Chapter 37 - Leon Takes a Quest 2

  Continuing with Leon's POV

  Long story short, we managed to sneak our way close to Wren's suspected captivity through the guarding traffickers.

  At times we also neutralized any trafficker members that we couldn't avoid while also not forgetting to hide the bodies. And of course, by neutralizing the threat here meant that we rendered them unconscious and tied their thumbs together.

  Tying thumbs together is surprisingly effective in turning someone harmless. And the amount of resources that you need to use is minimal. It's just the thumb that gets tied so you don't need a long and thick rope to tie it. And even with a sewing thread, the target would find it hard to release themselves.

  We finally reach the underground area where Path detected Wren's presence. The place reeks of mold and despair. Rows of cells line both sides of the narrow corridor, most of them empty save for one where our objective is imprisoned.

  "Third cell on the left," Path whispers. He is using his water mirror spell to peek around from the corner.

  Webber quickly works on the lock. His nimble fingers produce a set of tools from his kit, another one of Milo's innovations called 'lockpicks'. Within seconds, the lock clicks open.

  Inside, a woman with darkish red hair sits huddled in the corner, her leather hood torn and her once-neat clothing now dirtied. But her eyes, they're sharp and alert, not broken. Good, she still has her wits about her. Just in time.

  "Are you Wren?" I ask in a low voice.

  She nods slowly, suspicious but hopeful.

  "Your daughter Canary sent us. We're from the Hunter's Guild. Can you walk?"

  Her eyes widen at the mention of her daughter's name, and tears begin to form. "Canary... is she safe?"

  "Safe and sleeping soundly at the orphanage. Now, let's get you out of here. But before that, just to make sure, please don't say anything during our escape, okay?" She simply nods to my warning. The last thing we need is for the victim to disturb our operation, after all.

  She tries to stand but stumbles. Her ankles are swollen, probably beaten or forced to stand for long periods. I catch her before she falls.

  "Webber, support her other side. Path, take point. We're moving."

  We retrace our steps, moving as quietly as possible with an injured civilian. The unconscious bodies we left behind are still where we placed them. So far, so good.

  But as we approach the stairwell leading back to the ground floor, I hear it, the rhythmic tap, scrape, tap, scrape of footsteps accompanied by something heavy dragging across the wooden floor above.

  My danger sense flares.

  "Stop!"

  The footsteps cease.

  Then, slowly, deliberately, they resume. Tap, scrape, tap, scrape. Getting closer. Coming down the stairs.

  A figure emerges from the shadows of the stairwell. A massive man, limping heavily on his left leg, using a wickedly curved blade, his infamous war knife, the Wolf Fang, as a walking stick. Each step is punctuated by the metallic tap of the blade's tip against wood, then the dragging scrape of his lame foot.

  Tap, scrape. Tap, scrape.

  The sound fills the narrow corridor, oppressive and inescapable.

  He stops at the bottom of the stairs, his single eye, the right one uncovered by a worn leather eyepatch, fixating on us. His upper body is grotesquely muscular, veins bulging like thick ropes under scarred skin. Despite the limp, the sheer presence he exudes makes the air feel heavier.

  "No wonder it feels more quiet than usual," he says, his voice gravelly like stones grinding together. "There are mice snooping around."

  He doesn't move any closer, just stands there, leaning on his war knife, studying us.

  I immediately assess the situation. The corridor is narrow, too limiting for our mobility and options to evade. Wren is injured and can barely stand. We can't run.

  "Wedge formation," I use my hand sign with my left hand quietly, while my right hand moves to the hilt of my wide sword.

  I tried to not speak at all in front of Mad Wolf. Because every word I say might become the clue pointing to us in the end.

  Both scouts immediately understand. The wedge formation, one of Milo's combat formations designed specifically for a three-person team to face a higher-tier opponent. The principle is simple: I take the front as the point of the wedge, absorbing and redirecting the enemy's main attacks with my wide blade. Path and Webber position themselves slightly behind me on both flanks, ready to exploit any opening I create.

  The formation is derived by Milo from the study of something he called 'The Art of War', how to always be on the winning side in war, any kind of war. He always said: "If you are weak, then use your head. Our race is a weak one without thick skin, or sharp fangs and claws, but we could still build our own civilization. Teamwork and strategy are the keys to fighting quality with quantity."

  Webber moves to my right, Path to my left, both a half-step behind me. We spread out just enough to avoid being hit by a single wide attack but close enough to support each other instantly.

  I give a look to Wren, asking her if she could take some distance from us, and she seems to understand the meaning in my gaze as she moves back slowly, albeit with an injured leg.

