Cain's mind spun with calculations, each enchantment meticulously tailored to its wielder.
Enchanting wasn't just about slapping magic onto a weapon and calling it a day.
There were layers — muscle mass, bone density, fat composition, and even average blood pressure.
These were the internal factors, the core blueprint of the person wielding the weapon.
Then there were the external ones — weapon weight, material composition, and weapon-owner synergy.
How the blade or shield resonated with its master, how the grip felt in their hands.
If you understood these components, you could estimate not only the strength of the enchantment but its lifespan.
'I wish there was a mana bar or something like in the games.'
Cain's eyes flicked to Midi, the crimson giant whose blade had been enchanted earlier.
He saw the energy waning, the flames guttering slightly.
With a fluid motion, Cain pulled out his pistol and fired a shot — not at the enemy, but at Midi's weapon.
The bullet pulsed with enchantment energy, connecting with a sharp crack.
Flames flared back to life, licking hungrily at the blade's edge.
Midi looked back, surprise evident before his grin spread wide. He hadn't even needed to call for it. That alone made him laugh, a booming sound that rattled the loose stones around them.
The rat beastman, the one conjuring fire, took note and pressed his advantage.
Primal ki flared around his fingertips, his flaming bolts streaking through the air with renewed vigor.
In the chaos, the rhino swung his massive tower shields like they were mere mead bottles, his movements fluid and precise.
Cain's Dexterous Hands spell was still active, enhancing the beastman's control and efficiency.
The battlefield shifted — the shardlings, fifteen in total, began to falter under the relentless assault.
Cain took the brief lull to tap his tablet, fingers gliding across the screen as his wasps fed back streams of visual data.
His eyes narrowed as he analyzed the feed. Among the crumbling buildings at the edge of the skirmish, four more shardlings huddled in the shadows, their metallic frames glimmering faintly.
In another structure, three more loomed, silent and waiting.
He marked the coordinates.
'I might be able to use this.'
Cain moved with fluid precision, his tablet hovered in his left hand with telekinesis, pistol in his right.
His eyes flicked between the screen and the battlefield, observing as Ragta cleaved a shardling in two with a single swing.
The metal beast crumpled with a metallic groan, splinters of its iron shell scattering across the ground.
Cain didn't bother to look — he was already scanning the area for escape routes.
Never be caught flat-footed, Arthur had drilled into him, every fight is just another cage waiting to be locked.
His mind raced with calculations.
The two groups had split the shardlings, seven to each side, the battlefield spreading wider with each clash.
Cain's gaze flitted across the terrain — broken walls, crumbling pillars, jagged rocks jutting from the earth.
Paths of escape mapped themselves out in his mind — hidden tunnels, obsure alcoves, and the occasional collapsed building that could buy him time if things went wrong.
He thought about his company — the beastmen and giants.
'Rat Beastmen, they can scurry through cracks and slip into tight spaces. Going underground is suicide.'
His eyes flicked to the wolf beastmen, their blades flashing in perfect synchronization.
'They could track me for miles if I made a run for it in the open. A change of scent could be viable but...'
His gaze shifted to the giants.
'They probably wouldn't care too much if I disappeared…unless that lion beastman schemed against me. Then maybe...maybe they'd care enough to crush me like a bug.'
Cain's fingers danced across the tablet, marking pathways, calculating risks.
He knew better than to approach this like a siege.
Sieges are for heroes, chess is for the ones who build those sieges.
'And I know exactly which one I'd rather be.'
As he observed, Ragta's scourge whipped through the air with a force that sent dust spiraling into the wind, but the enchantment had waned.
The giant's eyes narrowed in disappointment — the hooks that once glimmered were gone.
Cain watched, unblinking. He had been waiting for this.
Before Ragta's swing even reached its apex, Cain's hands moved with fluid precision.
His pistol was out, the trigger squeezed with a whisper of magicules.
Nine precise shots crackled from its barrel, each bullet carrying threads of magicules that wrapped around the thorny hooks like spectral tendrils.
The enchantments flared back to life, bright and sharp, just as the scourge arced downward.
The entire process took less than a hundred milliseconds.
Fast, yes — but far from the fastest.
Cain knew his limits he was only an Apprentice-Magician, the second realm on the path to mastery.
He had spent nine years as a Novice, building foundations under Arthur's brutal training regimen.
Cain could have advanced faster — but Arthur had a different plan.
"You'll go to school."
Arthur had said, his voice firm.
Cain had scoffed at first, but Arthur's logic was unshakable.
"There are 27 billion humans on Earth, and only 205 schools that matter. Each takes only 5,000 students every three years. Do you think it's special?"
He remembered nodding, though begrudgingly.
"Yes. Absurdly so."
Ragta's eyes flickered with satisfaction as the scourge bit deeper , tearing through a shardling's sensing crystals with brutal efficiency.
Cain caught the glimmer of understanding in the giant's eyes — lethality was the only lesson these creatures learned.
Shardlings didn't react to pain, they adapted to it.
The only way for them to learn is to survive the agony — a missed strike was just another opportunity for them to evolve.
Cain's thoughts snapped back to the present, his gaze sharpening as the battle continued.
Then, suddenly — crack.
The lion's strike missed the sensing crystals, and the Shardling paused — as if considering.
Its core pulsed, flickering with learning and recognition — how to use primal qi, how to wield it in combat, and how to throw a pressurized fist.
After all, shardlings were born from the blood of old gods.