Stepping onto a ship for the very first time, the three warriors of the Semke tribe stared in absolute disbelief.
They never imagined a vessel of such high-tech design—a marvel defying all common sense—could exist, let alone that it would be built entirely of iron.
Yet the metal plates seemed fused together so seamlessly that not a single flaw could be found.
Meanwhile, Huey admitted he was experiencing the thrill of a submarine firsthand.
Sure, he knew about them from observing from a distance, but who would have thought he’d end up inside one while crossing paths with a living war hero like Vladimir Konovalov?
The two of them belonged to entirely different eras with no connection whatsoever.
But Huey realized it the moment that thick Russian accent filled the air.
For Huey, this was a golden opportunity to both share what he knew and soak up invaluable knowledge.
“Thanks for letting us on board,” Huey said.
“Don’t get the wrong idea.
I only allowed you in.
Not these three yokels,” Vladimir sneered, glaring at the Semke guards.
“What did you just call us, you bastard?” one of Huey’s guards snapped.
Uotu simply shook his head, letting the old man’s insults slide.
Huey’s expression hardened as he heard the remark.
“Admiral Vladimir Konovalov, you’d better watch your tongue,” Huey warned.
“Even if you used to be a war hero, that doesn’t give you a free pass.”
Vladimir let out a very audible scoff, followed by a heavy sigh from Huey, who wasn’t quite sure how to handle the stubborn old man—especially one hailing straight from the Soviet Union.
“Alright, alright.
I suppose standing here intimidating each other is a waste of time.
Besides, I still need to guide these adventurers to work with me,” Vladimir muttered.
“That sounds reassuring,” Huey deadpanned.
Vladimir acted entirely unbothered by the sarcasm.
Huey glanced back at the three Semke guards, realizing that spending time locked inside a sub beat wandering aimlessly with no clear destination.
He pointed ahead toward the fast-moving submarine.
Feeling the weight of Vladimir’s words, Huey could only lower his head and resign himself to the situation.
Meanwhile, the sharp crack of gunfire echoed from the east, jolting the bearded man’s troops into sudden panic.
Shouts for backup rang through the air.
The bearded commander, Yusuf Karamanli, cast a quick glance around, certain the enemy was hiding nearby.
The frantic stomping and neighing of horses began to rattle his men, but Yusuf kept his cool.
Gripping his Takoba sword, he activated a combination of [Calming Down] and [Far Cry].
The psychological provocation sent a jolt of terror through the enemy, shattering any lingering notion that this was just a game.
Jules de Nicollier, one of the last remaining nobles of the Chabagne Kingdom, bolted in sheer terror.
He spurred his horse forward, desperately praying he wouldn’t be hunted down by whatever mysterious entity lurked behind him.
As his four guards split up to launch a counterattack from within, swords drawn and ready, a blade swept in from the right.
In a single fluid motion, it slashed across a guard’s neck, decapitating him on the spot.
The severed head flew through the air, eyes wide with horror as if the whole gruesome scene were merely a nightmare.
“Everyone, attack!” Yusuf roared.
Jules kept running for his life, while his remaining three guards turned to halt Yusuf’s advance.
“Fools,” Yusuf muttered, casting a sidelong glance at his men.
Catching his silent cue, one of Yusuf’s subordinates stepped forward and instantly triggered a skill:
“[Speed Boost].”
Unfazed by the magic, the three guards didn’t bother looking back; their sole mission was getting Jules to safety.
Ambush after ambush was unleashed since Yusuf was pulling the strings behind the operation.
Five horses thundered forward with their riders, blades raised to strike.
Two of the guards managed to dodge just in time.
Seizing the moment, a guard yanked on his reins and screamed orders for the troops to surround Jules’s remaining protectors.
One of the soldiers shouted fiercely in an unintelligible tongue.
In response, Yusuf invoked the name of God, commanding his men to cut down anyone standing in the path of righteousness.
Vaulting onto a horse, a guard reached out to grab his comrade’s arm, but a sudden slash caught the man instead.
Groaning in pain, he muttered something under his breath, spurred his mount forward, and charged relentlessly toward Jules with lethal intent.
“Stop!
Don’t kill me!” Jules shrieked.
The last surviving guard swung his sword from the right, parrying Yusuf’s strike.
Yusuf clicked his tongue in frustration, struggling against the enemy’s unexpected strength.
Deciding to switch tactics, he slipped his Takoba back into its scabbard, drew a glowing orange bow from beside his saddle, and nocked an arrow.
Pulling the string back tight, he released it.
The projectile streaked through the air, grazing the upper right shoulder and striking a guard right between the eyes.
Jules ducked low, terrified the next arrow had his name on it.
