Cain landed silently on the rhino's back, knees absorbing the weight with a muted thud.
He'd already layered the silence spell around himself, muting all traces of movement.
Cain saw it — one ear twitched, and its eyes squeezed shut for a breath.
It hadn't heard him coming, just felt the taps.
'That was stealthy enough.'
His hand struck three sharp slaps against the beast's flank — no sound, no echo.
The rhino stiffened at first — then settled.
It remembered the rats — were innately noisy, mannerless ,and lacked any sense of elegance.
Slap-happy fools that stank of moldy cloth and dried meat.
Thinking them in such light — the rhino felt getting mad with these fellows were beneath him.
Cain leaned forward, tightening the metal clamps as he affixed the salvaged ballista to the rhino's back.
The old mounting pole was bent, rust-bitten from exposure, but he managed a quick modification — loose enough to yank free if needed.
'Maybe this thing wouldn't fire clean shots anymore after this, but it looked dangerous. Still... it might fetch a decent price. Either way, it looks like it was worth dragging around.'
'I better not go to far, I might push this rhino to go berserk...'
"Oi, hold still. Strap this on your eyes, we're pulling off something big, so don't cock it up."
The rhino didn't reply — he wore the blindfold, couldn't see anyway, so he figured he might as well follow the command and while he wait for everyone to go home.
Cain adjusted his grip and whispered the next set of instructions with the rats voice, then pointed.
The direction was deliberately away from the battlefield — opposite of the giants, and especially away from the lion.
The rhino hesitated — its nostrils flared, as if sniffing for a missing piece of the story.
Then it rumbled.
"Where's the wolf?"
Cain slapped its cheeks again — this time it was much stronger than the last.
'I guess it was so used to the harshness then...'
"Bloody bastard! Had to patch him up cause of you. Just do your damn job, yeah?"
The beast shifted its stance, took the command, and began lumbering off into the gray expanse of shattered concrete and drifting smoke.
Cain sat atop it like a silent war parasite, eyes scanning the edges of the broken skyline.
He crouched low, bracing himself against the rhino's swaying gait as he examined the ballista bolt cradled in his palm.
It was nearly a meter long — thick, slightly warped, but intact.
This wasn't just steel — it radiated heat.
A pulsing, unnatural heat that rolled off in two separate hues — scorching blue licking the shaft, and prickly crimson glow circling the tip.
He narrowed his eyes.
The markings etched along the spine were beastmen script — angular, tribal, burned into the bolt's body with maddening precision.
He wasn't fluent, not really, but Arthur had drilled enough of the key patterns into him.
(ᜉᜀᜄᜉᜓᜆᜓᜃ - Explosion)
(ᜉᜀᜄᜎᜁᜌᜀᜊ - Flaming)
Cain mouthed the words slowly.
"Crimson one here is explosive and... This blue one is... flaming."
His lips thinned — such a nasty combo.
He slotted the crimson-tipped bolt into the ballista rail and locked it in place with a firm twist.
The mechanism groaned, but it held.
No test shots, no margin for error, and just one chance — that was all this would allow.
The rhino continued its lumbering pace, each step rolling through fractured ground and debris.
The battlefield was a smear behind them now — all they could see is just smoke, ruin, and distant roars.
Cain didn't look back, instead, he reached into his side pouch and pulled out his rifle scope — he tied it with rope to a bracket near the ballista, adjusting the angle until it lined clean.
His eyes narrowed — time to evaluate.
He steadied the scope and began scanning.
The lion stood tall in the chaos, mane only a little singed, muscles coiled, still holding back the twin giants and Ragta like it was born for this exact moment.
Cain's mind ticked through his old lessons — the traits of the lion, posture reads, dominance cues, and weakness indicators.
He needed to know.
Because if this bolt flew — if this trump card hit, it wouldn't be for intimidation.
Steadying his breath, eyes locked through the scope as he tracked the lion in the chaos below.
Every motion precise, every pivot brimming with lethal control.
Cain's grip on the ballista tightened.
He remembered the name of the beastman's race — Lionare.
Apex race — not just by blood, but by tradition.
They weren't random mutations of pride and strength — they were raised in martial art doctrines, trained to hone their primal ki from a young age.
It wasn't rare for them to run mercenary units or large conglomerates.
Hell, some even ran whole cities.
But Cain wasn't concerned with their political reach — not now.
What mattered was what they were born to do.
Lionare didn't just fight — they learned.
In mere glances they could discern — martial forms, counters, rhythms.
If you showed your hand even once, they'd start plotting a dozen ways to kill you — and once they picked a target, they didn't stop until it was dead.
Cain watched the three giants stumbling, and flinching from blows.
The lion wasn't just holding them.
He was testing them.
Cain's throat dried.
'If the lion was still calm now… that meant he believed he could kill all three.'
Cain wasn't the target yet, but the thought chilled him.
Then the last warning surfaced in his mind.
Lionare could sense hostility, not in some vague, mystical way.
Intent, malice and killing will — they could innately sense it due to hundreds of thousands of years being hunted town by gods, demons, and cultivators alike.
There was an old saying.
'If you have ill intentions toward a lion, forget it. He already knows.'
Cain lowered the scope slightly.
He couldn't shoot yet.
He had to think three moves ahead — because one wrong twitch, and the lion would turn.
And Cain knew with certainty — that he would miss.
He exhaled slowly, grounding his breath as his fingers brushed over the old ballista manual.
Powered exclusively with Primal Ki — the instruction indicated.
Cain didn't have an elemental affinity — not yet.
What ran through him now was pure, and non-elemental primal ki — the type that didn't glimmer or crackle but pushed.
It wasn't elegant — but it was enough to get things moving.
He closed the manual and tightened his grip on the rusted pivot.
He turned the ballista — not toward the lion, nor toward the giants.
He turned it away from where it was needed.
The digital scope blinked.
'270 degrees... Just one shot...'
The current battle was sitting at a ninety degrees front, a total opposite flank.
Cain cast the silence spell again, wrapping the weapon in an invisible cage.
He charged the ballista — no groan of gears, the whine of metal stress ,and even the faint hiss of the bolt locking into place, just silence.
But Cain could feel the power thrumming beneath the metal, like a beast holding its breath before the kill.
He planted both feet., locked his hips, and drew in a lungful of air.
Then pushed as hard as he can.
The entire ballista rotated on the modified mount.
Cain poured magicules into his limbs, tendons stretching under strain.
Metal shrieked in motion.
He looked at the alignment of the angle, locked the bolts, and tightened the trigger gear.
'130 degrees... 120 degrees... 110 degrees...'
"I just need a clear shot."