Plundering Worlds: I Have a Shotgun in a Fantasy World-Chapter 69: A test

[Valen’s Office – Early Morning]

The parchment bore little more than a single mark and a single word.

A location marked in ink—open ground two hours northeast, past the tree line. A description: barbarian encampment, one divine-blessed confirmed. Considered a grave threat. Destroy.

Kael read it once and set it down.

"At first light. Take your men. A scout will lead you."

Kael studied the map. A single point and a single word. Encampment.

His finger paused at the mark. Open ground. No ridges. No timber thick enough to conceal a watch line. No natural ground to anchor a defense.

A divine-blessed stationed there? Unlikely.

Barbarians were reckless in battle, not careless in survival. If they truly guarded a chosen one, they would bury him behind timber and stone, not leave him exposed to the horizon. Either the report was incomplete—or the ground was not as empty as it appeared.

"Understood."

[Barracks Courtyard - Dawn]

The snow had retreated further overnight. Bare stone showed through in patches across the yard, dark with moisture, the air carrying the particular smell of thaw—wet earth and old cold releasing their grip on each other.

The men assembled in the grey light, weapons checked, armor fastened. The scout waited at the gate—one of Valen’s men, not one of Kael’s.

Kael was buckling his sword belt when he heard footsteps behind him.

Elira.

She wore a dark wool cloak, clasped at the throat. Her hair was tied back cleanly. She crossed the yard from the command building at a brisk pace, slowing only as she neared. She stopped a pace away and lifted her chin to meet his eyes.

"Come back safely."

Kael met her gaze. "I will."

She held it a moment longer, then stepped back. He turned toward the gate.

[Northeast of the Posting - Two Hours Later]

The tree line gave way to open ground—scrub brush and frozen mud, snow lingering in shaded patches. The land stretched flat beneath a pale sky.

Kael tracked the ground as they moved. Boot prints pressed into thawing mud, edges softened. Smaller prints crossing them. A fire circle long gone cold. A strip of cloth caught on a branch. Ahead of them, the scout moved as though the path were known to him, his course steady, his pace unchanged.

Kael kept his thoughts to himself.

The tent appeared twenty minutes later—a single structure, low and weathered, patched in three places with different material. No perimeter. No guard posts. No weapons laid out for ready use. Nothing about it suggested a war band.

Kael stopped the group with a hand signal thirty meters out.

The structure was perhaps four meters across. A thin line of smoke drifted from the vent at the peak. A rope had been strung between two stakes. A wool tunic and a smaller linen undertunic hung from it, the smaller cut for a child.

He turned to the scout. "You’re certain the divine-blessed is here."

"The child. The youngest."

Kael kept his gaze on the tent. A child. So that was the divine-blessed. He had expected this.

He motioned the squad ahead.

The sound of their approach carried. The tent flap shifted, and a man stepped out—broad through the shoulders, clothing worn and heavily mended, his face darkened by years under open sky. A wood axe hung from his hand, the blade nicked and dull from work. He saw them. His grip loosened. The axe slipped from his fingers and fell into the mud with a heavy, final thud. He did not reach for it.

Then a woman’s voice sounded from within the tent—sharp, questioning. No answer came.

The flap shifted. She stepped out with a short blade in hand, younger, hair loose around her shoulders. She saw them. The knife dropped beside the axe. Her hands rose slowly.

They spoke—words in a language he did not know. The man dropped to his knees. The woman followed, her voice rising once before she pressed her hands flat against the ground. Then she reached for the hem of her clothing.

Kael didn’t move.

Through the gap in the tent flap he could see inside—an old woman seated on a folded blanket, two small shapes pressed against her sides, her arms around them both. Her voice remained low and even.

He addressed the scout without turning. "Which child."

"The boy."

"Which one."

The scout pointed through the gap in the flap.

The man had been watching their eyes. He saw the direction of the gesture and understood what it meant.

His expression changed.

He lurched sideways, snatched up the axe, and swung.

Kael drew and cut in the same motion. The severed head hit the ground before the body did.

The woman’s scream was short and ragged. She pressed her face to the earth.

Kael turned to the scout. "Make certain."

"Confirmed."

He addressed his squad. "Surround the tent."

Griggs opened his mouth. Closed it. His hand moved to the shaft of his spear and stopped there. Kogan’s face was still. Bren said nothing. Silas stared at the ground, then at Kael, then at the ground again.

Kogan spoke at last. "Let me."

"No."

They shifted, forming a loose arc around the tent.

Kael walked past the woman. She was still on her knees, her forehead against the wet ground, her shoulders shaking. She heard him approach and forced herself upright, catching at his sleeve.

He did not slow. Steel moved. Her hands fell away.

He crouched and pushed the tent flap aside.

The inside was small and carefully ordered. Two bedrolls, thin but clean, positioned along one wall. A third, larger one across from them—the old woman’s. A clay pot nested in the ashes of the small fire, the remnants of a meal still in it. Three wooden bowls stacked in one corner, the edges worn smooth with use. A small bundle of dried herbs tied to the center pole. And on a folded cloth near the bedrolls, a piece of cured hide with markings on it—shapes drawn in charcoal, the uneven lines of a child’s hand. A person. A tree. The rough outline of an animal.

The old woman faced him. Her arms tightened around the children. She said nothing. She met his eyes.

Kael’s sword rose and fell three times.

He straightened. He stood in the low doorway, the tent flap against his shoulder, the cold air coming in from outside. He let the flap fall.

"Bury them, burn the rest."

Nobody talked on the way back. The scout set a faster pace than before; the squad matched it. The afternoon light was thin and flat across the open ground, the shadows longer than they’d been in the morning.

[Barracks Courtyard - Afternoon]

Elira was in the courtyard when they came through the gate. She stood near the wall, a document in her hand, unread. She looked up at the sound of the gate.

She saw Kael’s face.

She stopped. Then she crossed the yard. She reached for his right hand, as though only realizing the gesture once her fingers closed around his palm.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes." Kael said. He smelled of woodsmoke and fresh blood.

"I need to report."

Elira loosened her grip. His hand stayed in hers a breath longer before he drew it back. She stood where she was, watching him cross the courtyard toward the command building.

[Valen’s Office]

Kael closed the door behind him.

Valen was at the window. He turned when Kael entered, took him in with a glance, and gave a short nod.

"No divine-blessed. Was there."

It was not a question.

Valen’s gaze held his. "No."

"The scout reported correctly," Valen continued. "You confirmed the target personally. You completed the order." A pause. "You did well."

Kael let the silence stand.

"Am I confirmed, then?"

Valen held his gaze, then turned back to his desk. He picked up another document and set it between them.

"Next week," he said. "I’m arranging an escort. You and Elira, to Rathmere. The family will receive you there and arrange the rest of the passage."

Kael picked up the document. A travel order, partially completed. He read it once and set it down.

He understood. The scout had not been his. The report had carried no detail. The order had come clean, without explanation. Valen had known what was there.

He turned and walked to the door.

"Captain."

He stopped.

"This posting exists to do difficult things," Valen said behind him. "You’ve always known that."

Kael opened the door. "I have." He left.

In the corridor, alone, he checked his Aether count.

[Aether: 50.4 → 57.6]

He held the number in mind for two steps, then dismissed it. He turned toward the Captain’s Quarters.

The courtyard lay in fading light, the wet stone darkening as the sun dropped. Somewhere in the compound a door shut, the sound carrying in the cold air.

He thought of the drawing on the hide.

A figure. A tree. The rough shape of an animal.

He walked on.

He would remember.