“This is fucking insane.”

Brock crouched low, his form hidden by the edge of the rocky outcropping he was stationed upon. The sun shone high in the sky, and not a single cloud dotted the blue expanse. Beneath him was a stretch of plains, populated by sparse shrubbery and grasses. Monsters galloped around, feasting upon the flora under them, and the calls of birds settled the place into tranquillity.

Far in the distance, an armoured transport unit was approaching. The roar of its engine echoed faintly, and dust churned behind it.

Glancing at the message on his newly granted phone to remind himself why he was doing this, Brock honed in his focus on the truck. When Adam had said he’d need to do something in return, he’d expected them to want his non-existent secrets, or blood, or something questionable at best. Not… this.

Arguably, it was worse.

All he needed to do was intercept this transport truck, hijack it and bring it back to New Paris. Maxwell wanted whatever they were transporting, and he wanted it bad, apparently. As for who actually owned the truck, it was attributed to an up-and-coming organisation called Harakat’s Teeth. Adam had described them - in Max’s words - as ‘a group of terrorists’.

Guess we’ll see if he’s right or not.

With his enhanced eyesight, he estimated about five minutes until it arrived, and if it followed the worn path, clearly the result of several vehicles moving through the area beforehand, it should pass right under him. He knew this was probably going to go severely wrong, but he had to try anyway. His life was on the line after all.

From what else he could see, the truck was flanked on either side by a pair of military jeeps, the machine guns mounted to the back of them practically begging for his attention. Of course, they were manned. Brock had no idea what everyone’s obsession with jeeps were these days, but he knew perfectly why they’d want one.

His own was a fucking beast off-road. Which was good, because very little road was left.

The transport was still out of his aura range, so he had no idea the rough levels of the enemies, but he could spot a total of six; the truck driver, the two jeep drivers, the two machine gunners, and a man sitting cross-legged atop the cab of the transport truck. He was unmoving, akin to someone asleep, yet Brock could tell he was well aware of his surroundings.

And so, he waited.

One minute passed.

Then another.

Then one more after that.

Then, in the final minute, as the truck closed in, auras flared in Brock’s senses. He narrowed his eyes and prepared to drop down. The majority he sensed were at level 50 or a bit above, but the mysterious man atop the truck was sitting at 70, and his aura portrayed clear signs of an epic Ascendancy.

A second or two passed by, then everyone below looked up, having sensed his own aura in turn. The vehicles didn’t slow and instead they picked up the pace. The machine guns cluttered as they were aimed up towards him. Brock’s lips straightened to a line.

Ahhh, fuck.

The air was disturbed by a cacophony of echoing bangs as the outcropping was shredded by a hail of lead, sending shards of rock and the smell of gunpowder flying everywhere. Hissing out a breath, Brock exploded off of his haunches and zoomed along the edge of the outcropping, attempting to keep his form hidden by the uneven ridges he passed by.

Three seconds until the truck passes below.

As the glowing streaks that were bullets finally began to catch up to his position, the count in Brock’s head hit ‘1’ and he veered to the right. The earth was ripped from under him, and he dived off the cliff. Air slapped at his cheeks, and he heard the howling wind rustle his clothes. Streaks of orange shot by above him, slowly moving down to trace his form.

The truck grew in his vision, and Brock twisted and braced his knees as he landed on the trailer of the truck. It have a groan, the armour plates shattering and the metal beneath crumpling. Brock’s knees buckled and with a metallic tear, he shot straight through the top and into the trailer. His body clanged against the flooring.

“…ouch…” sunlight and blue skies were visible through the hole above him, and idly, Brock noticed that the sound of gunfire had ceased. The aura of the seated man still hadn’t moved or reacted.

He coughed out a breath and ignored the sharp pain that enveloped his entire back. He felt it populated with small cuts from the armour plating, and he knew it was going to bruise hard tomorrow. Around him, as he panned his gaze, he saw a plethora of crates, some opened, others locked shut.

From the ones that were opened, Brock could glimpse at the contents within. His brows rose. Firearms, ammunition, and a metric fuckton of explosives. Missiles, C4, grenades. You name it, it was there. No wonder Maxwell wants all this shit.

Briefly, he entertained what the man would possibly do with all this, but he shut the process off immediately. He needed to give this to Maxwell, regardless. It was all this in exchange for his life.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Voices resounding from outside brought his attention back, and Brock gazed up through the hole. From what his aura senses were telling him, two soldiers had boarded the truck and were approaching his entryway.

He grinned and reached for Lament.

A head peered over, masked by a helmet.

Brock’s legs flexed and he shot up and out the hole. With a backflip that left him feeling totally awesome, he landed in a crouch and exploded forward. Two bullets were shot by the soldier closest before Brock snatch the gun out of his hands and used it to batter him off the side of the vehicle.

Screaming, he tumbled down to the track below and hit the ground rolling. Unable to change his trajectory, the jeep on that side ran him over with an audible ‘crack’. Fortunately, his aura was still going strong, as were his screams, so he was at least alive.

I… didn’t really think that through…

He didn’t have the time to lament on it, however, as he heard a trigger click and he was met with a spray of bullets. They bit into his flesh, burrowing in a few inches deep, but otherwise leaving him no worse for wear. That wasn’t to say it didn’t hurt, however.

Growling, Brock glanced at one of the jeeps travelling below, now with an unmanned turret. In one swift motion, he used his stolen firearm to smash the other weapon out of the man’s hand and off the vehicle. Then, in the moment of shock, Brock spun on his feet and plunged a foot into his opponents’ chest. The man shot backwards and collapsed into the vehicle below them.

