Chapter 42 The Young Fox Playing with the Prince

Internal energy? Venigo looked at Sophie with some curiosity.

Alright, he couldn’t make sense of it. Although Venigo was fairly clever, as previously mentioned, he was simply incapable of learning the skills of this world—unless it was something entirely mundane like watering plants or weeding, the kind of “civilian skills” that neither served in battle nor allowed the creation of combat-related items.

But would Sir Newton really have Venigo accompany the prince for no reason at all? Venigo was convinced something was bound to happen.

Prince Nicholas and Hanni were having the time of their lives. Venigo had crafted some toys for Hanni out of odds and ends, many of which had never appeared in this world before—like spinning tops, or a little tin chick pecking at grain.

“The prince’s guards seem a bit lacking in strength, don’t they?” Venigo suddenly whispered to Sophie.

“Indeed, for someone of his rank, they are rather weak,” Sophie nodded. “They have the numbers, but not the skill.”

“Any one of the eight from the High Council could pull together a small detachment more than enough to...,” Venigo sneered, “Tell me, do you think Sir Newton wants us here to protect him as well?”

“Our own strength is hardly formidable,” Sophie said with a slight frown.

“I suspect those three in front of Nicholas are the most capable among them. Frankly, you could take any one of them, and if I’m given a moment to prepare, I could as well,” Venigo replied.

Sophie nodded in tacit agreement, glancing up to survey their surroundings.

“As for the rest of the guards, they’re little better than the patrol swordsmen in Free Heaven,” Venigo continued. “All things considered, if we wanted, we could easily put the prince in danger. Of course, our chances of actually taking him down wouldn’t be higher than forty percent.”

“Agreed.”

“So even with us, the defense is still lacking...” Venigo sighed, stood up, and started toward the door.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a guard blocked his path.

“Care for a stroll? Let’s go outside for a bit,” Venigo replied with a harmless smile.

He certainly didn’t look like someone with much fighting prowess, and most of the guards’ attention was still on Sophie.

“Watch yourself,” the guard threatened, “For the prince’s safety, I wouldn’t mind killing a few nobodies by mistake.”

“Suit yourself,” Venigo replied lazily, continuing outside.

Beyond the door, four soldiers stood at attention, as though they hadn’t seen Venigo at all. He said nothing, simply seeking out a shady corner to sit in.

Suddenly, a sharp sound split the air.

As the noise rang out, Venigo watched as a long arrow, brimming with unstoppable force, slammed into the ironwood gate, shattering the entrance to the prince’s camp in an explosion of splinters. Moments later, several burly figures leapt from the shadows, thundering toward the camp.

“Those are... orcs?” Venigo was slightly taken aback. He stood, snapping his fingers.

“Ramen!”

The little whale appeared above Venigo’s head, swaying gently. When summoned, Ramen could carry objects up to a tenth of its body weight, so Venigo usually strapped a small backpack to its back, filling it with his most commonly-used emergency gear.

He also wore a pack himself, filled with specialized equipment for exactly such situations. As the threat was not yet clear, Venigo did not rush to transform. Instead, he shrank deeper into the shadows.

Crash!

The four soldiers who tried to intercept the attackers were sent flying by the leading pair of orcs. Their expensive armor and heavy shields did nothing to save them—the strength of these orcs was at least five times that of a normal man.

Orcs, sometimes called “big-eared brutes,” were less intelligent than humans but possessed immense strength, making them excellent warriors. Yet these particular orcs seemed abnormally powerful, and their bodies didn’t quite match the orcs of legend...

Wasn’t a warlord’s specialty precisely human augmentation? The thought suddenly crossed Venigo’s mind.

“Brute force types? Hmph.” Venigo retreated even further into the shadows, tearing off his outer shirt, pulling two strips of cloth from his pack and tying them around his arms, then slicking his hair forward and closing his eyes.

Character construction! Analysis complete... commencing reconstruction. Athon, ready!

YAHA! Venigo let out a strange cry as he burst from the shadows.

Jaguar Kick!

The Jaguar Kick was fast and had some armor-breaking capability—it was especially effective against the tough hides of orcs. Venigo’s kick landed squarely, making the lead orc roar in rage as it swung its massive club, intent on smashing the red-haired man before it into pulp.

But Venigo was faster.

Athon was a Muay Thai assassin—this role template was all about speed, nimble footwork, and explosive power. As the club came down, Venigo sprang to the orc’s side, driving his elbow forward.