  Mad Wolf's eye narrows, and a slow grin spreads across his scarred face. "Hmm. Coordinated. Disciplined. Not your run-of-the-mill thugs." He tilts his head, studying our positioning. "Are you lot from the Iron Brotherhood? Or maybe the Black Viper gang?"

  My muscles tense, but I don't respond. It's better he thinks we're from a rival gang than to confirm we're from the Hunter's Guild. If he knew, we'd have to kill him to prevent word from spreading. And that would bring far more trouble than we're prepared to handle.

  "The silent types, eh?" He chuckles, the sound like gravel in a bucket. "Smart. Real smart." He hefts Wolf Fang, no longer using it as a cane, and takes a combat stance despite his limp. "Well, it doesn't matter who sent you. You're on my turf now, and I don't let mice walk away."

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  Instead of answering, I make a gesture with my hand saying to bring it on.

  He laughs again, but there's no humor in it. "You are quite bold, boy. Let's see if you can back it up."

  I draw my wide sword, holding it in a mid-guard position that can quickly shift to block or strike. Webber and Path also draw their weapons. Both of them choose the standard short sword for the ease of engagement in cramped spaces.

  My hand drifts subtly to the pouch on my belt. Inside are several balanced throwing knives. Path and Webber do the same, their movements mirroring mine.

  Mad Wolf notices. Of course he does.

  "Oh? Knives? Are you planning to throw toothpicks at me?"

  I keep my silence and quietly focus on the battle to come.

  He grins wider. "This should be fun."

  Then he moves.

  He suddenly lunges forward. Fast-really fast. The only thing I know is that he suddenly appears in front of me while his Wolf Fang comes sweeping in a brutal arc aimed at my left side.

  I pivot, raising my wide blade to intercept and deflect. The impact reverberates up my arm, my bones rattling from the sheer force even when I redirect the main force away. This is the difference in tier. Even injured, even lame, his raw power is overwhelming. If I were just standing and frontally blocking his attack, my weapon and my arm might not escape in one piece.

  But that's fine. That's what the wedge formation is for.

  As I absorb the blow, Path and Webber move in unison. Seeing the opening, they move without waiting for my command. Path darts to Mad Wolf's right, slashing at his exposed flank while Webber circles left, aiming for his arm.

  Mad Wolf snarls, forced to disengage from me to deal with the dual threats. He swings Wolf Fang in a wide horizontal slash, forcing both scouts to retreat.

  As we retreat from one clash, we automatically reach for our throwing knives and throw two knives together with our free left hands. That's a total of six knives thrown at Mad Wolf, aiming for his less defended parts.

  Mad Wolf twists his body, using his war knife to deflect most of them, but one grazes his shoulder, another embeds itself in his left thigh.

  He grunts, more annoyed than hurt. "Clever. But it'll take more than that."

  We reset our formation immediately. I step forward again, drawing his attention. Path and Webber fan out, ready to strike the moment I create an opening.

  This is going to be a long fight.

  But we aren’t strapped for time either way. So let’s keep it slow and steady.

  Mad Wolf doesn't chase us. He can't. His lame leg roots him to that spot like a tree. But that doesn't make him any less dangerous. If anything, it makes him more focused, more efficient with his movements.

  He stands there, Wolf Fang held low, his single eye tracking all three of us. Waiting.

  Milo once told us about a type of defense strategy from his studies. He called it 'tower defense'. The idea is simple: a stationary defender with overwhelming power in a chokepoint, like an archer tower. The attacker has to come to them, and every approach is met with devastating force.

  That's what Mad Wolf is right now. A tower. And we're trying to break through.

  "Again," I signal with a hand gesture.

  We move in unison. I feint forward, drawing his attention. His eye locks onto me, Wolf Fang rising to intercept.

  But Path and Webber split, attacking from both flanks.

  Mad Wolf plants his good leg and pivots, using Wolf Fang like a windmill. The wide arc forces both scouts back again. His positioning is perfect. He doesn't need to move much. Just rotate, deflect, counter.

  Another volley of knives. This time, only one grazes him, cutting a shallow line across his cheek.

  He wipes the blood on his cheek with composure. "Getting tired yet, boys?"

  We reset. Again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Each exchange is the same. We probe, he defends. We throw knives, he deflects. We retreat, we reset.

  But slowly, gradually, the knives are piling up around him. Behind him. To his sides. Scattered across the floor like a minefield of steel.

  He doesn't notice. Why would he? They're just failed attacks. Missed throws. Wasted effort.

  Except they're not.

  I can feel it now. The weight of them. The pull. Milo had told me once in the past about immortals controlling their swords with their minds, I was so intrigued that I tried practicing it in secret for months. I just barely grasped it now. I can't control a blade mid-flight like those immortals do. But stationary blades? Ones already on the ground?

