"But your Highness," the messenger said, unable to keep the tremor from his voice, "You are, by all accounts, the most strategically gifted commander this kingdom has produced in a century. I must ask what could have compelled you to come to a decision so-"
Richard faltered. The word refused to leave his mouth.
Prince Jun returned to his desk, summoning a holographic data screen containing mostly maps.
"Say it," the prince said calmly.
Richard swallowed, "So utterly stupid."
Jun exhaled through his nose, letting the silence drag.
"Correct," he said, "It is reckless. Statistically suicidal, even."
Richard blinked.
The prince rose and crossed to the window once again. Below them, the capital of Nocturne stretched outward in layers of stone and steel, ancient ramparts pierced by monorails, cathedral spires cloaked in neon overshadowed by the sun above.
"How many troops did we commit to the last interception?" Jun asked.
"Little over ten thousand," Richard said without hesitation.
"And the damage tally?"
"Fifteen settlements. Eight villages, six military camps, and a field watchtower." Richard paused, "None survived longer than a minute."
Jun nodded once.
"If I send another battalion, all I would end up doing is depriving Nocturne of people who could defend it right here," the prince said, "I must go in their stead."
Richard frowned, "But alone? Surely you see-"
"The man moves in straight lines," Jun continued, cutting the messenger off, "Doesn't bother with feints or flanking. What does that tell you?"
"That he's confident?" Richard ventured.
"That he is incurious," Jun replied, "He does it not for conquest or any goal other than destruction alone."
Richard's jaw tightened, "But why offer yourself?"
Jun finally turned, "Because breaks in patterns attract attention."
The messenger said nothing.
"An armed response is predictable," Jun went on, "Banners, escorts, formations, more soldiers. Anybody would expect that. I will give him anomaly instead," his gaze returned to the city below, "One unguarded, politically significant figure. It's bound to spark some curiosity."
"And if he kills you?"
"Then you lose a prince," Jun said evenly, "Not a kingdom."
"If I die, you will know bargaining was never possible," Jun added, stepping away from the window, "You will act accordingly."
He moved toward the door.
"Three days," he said without turning, "If I am not back by then, consider me dead. Inform others of my absence."
The doors slid shut behind him before Richard could speak.
• • •
Of course, my logic was flawed.
Jun ran.
But it only needed to hold for a moment. By the time Rich realized, he already subconsciously agreed with my point.
The castle's lower intestines blurred past him: stone arches reinforced with carbon struts, glowing sigils humming beside fiber conduits. He reached the ground hangar and vaulted onto his machine without slowing.
There you are.
The vehicle was reminiscent of a mix between a motocross and a chopper, heavily customized for longer travels yet remaining agile.
He sealed his sword's lock, swung his leg over the bike, and tore into the capital of Nocturne.
Traffic could've been worse had he left near noon. Autonomous freight crawlers, private skimmers, street bikes weaving between lanes littered the streets. Jun leaned forward, threading gaps in the traffic, neon reflections sliding across his visor. Surveillance drones tracked him for three seconds before the clearance codes kicked in.
The city thinned. Towers gave way to factories. Factories to rusted depots. In an hour, Jun made it to the end of Nocturne. Personal record.
Border inspection was brief, but even royalty had to wait their turn.
Then asphalt died as dirt took over the Hengal forest road.
• • •
Hours later, the bike began to give out.
Jun pulled over and killed the engine. He refueled from one of the portable fuel tanks in the cargo area whilst his eyes scanned his wrist display, flickering with maps and last-known coordinates of the man.
Strega. Two settlements ahead. That's where they last saw him.
He was sealing the tank when the arrow came. Jun shifted half a step before wood skimmed past his cheek. His hand closed around the shaft, yanking the arrow out of the air mid-flight.
He examined it, unimpressed.
"Arrows," he said into the dark, "That's your opening move?"
He snapped it in half.
"Come out."
Two figures emerged from the shrubs, hands shaking. Both held simple bows.
"I don't have time for you right now," Jun said, "Nor patience," his gaze drifted towards the treeline, "Bind yourselves to that tree and wait until I return."
Pain shot from behind his eyes as the command took hold. The men obeyed, puppeteered by Jun's will rather than their own, tying their hands together around the tree using their own belts.
Jun mounted his bike. The engine roared, and dust swallowed the bandits as Jun vanished into the distance.
• • •
Settlement Varga, halfway point between the capital and Strega
Jun passed through Varga as if it wasn't there.