His elbow struck like a spear into the orc’s less-muscled ribcage, eliciting another howl of pain. Venigo showed no mercy, raising his elbow again in a move mimicking the Muay Thai technique “Elephant-Breaking Thrust.”

Said to be powerful enough to shatter even an elephant’s tough trunk, this move drove the orc to cough up blood and stagger, nearly collapsing.

Venigo closed in, unleashing a ruthless flurry of “Hundred Jaguars’ Onslaught” blows to the orc’s head, neck, and waist—instant kill!

“One down,” Venigo muttered, glancing at his chest. He was bare-chested, wearing nothing but a pair of large shorts—so the Iron Fist Fortress badge would just have to go on the armband.

Without the badge, who among the guards could tell friend from foe? Venigo fastened the badge and strode toward the camp.

He was met by a guard’s sword. Without hesitation, Venigo kicked the guard away, cursing, “Are you blind?”

“Who are you?” The guard, still reeling, managed to ask.

“We’re on your side,” Sophie said impatiently, forcing a path through the guards with her greatsword. Venigo sneered, pushing past them to Sophie’s side.

“Brother Fox, what’s happening?” Hanni asked curiously.

“Four orcs—augmented ones,” Venigo replied. “I took one down, the rest are outside.”

“And the soldiers?” asked the captain of the guard.

“Dead in one blow,” Venigo said coldly. “Oh, and there’s an archer with a heavy bow, powerful enough to blast through the camp gates in a single shot.”

“We should head out. Guards, protect His Highness,” Sophie suggested.

The captain of the guard considered for a moment and nodded. He didn’t completely trust the three, but they clearly bore the regent’s badge, and had been introduced by Sir Albert Newton—certainly more trustworthy than the attackers outside.

It was the best choice: let these three head out to engage the enemy, while the most loyal guards protected the prince.

“There are certainly more enemies than just those four orcs. Give me half your men,” Venigo demanded bluntly. “We’re not suited to defense, so let the royal guard handle that. We’ll focus on flanking and attacking from behind—especially that dangerous archer.”

“Agreed,” the captain replied, calling over his lieutenant and ordering him to take half the men outside to engage.

“Good luck,” Venigo said softly, leading the charge outside.

Sophie followed immediately, and Hanni scampered out after them. Prince Nicholas tried to hold her back, but Hanni was far quicker than he—his hand grasped at empty air.

Cait Sith Sharpclaw leapt to Hanni’s side of its own accord, crouching with a low, guttural rumble.

“Iron Cat... Manifest!”

Cait Sith’s body seemed to swell by a third, its knotted muscles stretching its augmented frame until it resembled a tiger, the faintest metallic gleam glimmering beneath its unremarkable patchy fur.

Then, with a sudden burst, it sprang ahead to shield Hanni.

“What’s wrong, big kitty?” Hanni tilted her head in confusion.

“For your own good, Hanni—there’s a powerful archer among them,” Venigo explained. “I didn’t expect this cat to have such a pure defense mode.”

“We are not limited to defense, boy,” Cait Sith’s voice changed with its body—deep and rasping, like two rough stones grinding together.

Venigo chuckled softly. By this point, Sophie had already engaged the orcs.

Gate of Hell! Sophie held nothing back; her blade descended in a deadly overhead strike.

From above, it was a blow meant to drag the enemy into oblivion.

The orc’s intelligence was low, and after augmentation it seemed even duller, but its muscles were so dense that the blade—never the sharpest—could not cleave all the way through, instead biting deeply into its flesh.

Without a second thought, Sophie kicked hard, leveraging herself to wrench the blade free in a shower of blood from the orc’s shoulder. At that moment, Venigo darted in from the side, his Jaguar Kick crashing down on the orc’s nose.

No matter how tough a humanoid, a shattered nose is agony. The nasal bone splintered, nerves screamed, blood flooded the sinuses and even seeped into the eyes and ears, leaving the mind reeling, senses blank.

The orc’s pain response was dulled, but even so, it staggered, clearly dazed by the blow.

Venigo wasted no time, driving another close-range Jaguar Kick into the orc’s chest. With its armor-piercing effect and his precise control of distance, Athon’s Jaguar Kick was the most practical of all his techniques—no better time to use it.

Orcs? Even augmented, I don’t fear them! Venigo shouted inwardly.