  I can work with that.

  "One more push," I signal.

  This time, I don't feint. I commit.

  I charge forward, wide sword raised high. An obvious, telegraphed overhead strike. The kind that screams 'I'm desperate and out of options'.

  Mad Wolf's grin widens. He sees it. The opening. The kill shot.

  He braces on his good leg, raises Wolf Fang, and puts everything into a massive upward swing aimed at my exposed torso.

  This is it.

  I shift my weight mid-charge, turning the overhead strike into a lowered guard. My wide blade, held horizontal, catches his upward swing.

  CRACK!

  The impact is catastrophic. My right arm snaps. I feel the bone break, the jagged sensation shooting up to my shoulder. My sword nearly flies from my grip.

  But I grit my teeth and don't let go.

  Because that's not the point.

  The point is that Mad Wolf is committed. Overextended. His entire upper body twisted into that swing, his balance shifted forward onto his good leg.

  And behind him, scattered on the ground, are a dozen throwing knives.

  "Now."

  I don't say it out loud. I don't need to.

  I feel them. The knives. Their weight, their shape, their position. My mind reaches out, grasping them with invisible strings of mana.

  They lift. Silent. Unseen.

  And they fly.

  Not fast. Not like a thrown knife. But steady. Controlled.

  Mad Wolf doesn't notice until the first blade punches into his lower back. Right side. Just above the hip.

  The kidney.

  His eye goes wide. His body stiffens.

  The second knife follows. Then the third. Both hit the same spot, driving deeper.

  He gasps, the air leaving his lungs. His grip on Wolf Fang loosens.

  That's my cue.

  I shift my broken right arm away, letting the wide sword fall into my left hand. It's awkward. Unbalanced. But it doesn't need to be perfect.

  I just need one good swing.

  I step in and bring the flat of the blade down on the side of his head.

  THUNK.

  Mad Wolf's eye rolls back. His massive body sways once, twice, then collapses like a felled tree.

  The corridor shakes from the impact.

  I stand there, panting, my broken arm hanging uselessly at my side. The pain is starting to catch up now, a white-hot fire spreading from my elbow to my fingertips.

  But we won.

  "Secure him. Fast."

  Path and Webber move immediately. Path pulls the knives from Mad Wolf's back, pressing cloth against the wounds to stop the bleeding. Not out of mercy. We need him alive. A dead tier 3 knight will bring far more attention than an injured one.

  Webber pulls Mad Wolf's arms behind his back, wrenching them up at an awkward angle. Then he ties the thumbs together. Tight.

  It looks simple. Almost too simple.

  But Milo taught us the principle behind it. He called it... something strange. Letters. B, J, J? I can never remember the full name. But the idea stuck with me.

  "When you're weak and your opponent is strong, don't fight strength against strength. Fight your strength against their weakness."

  A human body is full of weaknesses. Joints that only bend one way. Muscles that can't exert force in certain positions. Leverage points that, when controlled, render even the strongest helpless.

  That's what we're doing now.

  Mad Wolf is a tier 3 knight. He should have stronger vitality than most people and would definitely wake up soon. If he wakes up with his arms in front of him, he could break free from any bindings we have. His raw strength is simply too much.

  But with his arms behind his back, thumbs tied together, shoulders rotated inward? The muscles in that position are weaker. The leverage is gone. Even if he wakes up, even if he struggles, he won't be able to generate the force needed to break free.

  It's not about the strength of the binding. It's about the position of the body.

  "Done," Webber reports.

  I nod, cradling my broken arm. "Good. Let's move. We're not out yet."

  Path helps Wren to her feet. She's staring at us, eyes wide, probably in shock from what she just witnessed.

  Can't blame her. We just took down a tier 3 knight with two tier 1s and a tier 2.

  That shouldn't be possible.

  But Milo always said: "Impossible just means nobody's figured out how yet."

  I guess we just figured it out.

  Back to the present, Milo’s POV

  “So you managed to turn my story into reality?” I am filled with disbelief after listening to Leon’s story.

  “Well, the principles are basically the same like how we control feathers after all. Just a lot heavier.”

  Leon said it like it's nothing but this is a Sword control technique you know!? A basic staple in any Xianxia novel which end form will enable you to ride your sword and fly around handsomely. I might even be able to fly without reaching Tier 7 for all I care.

  “This… This new control arts seems to have great potential. We need to study it quickly.”

  Leon and Rocky nod at what I said. This new found technique might be a lot more powerful than I imagined. I could also feel the girls at training gazing at us with starry eyes, thirsting to know about this control technique too.

  I will teach it to you girls later. You all need to be able to run properly first. Go on, keep on running!