Peeking up ahead, he suddenly felt a violent surge of magical energy spike through the air.
Jules had zero combat experience; he had never been taught how to defend himself.
He bitterly regretted wasting his youth on endless partying and chasing women.
Now, at forty years old, he was paying the price, finding himself completely helpless—even a simple escape only seemed to make things worse.
Arrows continued to rain down around him.
An arrow whistled in from the distance.
Narrowing his eyes, Jules watched as enemy soldiers let loose a barrage toward him.
He heard a guard groan in agony, clutching his ear as he yanked an arrow out, snapping the shaft in half with a desperate grip.
“I have to live!
I have to live!
I have to live!” Jules chanted, his face twisted in absolute panic.
The closing net of Yusuf’s assassins was tightening fast.
Jules’s horse was growing exhausted while Yusuf’s forces closed in like a howling gale.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye amid the dense forest, Jules spotted the ocean—and an iron ship floating upon the water.
Assuming it was a pirate vessel given its bizarre design, he yanked on his reins without a second thought, veering hard toward it.
A blade swung from the right.
Jules reacted too late.
An arrow pierced his head, and his limp body crashed straight into the sand, leaving his riderless horse to gallop on alone.
Yusuf’s men had successfully taken him down.
The fatal arrow jutted from his flesh, slick with blood.
Jules’s wide, unseeing eyes mirrored total disbelief at how quickly life had slipped away.
Death had come without warning, dragging up the ghosts of every sin he had ever committed.
There was no escaping it—his corpse lay motionless on the ground.
“[Copy File]!”
Out of nowhere, a voice called out, summoning a squad of four replica guards on horseback.
A man in a sharp black suit gripped a Remington Model 51 pistol, leveling the barrel straight at Yusuf’s advancing troops.
Breaking through the line, a soldier shouted a battle cry and swung his sword at one of the guards.
The man in the black suit simply closed his eyes, leaving Uotu to take control.
A lethal dance of combat erupted instantly.
The four replicated fighters leaped gracefully from their mounts.
Amidst the chaos, the sharp report of an M1907 carbine rifle cracked through the air.
The bullet whizzed right past Uotu, slamming squarely into a pursuer’s leg.
A cry of pain broke from the enemy soldier.
No amount of heavy armor was going to save anyone from that kind of firepower.
Vladimir knew it well.
This first shot was nothing more than a warning.
“First shot,” Vladimir muttered.
“Really?
Is that all the reaction I’ve been waiting for?” Huey sneered.
“You’ll get used to it, kid,” Vladimir replied.
“More importantly, where are the other two brats?”
“About that…”
Huey was about to mention that Dito and Anna were currently sneaking around, just in case the L-3 submarine came under attack.
Meanwhile, the man in the black suit let out a breath, his heavy footsteps crunching quickly as he strode past Vladimir, descended the iron ladder, and took cover behind a massive boulder.
“I need to wrap this up quickly…”
The decorated old officer in uniform reached for his medals, activating [Accuracy Point] to lock in his target.
His index finger brushed the trigger, squeezed back, and a round tore through the air, punching straight through the head of one of Yusuf’s men.
His next shots held zero hesitation.
Just like before, Vladimir showed no trace of mercy, viewing anyone in his way as nothing more than an obstacle to his primary mission.
Huey let out a low whistle at the sheer brutality of Vladimir’s marksmanship.
“Flawless execution without a hint of doubt.
Who would’ve thought I’d learn so much from him,” the man in the black suit remarked.
Vladimir glanced down at his attire—his neatly pressed clothes, neatly combed wavy hair, and white bowtie.
A handsome, self-assured smirk played on his lips.
Come to think of it, this was his first real encounter with Huey.
“I kept my promise,” Vladimir said.
“That’s not true.
I was assigned here to help you…
Vladimir Konovalov,” Huey countered.
“Did I hear that right?”
“But why do you know who I am?
Have we met before?”
“No.
But someone told me about you,” Vladimir answered.
“About me?” Huey frowned.
Vladimir was momentarily at a loss for words, especially since Huey seemed to know things about him he shouldn’t.
His gaze drifted toward Anna and Dito.
The two teenagers had successfully infiltrated the area, stealthily taking out the remaining soldiers one by one.
Catching a horse in the process, they eliminated the riders on the spot.
Intrigued by their resourcefulness, Vladimir decided to back them up, despite a lingering shadow of doubt.
Nearby, Huey looked up at Vladimir as the veteran raised his M1907 Carbine once more, silently hoping the old man wouldn’t let his temper cloud his judgment or crack under emotional strain.
He knew deep down that Vladimir still had plenty left to learn.