Chapter 38
It was time to arm himself.
“First a weapon,” he whispered.
He pictured an M4. The familiar weight, the profile, the shape of the carry handle.
Nothing happened.
His mana dipped slightly. The tree creaked beneath him.
He tried again, harder this time. He received the same result.
“No rifle,” he said. He rubbed a hand across his face. “Figures.”
Too large. Too complex. Too much metal. He shifted to the next idea.
He summoned a pistol instead. The M45A1 appeared in his grip with a soft compression of air. Tan frame, heavy slide, built for close work. It had been too large for his summoning before, but now it sat in his hand without trouble.
“Good enough.”
He checked the treeline again. All quiet. He focused on ammunition next. Three magazines arrived. Then a fourth. The weight of them pulled at his pockets.
His mana bar ticked down, though it held steady enough to continue.
He needed more than a pistol. He needed options.
He summoned the M203 launcher body. It appeared with a faint shimmer and settled across his lap. He set it aside and summoned the XM-frame standalone kit. The frame arrived compressed, meant to be opened later.
He continued quietly.
Four high explosive dual purpose rounds. Two high explosive rounds. Red smoke. Green smoke. Yellow smoke. One parachute illumination round.
His mana dropped sharply after that. He grunted as a wave of exhaustion washed over him.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Takes more out of me than it looks.”
He summoned one flash grenade. One fragmentation grenade. One smoke grenade.
He paused, breathing slow. The System’s quiet hum filled the back of his mind. His mana bar trembled at the halfway mark.
Armor next. He summoned a soft armor panel and slid it under his shirt.
The USMC harness arrived next, folded down tight. He clipped it to a branch beside him. The double forty millimeter pouches followed. Then his IFAK, compressed for transport. A hydration bladder, empty. An IR beacon that winked faintly before settling. Two chem sticks. A utility pouch. And one Claymore directional mine.
By the end of it, sweat ran down his spine and his vision blurred faintly. His mana bar scraped near the bottom.
He leaned back against the trunk.
“Now I know why I feel like hell,” he said.
Then he remembered.
He still had points to assign.
He opened his status screen. Twelve unspent points waited for him. The System pulsed softly, reminding him this was the moment to choose.
He breathed quietly as he looked over his stats. He ran two fingers across the floating numbers like he could feel their weight.
Strength. Constitution. Dexterity. Agility. Mind. Wisdom. Charisma. Luck.
He felt the soreness in his ribs. He felt the tightness in his legs. He felt the burn behind his eyes from lack of sleep.
“Not putting anything into charm,” he said. “I have enough trouble.”
He focused his thoughts. Three points went into Constitution. Three into Strength. Two into Agility. Two into Mind. Two into Wisdom.
The air pulsed once. His chest warmed. His limbs steadied.
His mana bar climbed halfway back up in a gentle rise.
His breathing came easier.
He flexed his hands and felt renewed power in his grip.
Below him the forest rustled. A rider shouted orders in the distance. They had spread too far to call back easily. They were frustrated. Angry. Tired.
Aleric holstered the pistol and began strapping gear to the harness in quiet, controlled movements.
“Now we hunt,” he whispered.
The Blood Feud burned behind his eyes like a warning. Someone had wanted him to spark a war.
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They were about to learn what happened when a Marine was turned into a weapon without asking.
He climbed down the far side of the tree and vanished into the underbrush.