Cain dashed low through the mist, boots scuffing against dry gravel as streaks of magical light flew from his rifle.
The enchantments weaved across the battlefield — snapping to the three giants like luminous lasers, adding agility and mobility to their movements.
He didn't linger.
A lion's roar cracked through the fog along with the howls of two wolves — they darted toward the spell trails like bloodhounds after a scent.
Cain twisted sideways, firing suppression bursts at the ground between them — not to kill, just to throw them off rhythm.
A heartbeat later, the enchantments reached the giants. A direct hit would've let the wolves steal the payload.
These traitorous animals were now certain who's side he was.
The rat brothers, meanwhile, slumped behind the tower shield — once a weapon of combat, now a makeshift barricade.
Cain barely spared them a glance, but he noted the twitch in the one with needles strapped to his back.
The poison art expert had regained some clarity — just enough to jab a numbing agent into what was left of his arms.
The relief hit like bliss.
Both he and the blind one moaned in aching comfort, drooling slightly through split lips.
But comfort came with a price — now that the pain was gone, so too was their adrenaline.
With no hands, no weapons, and barely enough skin left to patch, courage fled like a coin down a drain.
The youngest of the rats, a demolition artist, piped up.
"Rock, paper, bloody scissors, yeah? First one to wins makes the sprint for the ballista!"
The other two rats turned toward him with deadpan stares.
Thud! Thud!
Their stumps slapped him on the head in perfect unison.
"Oi, no need for such barbarism now! So we shout it then, yeah?"
"Fine."
Rasped the blind rat.
"One shot. No do-overs."
Even half-dead, they all knew time was bleeding out fast.
The rhino sat behind them, hulking and steaming in silence.
His nostrils flared from effort. He could hear every word, but his jaw stayed locked tight.
He wasn't a meathead — he just specialized in melee brawling, trained in the art of cracking skulls, not wielding siege weapons or making battlefield concoctions.
The fog blinded him to anything beyond arm's reach. If he gave input now, he might just delay them further. That thought alone pissed him off, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he clenched his jaw.
"On three."
"One."
"Two."
"Three."
"Paper!"
Another beat.
"Scissors!"
"Rock!"
Silence.
The rat with poison expertise slumped.
"Bollocks…"
He had lost.
And now, he had to go.
He didn't want to.
With quiet sincerity, he called to the ancestors above — though every part of him screamed to stay.
Rats were built to run, not to fight, not to conquer.
He squealed — a shrill and unfiltered squeal like a pig heading for slaughter.
It was meant to raise courage — that was the idea.
Step by step, he crept toward the outline of the ballista buried in rubble.
"It looked… untouched. I was scaring myself for nothin."
Fog still veiled its base. No movement. No sound.
His ears twitched.
Too quiet.
Still, he pressed on, whispering little affirmations.
"Nothing wrong, yeah? No one's here. Just metal… wheels… bit of wire and timber, that's it…"
He reached the ballista and crouched low.
Just as he grabbed the side, about to drag it free — a hand clamped over his jaw.
He tried to scream. Nothing came out.
Cain stood behind him, eyes narrow, grip firm.
A shimmer of blue magic rippled across the rat's throat.
Cain had silenced him — same enchantment he used for gunfire suppression.
He spoke into the rat's twitching ear — giving it a tempting offer.
"You and your brothers live if I get the ballista manual. Just that and you all walk away."
The rat froze, eyes flicking from his severed arm to Cain's visor—where only a pair of eyes stared back.
He waited for a blow, a blade ,or at least something — but none came.
Thinking deeper, he realized — the ballista wasn't even theirs.
The lion beastman had only lent it to them — operators hired to sow chaos, drawn in by the promise of good fortune.
He wasn't paid to die here — he replied with a muffled grunt, then gave a slow nod.
He pressed his fleshy stump against his chest, tapping a worn leather flap inside his vest.
Cain reached in and retrieved a small manual — weathered with only a few pages intact.
'These diagrams are nothing but repair guides, not blueprints. Barebones. Still…'
Cain scanned through them quickly — custom frame, modular legs, and a bolt feed.
His fingers traced the diagram of a detachable auto-loader.
Then, just as Cain's eyes flicked to a page on air-pressure recalibration — the rat moved.
Not with his body. That would've been too obvious.
But with his tail.
It slid into his hidden pockets like a whisper.
The rat remembered exactly where he had stashed the syringes.
Just a few inches more — nothing.
His tail tapped the fabric a few more times — empty.
He looked up.
Cain held the poison kit in one hand. His other hand didn't even pause as it flipped the next page of the manual.
The rat's pupils dilated.
He didn't have time to think.
Four tiny darts slammed into his forehead.
Hallucinogens — micro doses that bypassed bloodstream entirely and hit the brainstem direct with a euphoric dream.
He twitched, drooled, then collapsed — giggling as his bleeding leg spasmed weakly.
Cain set the manual aside, snapped shut the poison kit, and took a slow breath.
Fog swirled again.
Cain pulled the tablet from his bag, sent a recording, then stashed it away immediately.
From the clangs of metal on the battlefield, a stealthy buzzing rose — the drone wasps.
Cain had sent them out again — he needed more fog again for his plan to work.
He needed cover, the mist was already started thinning out by the second.
In the distance, the twin giants grunted in agreement, already shifting their stance.
As the clang of fire and ice resounded once more.
Seeing his plan going smoothly, Cain smirked beneath his helmet.