Ritchie wasn't surprised. Shield bashes had been countered for centuries.
Grabbing the lance strapped to his back, he twirled it, unsure what to do next.
Two rookies stared, neither moving.
Ritchie, in heavy armor with dual shields, was built for defense, not attack. The disarmed Hunter, in thin armor, dared not approach.
Randy's voice cut in: "I'll count to three. Attack. One…"
Unsure why, Ritchie obeyed. At "three," he charged, lance thrusting.
Oddly, the Hunter stood frozen, watching as the lance pierced his hip, which was the weakest spot on any armor.
The bloodied tip burst through his shoulder. He was dead.
Ritchie yanked the lance free, turned to the first Hunter, and stabbed through his collarbone.
Blood sprayed.
Confirming both were dead, Ritchie tossed their lances onto the vehicle and climbed up.
"What just happened?" he asked. Killing two without a scratch felt unreal, even against rookies.
"Don't forget I'm a psychic. A little mental shock isn't that surprising," Randy said calmly. She wouldn't have sent him otherwise.
After racing over twenty kilometers, Randy finally contacted Glaslovar.
Ritchie, standing guard outside, no longer felt the cold. He understood now why knights' blood boiled in battle.
He felt it. He was hot-blooded, even eager for more rookie foes.
Then Randy's voice came: "Ritchie, you can withdraw."
"Did you reach Glaslovar?" he asked, worried for his parents there.
"Don't worry, the message went through. You got me here safely; your mission's done. With the captain gone, I'm in charge. I order you to retreat."
"And you?" Ritchie sensed something bad.
Randy paused, then said, "The squad needs me to keep fighting. I have to go back."
Her words lifted a weight, her usual coldness giving way to resolve and a touch of warmth as she looked at him.
"I'm part of this squad. Some things I must do. You're not there yet."
Ritchie's heart stirred. Fleeing the battlefield was tempting.
But then he pictured Diana, Rosa, Lina, and even the three sisters. He realized he wasn't truly afraid of them. He just didn't know how to face them, especially after taking their virginities.
Climbing onto the vehicle's roof, he sat cross-legged. "The captain ordered me to follow and protect you. Where you go, I go."
Randy said nothing. After a moment, she started the vehicle, turned it around, and headed back.
The surrounding mountains were eerily silent, as if untouched by human presence, let alone battle. Only the white egrets circling above, startled by something, hinted at recent conflict.
A light rain fell, soaking Ritchie. Despite his battle armor, the cold seeped in. The sudden winter shower didn't wash away the lingering killing intent. Instead, it added a chill.
Ritchie scanned the surroundings nervously. Only he and Quartermaster Randy were here. If the enemy spotted them, the consequences would be dire.
Killing two rookies didn't make him cocky enough to think he could face real knights.
But he'd boasted about staying, and his pride wouldn't let him back down. He had to tough it out.
The vehicle stopped. Ahead lay a canyon, the path ending.
After a moment, a soft clank sounded as one door flipped upward.
"Help me unload," Randy said. Unaccustomed to giving orders, she was vital to the squad, second only to Captain Carrie, yet ranked just above Ritchie. She rarely commanded others, except now.
Randy drove the last vehicle, loaded with repair parts. She pointed to several iron-gray crates, each two meters long, one meter wide, half a meter high.
Using a prybar from the toolbox, Randy opened them, revealing neatly arranged red crystals, basin-sized and brick-thick. Energy crystals.
"We're ditching the vehicle here; it can't go further," Randy said, counting the crystals. "Help me carry these. We can leave other parts, but without these, the others can't fight or escape."
"But…" Ritchie hesitated. "My armor's weight capacity is low."
Randy straightened, frowning. Her first time commanding, and she'd overlooked this.
Glancing at Ritchie's armor, her eyes lingered on the damaged side. Its thick armor was its only strength; that spot was a weak point, but on another armor, it'd be pierced.
"I've got an idea," she said, clapping. "Your armor's weight is seventy-five percent armor. Sorry, we need to remove some."
Ritchie wanted to refuse. As a defensive heavy knight, he lacked speed and power. Without armor, he was a sitting duck.
But he'd made his stand. Backing out now would be unmanly.
Besides, against enemy knights, armor or not, he'd be slaughtered. Better to go all in and let Randy modify the armor.
Removing armor was quick, only involving swapping damaged plates or weapons. In minutes, the front and side panels were off, leaving only the back plate. Removing it would leave him too vulnerable to rear attacks.
The crystals were hung where the armor had been. Lighter than steel, they still couldn't be overdone. Heavy knights were clumsy, ill-suited for mountainous terrain, so lightening the load was essential.
"Help me take this down," Randy said, pointing to a large disc on the vehicle's roof.
About a meter wide, it had a heavy iron plate atop intricate etchings and embedded crystals.
It was heavy and awkward to carry but vital. Locating the team, avoiding battle zones, and communicating depended on it.
Only Randy, a psychic, could use it. Every squad needed a psychic for such devices, and this disc was one of them.
Dismantling the disc, Ritchie tried various holds, finally settling on balancing it on his head. This limited his vision, as one hand had to steady it, but with large shields on both arms, whichever hand he used blocked half his view.
It felt risky, but there was no better option. The disc was delicate, needing to stay flat and undamaged. Holding it in hand freed his vision but hindered movement.
Weighing the risks, Ritchie had no choice.
With everything ready, Randy hesitated. She needed a secure perch.
As a psychic, she lacked a knight's stamina and couldn't keep up with a armor's pace. She also had to stay near the disc to operate it.
Ritchie's armor, only slightly larger than a person, was close to Randy's height.
After eyeing options, the most practical was face-to-face, sitting in his lap—awkwardly intimate.
Randy's face flushed, recalling Ritchie's scandals. "Put me on your shoulders."
"Too low," Ritchie said, not yet grasping her choice. "And dangerous. A rear attack would hit you first. Sit in front."
It was true, but Randy's face reddened further. She spat lightly, "In front's even riskier."
Ritchie paused, then got her meaning, his heart racing.
Laden with energy crystals and the disc overhead, Ritchie moved cautiously through the mountain shadows.
To hide the crystals' faint glow, he draped a tarp over himself, sticking leafy branches into his armor, resembling a tree spirit.
Randy ended up in his lap—the shoulder space, cramped by the disc, couldn't fit her.
Ritchie's nerves faded, replaced by a struggle against rising desire.
Randy's position was too tempting. She'd warned sitting in front would be riskier, and she was right.
At camp, he spent more time with Randy than Diana, being under her command as the squad's handyman. Yet he'd never really noticed her.
At camp, Randy always wore glasses, giving her an intellectual but stern look, like the school's rigid, forty-something spinster dean.
Now, glasses off, her hands gripped his shoulders, legs straddling his hips, she was utterly captivating.
Randy seemed oblivious to his reaction, or pretended to be. A metal band on her head connected to the disc via a thin wire.
Eyes closed, hands over her ears, she focused her psychic senses through the disc, scanning the surroundings.
Suddenly, her body tensed, her expression grave.
"Six o'clock, seven kilometers, signs of combat," she said.
Ritchie turned instantly, speeding up, no longer creeping. He lowered the hand holding Randy to shield his side.
He wasn't worried she'd fall since she clung tightly, secured by a belt.
His feet shuffled in a practiced gait, steady and ideal for uneven terrain. It wasn't fast but kept his upper body still, allowing quick direction changes with minimal effort.