Chapter 162: Nice Shot

High above, black-and-silver debris from the torn MQ-9 Reaper fluttered down through the clouds like dead leaves. A chunk of severed composite wing smashed into the river with a heavy splash, sending ripples through the dark water.

Heavy boots crunched against the gravel.

Leon walked out from beneath the dark ironwood canopy, resting a calloused hand on the hilt of the jagged broadsword strapped across his shoulder. He stopped three paces behind Viona, kicking a smoldering piece of charred canvas out of his path. His lone amber eye shifted from the massive blast crater in the center of the camp up to the empty sky where the three golden light spears had just vanished.

"Not bad," Leon grunted, letting out a rough breath through his teeth. "You still know how to shoot straight."

Viona didn’t smile. Her chest heaved under her golden illusion, and a bead of cold sweat rolled down her temple.

Snapping high-tier celestial lances into the upper atmosphere had drained another painful chunk of her recovering mana core. Her fingertips were still trembling with excess static.

Leon tilted his head, looking down at the mangled, smoking crater where a dozen imperial soldiers and paladins had been wiped out just moments before.

"I have to admit, though," Leon said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I didn’t expect a lifeless flying machine to cast magic like that. No chant, no mana buildup in the air, no spiritual pressure. It just dropped a tiny iron rod from the clouds, and it exploded with the force of an eighth-tier fire spell. Since when do metal birds learn high magic?"

"It is not magic, Leon," Viona spat bitterly, her voice tight and trembling with suppressed fury. She lowered her hand, letting the blinding golden aura around her skin dim back into a faint, manageable shimmer. "It has nothing to do with magic at all."

Leon raised an eyebrow. "Then what the hell was it?"

"It is an American killing machine," Viona hissed, turning her gaze toward him. "Before I sent the first expedition across the sea, Ayanokoji explained it to me in the palace. He said the weapons from their world don’t need mana circuits, elemental crystals, or divine blessings to kill."

"Ayanokoji?" Leon grunted. "The spear kid?"

"Yes," Viona said, her teeth grinding together. "Before he died out on that western shore, he shared with me some information on how the Americans fight. There are two different kinds of flying machines, one that is ridden on and one that isn’t. That one I shot down it’s not alive. It’s controlled by men sitting hundreds of leagues away, looking through magic glass. And that dart it dropped... they call it a missile."

"A missile," Leon murmured, testing the foreign word on his tongue.

"A metal tube packed with chemical fire and iron fragments," Viona explained, her voice rising in raw irritation. "Ayanokoji said their factories churn them out by the thousands. Tens of thousands. They don’t run out of mana. They don’t get tired. They don’t need rest. When their soldiers want someone dead, they don’t even look them in the eye. They press a button from twenty miles away, and thunder falls from the clouds."

She paced across the rim of the smoking crater, kicking a splintered piece of an imperial supply crate into the dirt.

"Do you understand what that means, Leon?!" Viona snapped, looking back up at the cold, empty sky. "It’s completely unfair! How are we supposed to fight an army that rains fire on us from the clouds before our scouts can even see the color of their banners?! We can’t even assemble a camp! Our paladins hadn’t even finished pitching their tents before that iron shell wiped out an entire squad of high-ranking officers!"

Her fists clenched tight at her sides, her nails digging into her palms.

"My barrier broke at the port because they poured thousands of those explosive tubes onto the city walls," she said, her voice dropping into a desperate, furious whisper. "If they have eyes in the sky everywhere, my two hundred thousand soldiers will never make it through the mountain passes! They will blow up the roads, collapse the cliffs onto our wagons, and slaughter our men from miles away while we swing our swords at thin air!"

Leon stood silent, listening to her rant without interrupting. He looked at the smoking blast mark in the earth, studying the pattern of the shrapnel that had shredded the nearby trees.

Viona stepped closer to him, her single uninjured eye wide with frantic urgency.

"Tell me, Leon," she demanded, her voice shaking. "You’re the one who fought in the mud. You survived the northern wars. How do we deal with them? How do we overwhelm defenses that shoot thunder from beyond the horizon?!"

Leon looked at her for a long moment.

Then, slowly, a low, guttural chuckle rumbled from deep within his scarred chest.

"You’re laughing?!" Viona gasped, outraged. "Our forward base just got vaporized, and you’re laughing?!"

"I’m laughing because you’re still thinking like an archmage who lives in a palace, Viona," Leon said, a dangerous, wolfish smirk spreading across his weathered face. His eye glinted with cold calculation. "You think having a sky full of metal birds makes an army invincible. But every weapon has a weakness. You just have to know where to cut."

He reached behind his back, tapping the worn iron pommel of his massive broadsword.

"You said it yourself," Leon continued, his voice dropping into a low, steady rumble. "Those flying machines don’t use magic. They use glass eyes. They need clear sightlines, radio signals, and open skies to drop their thunder. And their heavy metal wagons need solid dirt roads to roll through."

Viona frowned, trying to follow his train of thought. "What are you getting at?"

Leon stepped up to the edge of the river, looking out toward the narrow, mist-choked canyon that led straight toward the Devil’s Throat.

"They think they own the sky," Leon said quietly, the dark grin on his scarred lips widening. "So let’s take their eyes away. I just thought of a way to drag those flying demons down into the mud where they belong."