Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

"The things you said at the introduction meeting were very enlightening," Winters admitted frankly, "I have never seen anyone who could control the output of the amplification spell so steadily. I came to the gendarmerie because I wanted to learn your magic techniques."

"Just say what you want, that's somewhat interesting," Field poured Winters a little light beer, "But, Lieutenant Montaigne, you need to think carefully about whether what you want to learn is magic techniques or the skills to kill enemies."

Winters understood what the colonel was saying; the difficulty of a spell wasn't linked to its lethality. Precisely controlling the output of the amplification spell was unquestionably a lot harder than booming spells capable of rupturing eardrums.

The former was like walking a tightrope, while the latter was like using a sledgehammer to crack a walnut. The latter only required strength, but the former demanded fine skills.

"Can't I learn both?"

"Hahaha, think about why you guys who are good at fire-based spells are far inferior in actual combat to those who specialize in acceleration spells," Field said as he served himself some light beer.

"Acceleration spells are inherently better for combat."

"Wrong! It's because you've learned too haphazardly. The training philosophy of the Magic Combat Bureau is deeply flawed. To train a spellcaster skilled in slaughter, just teaching a single spell is enough," Field slammed the table, "There are seven spells in the fire series now, and only three in the acceleration series: the Arrow Flying Spell, Wind Control Technique, and Deflection Spell. The only one with lethal power is the Arrow Flying Spell, and spellcasters who specialize in the acceleration series use only this spell to kill."

"But I think the Vaporization Spell is clearly more difficult and yet far less powerful than the Arrow Flying Spell."

"You could also practice the Arrow Flying Spell."

"I am not very good at acceleration spells, even with a lot of practice I don't make much progress."

Field burst into loud laughter and leaning back in his chair, said, "This is exactly what I want you to think about: whether you want to learn the spell you have more talent for, or the one more suited for killing."

Winters pondered over this statement; the colonel's meaning was simple: If the purpose was actual combat, then practice the spell best suited for battle, even if he had no talent in that area.

"Think about it yourself," Field said while pouring himself more light beer, "I can teach you my spell techniques. If your starting point is actual combat, then it's better to go learn from my adjutant. However, he's recently been ill at home and will take some time before coming back."

Having said that, the colonel put his knife and fork down on the plate and downed the rest of the light beer. There was still quite a bit of food left on the plate, but the colonel didn't seem to have much appetite. He said to Winters, "After we finish this meal, let's go and find some dockworkers and cart drivers to see if there are any leads."

Upon hearing the word 'cart driver', Winters thought back to the Paratu driver from his home. He immediately reported to Colonel Field the secret society of cart drivers and shared his speculation, "I think the 'brotherhood' the driver mentioned might have helped the assassin dispose of the carriage, or at least from what the driver said, they have the capability to do so."

"That's rather interesting," Field rubbed his chin, lost in thought. After a while, he spoke up, "Your line of thinking is good; maybe those scum from the gutter might know something of value."

He grabbed his hat and stood, urging Winters, "Stop eating. Let's go to Qianmin Street, but we need to find someone before we head over there."

"Who are we looking for?" Winters hurriedly finished the last few sips of his soup.

"A fighter. You, a fire series spellcaster, and I, a sound series spellcaster, what use would we be in actual combat? In a place like Qianmin Street, if four or five people trapped us from front and back, we'd both be done for," Field spoke bluntly, demeaning both of them, "So, we need to find a fighter to come along. I'll take you to the Army Headquarters to find the fiercest one! If you want to learn about killing, you'd have to learn from him."

The two hurriedly left the officers' club, and led by Field, they rode towards the eastern district.

Field eventually stopped in front of number 122 on Shell Street in the eastern district, a row of beautiful brick-and-stone houses. A kind old woman dressed in a gray cloak and wrapped in a green floral scarf opened the door for Colonel Field. She was not surprised to see the colonel, which suggested Field was a familiar face here.

Colonel Field bowed in greeting, not one for small talk, and asked directly, "Is he at home?"

"He might be sleeping," the lady indicated upstairs.

Field nodded slightly and entered. Winters followed, also bowing to the elderly woman as he passed.

Entering the house, the first thing that caught his eye was a short, narrow hallway. His boots squeaked on the wooden floor, a clear indication that the support structures below needed repair.

Following the stairs straight up to the second floor, at the end of the staircase there was a small window, and on the right hand side lay a spacious living room. The dark red wall cloth bore no decorations, not even the shrines or statues of the Virgin commonly seen in ordinary households. A lounge chair was set in front of the fireplace, which swayed gently with the wind. Other than a few wine glasses, the desks and coffee table were littered with empty bottles of alcohol.

Colonel Field seemed all too accustomed to such scenes as he walked directly to a door on the side of the living room and knocked heavily a few times.

No response.

He knocked even harder.

Still no response.

He tried to push the door.

It wouldn't budge.

The Colonel took a few steps back and then kicked the door down with force.

The room inside was completely dark, and a strong smell of hangover wafted from within. Field stepped in, adeptly pulling back the curtains and opening the wooden window.

The sunlight came in, along with fresh air, allowing Winters to finally get a clear view of the room's interior.

It was a bedroom, not very large, with a single bed in the corner of the room. A wardrobe stood against the wall alongside the bed, and opposite the bed was a desk. Several pieces of clothing hung over the back of the chair in front of the desk.

There was still a person lying on the bed, deep in sleep, unaffected by the loud noise Field had made by kicking down the door.

After Field opened the window and light poured in, the person on the bed simply pulled the blanket over their head.

"It's already noon, and you're still sleeping?" Field said to the person in the bed.

But the person on the bed didn't react.

Field picked up a wine bottle from the nightstand, looked at it against the light, and saw that only a small amount of liquid remained.

"You're starting to drink in broad daylight?" the Colonel said, a bit angrily.

The person on the bed still gave no response.

Field yanked off the blanket, and all the remaining liquid in the bottle was poured over the head of the person lying on the bed.

The room's occupant woke up abruptly from sleep, reaching for the sword on the floor. Not until seeing Field standing beside the bed did they relax and toss the sword back on the ground.

The person lifted their arm, sniffed themselves, and with a frown asked, "You didn't pour urine on me, did you?"

"It's your own stuff anyway," Field shrugged.

The room's occupant pointed to their ear and said loudly, "I can't hear anything right now."

Winters got a clear look at the person's face and a name slipped out:

"Major Moritz?"