With a spell readied, Konrad showed himself to the crossbowman.
"Who's in charge here?" his yelling made the slacking guards stand at attention. "I'm Konrad of the Halstadt house—and by the king's decree and the Code of Conduct, I'm taking over."
Shock and silence. Then a laugh.
"You what?" a guard hollered.
"Isn't that the guy who escaped Halaima?" another asked as the crossbowman leveled his weapon at his face. "The Inquisitor promised land and promotion to whoever takes you back."
Konrad shrugged, calculating the distance and looking for openings as he talked.
"Otto had overstepped his boundaries," he said, only to say something. "I have the Code with me—feel free to read it. The king named me as the steward of—"
"The king's not here," the crossbowman interrupted, readying a bolt.
It wasn't like Konrad expected them to surrender—that would've been boring, anyway. He didn't want all his preparations to go to waste.
Thirty yards to get in range. Doable. He kept taunting the men.
"Not yet—but he's on his way. Go, tell your master, I've retaken what's mine."
Another round of laughter, the gatekeepers unsheathing their swords.
"Does the Inquisitor pay for him dead, too?" one asked, taking a step towards him.
The other blew a whistle, calling more soldiers to the entrance. Everyone was in full plate armor, with the Church's red markings. They sure didn't cut corners on the armaments.
"Does this mean you're resisting me?" Konrad shrugged, his spell doing a perfect job so far.
He opened his arms, providing the perfect target—and a bolt punched right through his face.
If it weren't an illusion, that would've hurt.
No adamantite plates would've stopped that. Welf didn't make a helmet yet.
But he was safe and sound behind the tree line, and the image didn't even flinch.
The guards' laughter died instead.
"Okay, rude," Konrad sent his image a step forward. "I'll assume your finger slipped—but this is your last warning. As you can see, I'm invincible, so surrender now, or face the consequences."
He measured how long it took the crossbowman to reload.
The seconds—he was fumbling a lot, his jaw dropped. Enough to cover that distance.
He summoned fire, creating a bolt of his own, ready to release at the right moment.
"Y-you're not invincible," the guards claimed, not so confident now.
Two of them approached, the rest forming up by the entrance.
The crossbowman in the watchtower finished his fumbling, aiming at his chest now.
"Am I not? Didn't Otto tell you?" Konrad had to dial back on his taunting to concentrate on the runes. And the illusion—one more step forward, making sure it wouldn't flicker.
"A fluke. Shoot him again," a Church thug demanded, and sure enough, another bolt came.
This was his moment.
To ease his burden, he let go of the illusion. He dashed for the watchtower—before the soldiers realized what happened, he was in range.
The crossbowman was too confused by his disappearing target. He didn't even think of reloading—and when he noticed the real danger, it was too late.
Konrad's firebolt engulfed the entire watchtower, sharpshooter included.
His scream served as a further distraction. The soldiers turned their backs, confused.
Now, Konrad could test his new adamantite blade, prim and proper.
It saved his ass in a magic duel before, but he had yet to try it in hand-to-hand combat.
The first swing caught his opponents off guard, though he aimed for their armor on purpose.
It didn't cut through steel plates—no sword could've done that—but his blade didn't chip at all.
The momentum toppled his opponent, and finishing him off was only a matter of a stylistic choice. While Konrad didn't enjoy mindless killing, he warned them twice.
His bastard sword's blade flew like the wind.
Aiming the tip never felt this easy—he didn't even put any force behind it.
He stabbed into the helmet's opening, taking out two of his enemies within ten seconds.
The rest was now alert—and terrified. The one closer to him fell back—or tried, but Konrad was faster. He went straight for the joints in the armor, disarming the poor bastard.
And no, he didn't knock his weapon out of his hands.
He cut the entire arm off below the pauldron.
Stepping over the screaming soldier, he pressed on to fight the remaining three.
They seemed less eager now. Their legs shook hard enough to clank their armor.
"If you had a change of heart, drop your blades and surrender," Konrad offered one last time. Well, he hoped they'd refuse—he was only warming up, but "I'll give you a moment."
If he had this weapon back in the dungeon, he wouldn't have needed all that trickery.
It made him feel more powerful than ever.
And sure, he used a diversion and a firebolt, but he could've taken all these soldiers in a melee even without them. The footmen didn't see that yet.
"I-it's three of us against one," one claimed, getting into a close-knit formation with his peers.
Smart. Fighting a group was always trickier than a face-to-face solo duel.
But Konrad could still taunt them.
"I already took out three of you," he pointed out, raising his blade. "How many more do I need to convince you? Do you want to call your friends, too? I'll fight them all here."
Okay, he wasn't that confident—but this whole one-man-army act was to lure them out.
Then Bor and his men could've descended through the ventilation shafts.
If he couldn't keep the captives safe, the entire mission would've been pointless.
Who knew what kind of despicable acts the Church would pull if they felt themselves cornered? One guard yelled for backup, but he wouldn't sit around until he finished.
A step closer, a faint—and a ball of fire from his off hand to break their shaky formation.
It wasn't even real.
He wanted to preserve his strength. But after incinerating the bowman, his illusions were convincing enough. With the formation scattered, he struck down the one in the middle.
The second one was still distracted.
He tried to put out flames that didn't exist, meeting his fate by Konrad's blade instead.
The third ran—not in the right direction, so another illusion had to block his path.
He must've thought Konrad teleported. That was still way beyond him, but he only needed the looks—he had plenty of inspiration to know how to fake it.
When the guard stopped dead, the adamantite blade came straight down on his neck.
Six guards, six corpses—one still burning, but no longer screaming.
The blade was awesome.
Be it a tool for his spells, or a deadly weapon—he had to thank Welf again later.
Now, even fighting all the guards by himself didn't seem that far-fetched.
There were about fourteen of them left.
In a piecemeal fashion like he had done before, they would've gone down all the same. Adrenaline surged through his body, sweat beading on his forehead, when—
A whistle tempered his bloodlust.
Vargas walked up behind him, clapping.
"Please tell me it was all because of the adamantite sword," he grinned, kicking one of the corpses. "I was a bit confused about the opening bit, but this was impressive."
Oh, boy, was he trying to compliment him as part of his plot?
Good thing he had the perfect comeback for that.
"Why don't you get in there and try it for yourself?"