The mage didn't understand what was happening. "Impossible," he muttered. "Let's try another spell."
"Prostate Incontinence."
He cast the spell on Alan. As a result, Alan stood there as if nothing had happened, looking at him with innocent eyes.
"No reason."
The mage turned and cast the same spell on Nanaue. Suddenly, Nanaue's expression froze, and he clenched his legs together, trembling.
"Sphincter Relaxation."
"It still doesn't work."
The mage tried again on Nanaue. The next second, Nanaue covered his front with one hand and his back with the other and ran toward the woods, shouting, "Nanaue can't hold on any longer!"
"Shut up."
Namor was shocked. The thought of such a cruel spell being used on him was terrifying.
"Systemic Gout Therapy."
The mage raised his hand and cast the spell, causing Namor to collapse on the spot, every bone in his body screaming in pain. Gout is not a disease, but the pain can be fatal. Even someone as strong as Namor couldn't endure the piercing agony that shot through his body. Let alone standing up to fight, even moving his fingers made him cry out.
"Which lunatic invented this spell?" Steve screamed in pain, as if he had kicked a steel nail with his bare foot and the entire thing had gone straight through his toe. His words were like a wake-up call, reminding the mage of the reason.
The wizard said with a look of disbelief, "Impossible, absolutely impossible. There must be something wrong."
"What's impossible?"
Alan had already walked up to him, the machete in his hand already on the man's neck. The wind-controlling mutant on the side, who had been trying to escape, was whipped by Alan's Whip of Bliss and was now rolling on the ground in pain, grimacing and scratching his back.
"There are two reasons for a spell to fail. The first is that it encounters a countering attribute and the caster's magic energy is a level higher. The second is that any spell is ineffective against its source." The mage looked Alan up and down and definitively ruled out the first possibility; he couldn't sense any magical energy from him at all. And if the first one wasn't true, the second was even more impossible. A person who knew no magic, creating a series of forbidden techniques? You might as well say a mentally ill person could build an atomic bomb.
Of course, Alan really could.
"Impossible, absolutely impossible," the mage grabbed his hair and said in distress. "This isn't a story! Where does magic immunity come from?"
"Hey, hey, it's true that in a world of stories, I am the hero." Alan's iconic hand gesture, a pistol shape, was put to his chin as he said proudly, "Is the author of the forbidden technique named Alan?"
"How do you know? Have you read that banned book?" The mage immediately suspected that this person was a mage who could hide his magical aura and had even practiced a series of forbidden techniques from the forbidden book. Then, it would all make sense.
"That's right, it should be something I did in a certain timeline," Alan thought seriously. "If I ever meet the Ancient One, I will definitely persuade her to take better care of her hair."
"Master Ancient One has hair, and she takes good care of it every day," the mage reminded him.
"Ah, I didn't let you speak." Alan raised his hand and beat him violently. In his life, there was nothing he hated more than being slapped in the face with the truth. To deal with such people, Alan did not hesitate to respond with physical magic.
The matter was resolved. Four mutants and a mage were captured, and the commando team had once again made an extraordinary achievement. The losses that could have been incurred were incalculable, but the fact that so much scientific research equipment could be preserved intact meant that at least a lot of new scientific research could be created, and it could also provide insight into the enemy's technological level. Most of the captured scientific researchers chose to join the Allied side. After all, he who knows the times is a hero. Of course, it was also a precursor to Hydra's infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D. Alan didn't jump out to expose the truth; who would believe the words of a mentally ill person?
The members of the commando team were officially determined. Captain Steve, staff officer Carter, tactical director Dugan, psycho Alan, mascot Nanaue, logistics officer Bucky, and fire support Namor. A team of seven, performing special tasks, could be described as a sharp sword on the battlefield, piercing through the enemy's most solid defenses.
Over the next three months, they made many achievements and became famous throughout the Allied Forces. Many young soldiers regarded Steve as their idol, affectionately calling him Captain America. The others were like the green leaves that complemented the flowers. The information about Nanaue and Namor was deliberately concealed and blocked, mainly because they were not human, so as to avoid causing rejection and fear among ordinary people.
On this day, the commando team prepared to capture a fortress. But outside the fortress was a silt swamp, a natural barrier. No means of transportation could pass through. Even if you walked, there would be a pit wherever you stepped. The mud had an adhesive quality that took a lot of effort to pull your legs out of. Tanks and armor were useless, and charging would be tantamount to suicide, so the task fell to the commandos.
Looking at the vast expanse of muddy swamp, Steve felt a headache coming on.
"The first plan is that we tie ropes and let Namor carry us across the swamp," Carter suggested.
"I don't recommend it. Being too conspicuous in the air is equivalent to becoming a living target for the enemy." Dugan was the first to object. He said that the enemy fortress would definitely have snipers, and by then, they would be hanging in the air with nowhere to escape. What's more, Namor's flying speed was not fast enough to avoid bullets.
"The second option is to ride Nanaue across the swamp. It's easy to expose your whereabouts if you take two people at a time." Carter didn't recommend this. Nanaue could swim in the swamp, but once they were locked onto by the enemy, they would jump like a shark and get stuck in the mud, making them unable to escape being shot.
"No, no, no, such a simple question still requires so much discussion." Judging from Alan's beaming expression, he must have come up with a solution, but he needed someone to take the bait and satisfy his inexplicable vanity.
"Alan, you must have some good idea, right?" Steve asked cooperatively.
"All you need is a good pair of hands." Alan walked toward the woods without looking back, pulled out his machete, and started chopping.
Under the watchful gaze of everyone, he made a wooden tool. The wooden strips were shaved and reinforced with a mortise-and-tenon structure. In less than a quarter of an hour, a strange tool appeared before his eyes.
"Clang, clang, clang… it's done." This was a simple tool specially designed for passing through muddy areas. "Kneel with one leg in the wooden cabin, push the other leg back, and hold the wooden handle with both hands to control the direction. Isn't it cool?"
Alan couldn't wait to carry the tool to the swamp, gripped the steering handle with both hands, knelt on one knee on the wooden frame, and left one leg hanging outside. He kicked into the mud. Suddenly, the wooden sled slid several meters away with Alan. When the speed slowed down, he pushed again, galloping on the mud very smoothly.
Alan sang with abandon, "Oh, the kidneys are leakin' and the chickens are squawkin', the donkey noodles are salty and the garlic is talkin'…"
"Nanaue wants to play too! Master, let Nanaue play for a while!" Looking at Alan sliding here and there, Nanaue jumped and waved anxiously.
"Swamp Sled!?"
***
(End of Chapter)
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