“Nghhh…” Waking up, a groan left William’s lips. Sand had crawled down his tunic and the palms of his hands were searing hot. He lifted a hand to his face, squinting through the sunlight, and went wide eyed. The Arcane Enforcer Handguards were scorched, his flesh nearly black. His chest rose and fell in fast panic.
‘How long have I been out?' His head throbbed. 'Ngh...it feels like hours...my body is aching all over.’
He tilted his head to the side and saw Max. Unconscious? Dead? His heart raced and he picked himself up despite the sounds of war in the backdrop.
“H-hey, Max. Come on. Wake up.” His helmet was half torn, his remaining face having lost a layer of skin. William shook him, desperately trying to wake him up. He didn’t have healing spells and since he wasn’t awake, the System regeneration wasn’t kicking in either.
“What am I supposed to do?” William asked himself in a fast hush. Swallowing, he vaguely remembered that doing chest compressions helped. William would have tried to do CPR, if not for the fact that Max’s lips were razed off and smoking black.
Compression, compression, compression. “Dude, you said you were going to win for your daughter. Come on, wake up!” His breathing was becoming heavy and his head started to hurt. He swore in his head several times as nothing worked. He didn’t so much as twitch.
“Hard and fast, hard and fast,” William muttered. “Doesn’t matter if his ribs break. Come on, William, don’t be scared.”
Compression, compression, compression.
And then Max let out a gasp. William had never felt so relieved. He promptly stopped the compressions and watched as Max slowly got up. Still sitting and struggling to breath but very much alive.
“W-William?”
“Hey man, how’s it going?" A shaky breath left the teen. "You put me through a scare there.”
Max looked at him, astonished. “You saved me.”
William wore a smile. “Well, duh. You’re my friend.”
Max blinked and shook his head, also smiling. “Thanks—”
The smile that had adorned Max's face just moments ago shifted to a stern expression, his eyes narrowing as he focused on something behind William.
"What's wrong?" William asked, a sense of concern etching his features as he turned to see what had captured Max's attention.
Out from the swirling dust of the battlefield emerged two figures, clad in weathered cowboy attire and armed with guns at their sides: Buck and Frank, both Level 14 and both equipped with the Gunsman Class.
“They’re members of the Wild West,” Max muttered. “We have to run—unh!” Max failed to get to his feet, his legs failing him. William managed to balance himself, but it took a great toll. He briefly checked his surroundings. They were still at the beach, still in the middle of a massive battlefield. At the back of his mind, he wondered where Hugo went.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Lookie here, Buck, a Templar and a big man.” Frank put a hand on his holster. “Should we lit ‘em up? Or extort them?”
They stopped and maintained a ten metre distance. With their guns, however, distance didn’t matter. They could threaten them all they wanted. William checked his mana supply. He had just recovered fifty-five MP from the System. It was now or never.
The instant their guns began to slither from her holsters, William muttered, “Advanced Flow of Mana Lv. 7.”
Sparks of black flew from the soles of his feet as he blasted forward and slammed his arms into the gunslingers. It was an instant KO. Instant victory.
“Hey, that bastard took out Frank and Buck!”
…or so William presumed. Bang! A bullet nicked his ear and his mana flared to life. He ran towards his next target, ending them with a punch. Bang! He flinched as a bullet struck his shoulder at the moment of deactivation. The bullet didn’t go too deep courtesy of the thick armour that was Mana Flow but it was enough to draw blood. He turned once again and saw over a dozen gunslingers, all of them wearing identical though distinct types of cowboy wear.
‘How many of them are there?’ He swallowed thickly as every one of them trained their guns on him. He was fast but not so fast as to avoid twelve bullets. ‘Advanced Flow of Mana lasts for three seconds.’
“Oi, you better not do anything rash!” they said. William’s heart stopped when he saw they had Max. Unable to properly stand, unable to fight, he was at their mercy.
“W-William, don’t worry about me. Just kill them with your power—”
“Ah, shaddup!” Max was smacked with the butt of a gun. “Don’t listen to the self-sacrificing nonsense, he’s just bluffing.”
“Y-you’re a kid…” Max murmured. “Just…run…”
“I…” William clenched his fist, the burn marks fueling his rage. “I can’t. I won’t.”
His axe was gone and his only option was the darkness inside him.
Their expressions, which had been scrunched up in scowls and grimaces, suddenly became full of smiles. They saw something. ‘Behind me—?’ He discreetly peered over his shoulder and saw a man as tall as himself and twice as hefty. Though not traditionally strong, he carried the weight of a body over his shoulder like it was nothing.
“Hey, boss? Did you kill their leader?” one of the gunslingers in front of him asked. Quite casually, the large, plump man walked past him, laughing. It was like he didn’t notice he was here or the fact that the body on his shoulder was bleeding.
“Hahaha, of course I did!” His name was Butcher, Level 19 and also a Gunsman. He talked to his men as if they were his friends. “Tenacious bastard, I’m telling ya! Buut, nothing a good bullet to the head didn’t kill!”
He patted the head of the body hanging from his shoulder. That was when William realized it: the metal armour, the coat of arms of the royal family—the harp—belonged to one man and one man alone: Marchad, the High King’s son. The leader of the Dal Cais. The man that had saved them.
The heir of Ireland was dead.
“The kid, Torch-whatever, was done in by the blondie, Nash. I think there’s maybe one left. Let’s search and hunt, boys!”
“Err…boss?”
Finally, at the insistence of his juniors, Butcher glanced over at William. “Haaaa? I get the Templar, but who is this nobody? Just kill ‘em.”
“Err, boss? His level?”
“Oh. Oooh. Oh, the hell? Where did you find this bastard? I doubt you idiots beat him. Actually, wait, don’t care. He’s here, that’s all that matters.” Butcher threw Marchad’s corpse down uncaringly. “Ay, you, Willy. Give up. You stand no chance here.”
“Give up?” William snarked. “As if!”
“You don’t get it, do you? Look around. Actually, don’t, just listen. It’s getting quiet. No?”
William’s eyes wandered and he swallowed. He was right. His side—from the players to the soldiers of the Dal Cais and Munster—they were surrendering. From one corner of the longshore to the other, it was all hopeless. Even the battles slightly behind them were beginning to end.
Ahead, past the gunslingers, the Vikings ships had docked and emptied. Some were destroyed, some were still engaged in naval battle, but a vast majority had made it to land. The Vikings of Orkney and Mann made it past the shore and into the second crux of the battle: Dublin City.
Here, on the shore of Clontarf, Ireland was crushed in defeat.
“The guns are shit here but they do the job. Trust me.” Butcher whipped out his gun and pointed it at Max’s head, grinning when William flinched. “Face it, you’ve lost here.”