The driver swerved and Brock assumed his weapon, taking aim.

It rocked with recoil, but a storm of bullets tore into the tyres and the vehicle swerved once more, before flipping off to the side. He heard the people in there scream, but their auras remained strong; alive. So far, he’d kept the kill count at zero. His murder of Ryan flashed in his mind.

As for the other jeep driver, she’d begun to turn left and distance herself from the main truck. Brock snorted and gripped his rifle by the barrel. His arm blurred and the weapon cleaved through the air. With a crunch, the stock slammed her in her armoured head, and she was knocked unconscious, her head hitting the wheel.

Needless to say, that vehicle too lost control and rolled.

Raising a brow, Brock looked to the man still seated atop the cab. He hadn’t moved nor reacted, and upon closer inspection, he noticed that his eyes were closed. His chest rose and fell slowly, the very image of calm. Two worn revolvers were socketed in holster at his waist.

With a face adorned by unkempt stubble, and loose brown hair, Brock felt he possessed a weird resemblance to a… well… cowboy.

Licking his lips, Brock took a step forward. There was still no reaction. He took another. Still nothing. He took one more. Unsurprisingly, nothing ha-

A crackle resound and a barrel flashed.

“I ain’t go any further if I’re you.” A voice spoke out, slow and deep. It wasn’t exactly Texan in its accent, but Brock was certain it was something adjacent. Something western.

He glanced down at his leg, finding the cloth had been torn and underneath was a small wound, blood dribbling out of it. The bullet… had missed deliberately. Fuck he’s accurate.

It was clear to Brock that that was a warning shot.

He grimaced, “And what if I do?”

A silence fell over the area, populated only by the sound of the vehicle’s engine and the whirring of wheels on rough dirt. Brock took a step back as the man opened his eyes, revealing sea-green irises, and rose to his feet. He was about two heads taller than Brock himself. He looked profoundly… bored.

His eyes fell on Brock. His expression showed no changed, “Then it would seem like ya ain’t value ya life.”

Brock reached for Lament, “Funnily enough, its value is slowly declining.”

The blade gleamed as the sunlight struck its surface, and Brock moved. Fast.

Less than even half a second later, two bullets streaked past where his eyes had once been. They’re enchanted. Enough to actually harm me.

Brock grimaced and Lament was sliced up towards its foes head. His eyes flicked to the side and he leaned out the way. His revolvers spun on his fingers and fired as Brock prepared to shift the attack into a shoulder charge. A bullet blew straight through his foot while the other missed as the charge landed.

He winced and hissed out a breath as he pushed his full body weight behind the charge. His attacker was shoved backwards, and he hit the ground rolling. Brock threw Lament as he moved, but it struck a few inches short of its target. Two more bangs resounded in the air. The driver swerved a little bit.

Pain flanked in Brock’s flank and thigh. Blood spurted from the fresh bullet wounds. The beginnings of a smile played on the cowboy’s lips, “I’ll admit, ya better than I thought ya’d be.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Brock clicked his tongue and sprung forward. As his eyes witnessed the guns rise to his position, he slid, and his hand snaked out for Lament. His foes eyes flicked to his position, and his revolvers began to change course as his fingers pulled the triggers.

Lament flashed through the air, and effortlessly, the edge cleaved through the midpoint of a revolver. Together, they fired. One exploded to magic slag, and the other fired a bullet directly into Brock’s chest. He gritted his teeth. His forearm slammed into the trailer and with one movement, he launched himself up at his foe.

The man tried to backstep, but he was met with the edge of their battlefield. Brock’s legs snapped outward and struck the cowboy in his stomach. Brock hissed out a breath of triumph as he fell backwar-

He froze. He felt fingers grasped around his ankle. He began to slide back.

Cursing, Brock drove Lament into the trailer, piercing past the armour and into the thin metal below. The two of them stopped dead. Brock kicked out his legs, trying to shake off the man holding him, but it was futile. A second hand grasped his other leg, this time a little further up.

He’s… climbing me to get back up…?

Clicking his tongue, Brock rolled over, hearing the cowboy slam into the trailer as he did so. The man grunted, “Ya a shifty one, huh?”

Brock tensed his core muscled and lifted his legs up. He slammed the man into the trailer again, “I prefer the term smart.”

He heard a chuckle from below, and the man’s grip tightened. He heard a clang and felt himself get pulled down slightly as a set of fingers left his leg, his blade cleaving through more of the trailer. A quick glanced behind showed why. There was now a hand gripping the edge of the trailer.

The other hand left his legs and joined the previous one. A head poked up. It was grinning wildly.

So, Brock kicked him in the face.

He heard the man grunt, and as his foot lifted, he was surprised to see that the grin hadn’t faded. Instead, he was now staring down the barrel of a gun. Brock’s foot slammed into his face again. The man’s fingers slipped a bit.

“ya were fun on-” The surroundings darkened, and Oppressive Might activated. The cowboy’s eyes widened.

As the man’s finger tugged on the trigger, Brock’s Aura Technique grabbed the man by the neck and threw him off the vehicle. He heard him curse loudly, and Brock dared to glance over his shoulder, seeing the man’s form as he fell backward. A gunshot resounded.

His opponent hit the grasses of the plain rolling and faded into the distance as they trunk continued onward. Breathing out, Brock sighed in relief.

Blood dribbled from a gash only an inch from his eye.