Chapter 1241: Wandless Spellcasting

Chapter 1241: Chapter 400: Wandless Spellcasting

The embers of the campfire were gradually dying in the night wind.

There was a low tremor in the air, like hoofbeats, but the rhythm was chaotic, laced with the scrape of metal. That was the noise made by the Centaurs moving over the ground.

First came one. Then, more Centaurs walked out of the forest. They were all different in appearance—some with deep brown skin, some lighter tan—but every one of them carried the same weapon.

“Motherfucker?”

Ian Prince held his breath. The Illusionary Body Spell made him blend almost perfectly into his surroundings, but the shock inside him was hard to calm. His gaze was locked on that group of Centaurs—or more precisely, on the weapons clutched in their hands.

That smooth metal gun body, that familiar curved magazine, that rough but practical wooden stock—what else could it be but the famed, cheap and reliable AK-47?

“AK-47?!” Ian almost cried out, his brain instantly thrown into chaos. “Merlin’s fattest pair of underpants! What the hell is going on now?”

Had he dropped into yet another, even more ridiculous wrong timeline?

Centaurs carrying assault rifles?!

“Did I just cross into some absurd parallel universe again?”

He screamed inwardly.

“The Centaurs at Hogwarts are still chanting ancient prophecy up at the Astrology Tower, and the Centaurs here are playing with automatic weapons?! Does the Ministry of Magic know about this?!”

For a moment, Ian felt that either he or the world—one of them—had to be insane. The impact of what he was seeing was almost no less than discovering history had been tampered with in that last timeline.

Even if these were models from decades ago, these beings who were supposed to be wielding long spears and bows, steeped in mysterious ancient aura, now each had in their hands a symbol of modern warfare’s killing power. The sense of dissonance was so strong it was dizzying. Just as Ian was about to suspect he’d suffered a second botched time jump—

That group of Centaurs had already reached the spot where he’d been roasting meat.

“No way!”

Ian forced himself to recall Magic History. Centaurs were indeed Magic Creatures, usually dwelling deep in the forests, revering nature and the stars, keeping their distance from human magical society. They used bows and long spears, and saw modern technology as “Muggle noise.” Yet the Centaurs in front of him were not only well-equipped, but their tactical awareness was superb—they split into groups for security, some standing guard, some searching, their movements as professional as a special forces unit.

“There are traces of human activity here.” The leading Centaur was particularly tall and broad, speaking in the Centaur tongue—a language Ian happened to have studied.

The leader’s muscular upper body was covered in white totems, his bronzed skin gleaming oily under the sunlight.

He lowered his head, his sharp nose twitching as he carefully sniffed the lingering scent in the air and the dying campfire, then used the barrel of his AK—bayonet fixed—to poke at the embers.

“Damn! My roast! I worked so hard on that meat!” Ian’s heart leapt to his throat, his Magic Wand lifting slightly as he prepared to react to an attack or perform another jump at any moment.

The worry was clearly unnecessary. Although Centaurs counted as Advanced Magical Creatures, Ian was, after all, a Legendary Mage, and the Centaurs didn’t seem to have detected his invisible presence.

They were communicating in a low, rasping tongue. It was still a Centaur language, but in some structural aspects it differed slightly from the Centaur language Ian had learned.

Ian figured you could call it a dialect.

They seemed far more interested in the half-roasted venison.

“Meat! Roast meat!” A young Centaur even grabbed a deer leg straight away and started chomping down without the slightest courtesy, grease running from his lips as he let out satisfied grunts.

They stopped searching and instead crowded around the food in excitement, cutting chunks of meat off with knives and stuffing them into their mouths. Someone even took out a canteen and started drinking liquor with the venison.

“…” Sure enough, the roast was doomed. Watching his hard-earned dinner being divided up by this group of uninvited guests, Ian had no idea what expression he should be wearing. He didn’t make any rash moves. He realized these Centaurs weren’t hostile—at least not for now. They were more like… an armed tribe.

What intrigued him even more was why they were here. Why did they have guns? Who had given them these weapons? He watched as the Centaurs quickly wrapped up the remaining venison, then cast a wary glance around the forest. After apparently confirming there were no other threats, they hoisted their guns, took the meat, formed a loose column, and headed toward the depths of the woods.

“I have to figure out where the hell I’ve been dumped.” Ian hesitated for a moment. Reason told him he should stay far away from this dangerous group of heavily armed magical beings. But sheer curiosity, and the urgent need to figure out just what kind of crazy place this was, ultimately beat caution into submission.

“I need to follow them,” he told himself, maintaining his Illusionary Body state and trailing after the Centaur squad like an invisible Ghost, silent and unseen.

The Centaurs moved very quickly through the forest and were incredibly familiar with the terrain. Ian had to carefully cast a Levitation Charm and a Silencing Charm to keep pace with them without being detected.

After they’d traveled for more than half an hour, the forest began to thin out, and ahead a camp built against the mountain came into view. In the valley, there stood a Centaur camp.

The camp’s perimeter was ringed with thick wooden stakes and thorns forming a crude palisade.

There were even Centaurs on the watchtowers holding AKs on sentry duty. Inside the camp, wooden huts and tents were scattered around; outside stood wooden fences and watchtowers, with machine guns mounted on the towers.