had no complaints about his driving.

The journey had been smooth so far.

Ed was a man of few words.

He never spoke unless spoken to, his focus entirely on guiding the horses forward. The brand on his face marked him unmistakably as a slave.

Hutson had paid ten silver coins to rent Ed’s service for the three-month journey—though, of course, not a single copper would ever find its way into Ed’s own pocket.

Slaves were considered property, not people. Property didn’t own things.

As dusk fell, the caravan slowed, coming to a halt.

Wagons repositioned, forming a makeshift defensive barrier—Hutson’s included.

The travelers lit seven or eight campfires, pots bubbling over the flames as dinner was prepared.

By custom, the caravan ate only dry rations at noon—hot meals were a luxury reserved for evenings.

Hutson ate with the caravan. Though his carriage and spatial ring contained his own private stash of food and water, he kept them in reserve—emergency supplies in case something went wrong.

After half an hour, he received his portion:

Stewed potatoes with smoked meat and half a smoked fish.

By caravan standards, this was an excellent meal.

Food in the caravan was divided into ranks. Those who paid well ate the best. The adventurers made do with simpler fare.

And then, there were the slaves.

Ed and the other slaves received scraps.

Leftovers. The discarded remnants of meals from the night before.

The nobles traveling in the caravan often found the prepared meals beneath them, leaving much of their food uneaten.

But the merchants wasted nothing.

Every leftover bite was gathered, mixed together, and fed to the slaves.

To the merchants, it was just good business.

Hutson finished his meal and returned to his carriage. He settled in, continuing his studies.

His focus for the past few days had been ancient magic history—though direct records were rare. He could only piece together fragments from historical texts.

AI chip—the mystical archive embedded in his consciousness—had scanned and recorded the ancient magical tablet he acquired. Analysis had begun, but required a steady supply of magical energy.

And right now, he couldn’t afford to drain his reserves.

This was a long journey through harsh terrain. He needed to be at full strength.

The tablet’s secrets, along with his experiments on alchemy formulas, would have to wait until he reached Doris Kingdom.

The climate in Dragonspine Highlands was unforgiving.

By day, the sun burned hot against the skin. By night, the temperature plummeted.

Hutson pulled his blanket tighter around himself.

It was a gift from Lilian, and in this weather, it was perfect.

As midnight approached, silence fell over the highlands.

No settlements. No wildlife. Just the eerie emptiness of a barren land.

The only lights were the glowing campfires, their flickering flames casting long shadows across the wagons.

The guards huddled near the fires, keeping watch—warding off both the cold and whatever dangers lurked beyond.

At the first light of dawn, the caravan stirred.

Voices, movement, the sounds of hooves and shifting wagons.

The journey resumed.

Time was against them.

It was September now, and the harsh winter snows of Dragonspine Highlands could arrive at any moment.

Typically, the first snow fell in October—but unpredictable weather had brought early winters before.

If the snow came early, the highlands could become impassable.

So far, no signs of a storm.

The caravan had traveled twenty days without incident. Just five more, and they would be past Dragonspine’s treacherous terrain.

A thick white mist blanketed the highlands, swirling around the caravan as it moved forward.

The road was well-worn, clear of obstacles. There was only one path through these lands—they couldn’t get lost, even in the fog.

As long as they followed the road, they would reach their destination.

Hutson lay in his carriage, resting. His eyes were closed, but his mind was awake.

Then—he opened them.

Something was wrong.

AI chip’s environmental scan reported nothing unusual.

But Hutson heard something.

Something that shouldn’t be there.

He had traveled with the caravan for days. He had memorized every sound—the steady creak of wagons, the rustling of fabric, the murmurs of tired travelers.

But this sound was new.

Hoofbeats.

From far off in the mist.

And there were many of them.

The caravan pressed on, oblivious.

They hadn’t heard it.

The guards and adventurers continued as usual, unaware of the danger approaching.

Then—

A shout from the front.

"Enemy attack!"

The voice belonged to Karim—leader of the Putis Adventurer Group—the elite mercenary unit clad in full plate armor.

The best in the caravan.

He commanded all the hired guards—at least, in theory.

Adventurers were notoriously difficult to control.

They followed orders only when they felt like it.

Still, Karim was a force to be reckoned with.

He was a seasoned warrior, nearly at the level of a Grand Knight—on the verge of a breakthrough.

Rumors whispered of his noble lineage.

But instead of enjoying a life of luxury, he had chosen the battlefield.

And his loyalty to his own men was unwavering.

The proof?

Every single one of them wore full plate armor.

A privilege few adventurers could afford.

Only those under Karim’s command received such unparalleled treatment.

Which meant one thing.

If Karim was shouting, the threat was real.

And the battle was about to begin.

Wealth and strength—Karim had both.

And with each successful contract, his reputation grew.

Elite mercenary companies didn’t come cheap, but those who could afford Karim’s services sought the best. That was how he had secured this high-paying caravan escort job.

And now, he was the first to hear the distant hoofbeats.

Karim didn’t hesitate.

Enemy attack.

He called out the warning without a second thought, his instincts honed from years of battle.

He didn’t need to see them. The sound was enough.

The caravan had to fortify immediately.

With practiced efficiency, Karim divided the adventurers into tactical units, assigning each to his own mercenaries as squad leaders.

The orders were given.

They moved quickly, dragging wagons into defensive formation, reinforcing their position in the direction of the incoming hooves.

The frontline warriors gathered at the perimeter, gripping their weapons, eyes locked on the mist ahead.

Those **unfit for battle—**the **elderly, wounded, non-combatants, and nobles—**were ushered toward the rear, away from the fighting.

Hutson, naturally, joined the non-combatants.

He and Ed positioned themselves near a small sloping hill, where he lay back lazily, chewing on a piece of smoked fish.

His demeanor was entirely relaxed.

After all, he had paid for protection.

(Technically, he had paid with Milo’s money—but money was money.)

And what kind of self-respecting client stepped onto the battlefield when they had already paid for bodyguards?

Minutes passed.

The fog remained thick, an unbroken wall of pale white.

No one could see the enemy.

But everyone could hear them.

The thunder of hooves grew louder, closer, rolling across the plains like the pounding of war drums.

A dull, relentless rumble, pressing into the bones of every man present.

Faces grew grim.

This wasn’t just a raiding party.

The scale of the sound, the sheer number of galloping hooves—

This was an army.

And in a place like this, there was no bandit force powerful enough to field cavalry of this size.

Which meant only one thing.

This wasn’t just an attack.

It was a military operation.