On the far end of the road, a man walked towards the town at a leisurely pace. No pack, mount, visible supplies, or company, though his dirtied clothes suggested a long haul. In fact, the clothes looked entirely foreign to Karda's kingdom: dusty black boots tucked underneath a pair of light wrangler jeans, suspended by a large-buckle belt. He had a flannel, or perhaps cotton dark blue button-down, also tucked into the jeans, and a small dark brown scarf decorated his neck. A tan utility jacket gave him a slightly bulkier figure, and a black stetson ranger crowned his head, pulled down and obstructing his face.
Suspicious.
Jun slowed his bike and dismounted several paces ahead of him.
"Prince Jun Karda," he said, bowing despite his station, "You appear to be traveling light for a long journey. Might I ask who you are?"
The man stopped.
He looked Jun up and down slowly, like appraising a statue. His eyes, unblinking, revealed a staggering surprise to Jun: a grey, ringed iris.
"Turn around," the man said, in perfect English and a heavy Nevadan accent, "Get back on that thing and keep ridin'."
Jun straightened, switching to English as well, being a Birmingham boy, "I'm afraid I can't do that."
That earned Jun a sharp look this time.
"…Huh," the man said with the cadence of a smoker, "Didn't know you folks spoke civilized."
Jun ignored the jab, "You've destroyed fifteen settlements in a straight line toward our capital."
"Correction," the man said, raising a finger, "I removed hostile infrastructure."
Jun paused, "They were villages... Most of them."
"Obstacles. They were in my way."
"That does not make them hostile."
The man snorted, "Buddy, when you grow up where I did, everything in your way is hostile. Especially if it's starin' at you funny and mumblin' witchcraft."
"You don't even speak the language," Jun said, "How could you tell what they were saying?"
"Don't need to," the man shot back, "Intent's universal."
"And what intent did you sense here?" he asked, nodding towards Varga.
The man gestured vaguely behind him, then at Jun. "Same as everywhere else. Somebody thinkin' they had a right to tell me 'no.'"
Jun's voice teetered on the verge of sheer anger, "And you believe that gives you the right to erase them??"
The man smiled for the first time. It wasn't friendly.
"Son," he said, "I believe it gives me the responsibility."
"You're sick..."
"Okay, look here," the man was growing impatient by the minute, "I ain't a big fan of the British, but I'm willin' to let you go if you just step to the side. Consider it Earthling mercy."
Jun did not budge, nor did he humor him with an actual response anymore.
"Suit yourself, if you wanna die for these aliens: Trench Broom!"
A shotgun appeared in the man's hands with a metallic snap. He fired it from the hip.
The impact slammed into Jun's chest like a battering ram. His feet skidded back half a step before he caught himself, armor shrieking as it caved inward. The breath left him. For a heartbeat, he couldn't draw it back in.
The man was already ducking past.
"Freeze!" the words ripped out of Jun's throat strained. Pain lanced through his ribs as the command took hold.
That's the upper limit...
The man staggered mid-step, forward momentum killed against an invisible force.
"You better undo that spell right now, boy," the man growled, quite possibly the most furious Jun had ever heard anyone be, "Else I'll make sure you ain't gettin' back up again..."
Jun briefly inspected his armor. The plate was cratered, pushing against his rib-cage, but not a single pellet went through.
Next shot won't be so lucky.
He slowly shuffled. The man's eyes tracked him, of the few things still free to move.
"Don't even bother," the prince said, "You aren't moving until I catch my breath."
The man snarled.
Jun turned, walked to his bike, and pulled free a length of rope.
"In fact," he said, looping it around his hands, "I'm just gonna make sure you won't move after that either, 'kay?"
The last thing the man felt was the back of Jun's gauntlet crashing into his skull.
• • •
When he came to, he found himself staring at the orange sunset. He was tied to a tree.
"Good morning... Evening," said Jun, sitting on a rock directly in front of him, "Headache?"
"I've had worse hangovers," the man chuckled, tugging at the rope experimentally, "Rope's itchy though."
"Very we-"
"You know what else's itchy?"
"If you say your ass, I'm knocking you out again."
"My Trigger Finger."
A shot cracked through the air. Searing pain took over Jun's right shoulder. He pitched sideways, barely catching himself on his good arm as the rope fibers snapped and frayed. The bullet must've grazed them.
"Remember what I told you?" the american said, already standing and dusting loose strands off his coat, "You ain't gettin' back up again..."
Jun ground his teeth, forced himself upright, and gripped the handle of his sword.
"Joke's on you," he hissed, "I'm left-handed."
Jun drew his arming sword with a metallic swoosh.
The man snorted, "Come on, tell me you ain't brought a big knife to a gunfight. There were peasants with at least flintlocks couple hundred miles back."
Instead of advancing, Jun stabbed the sword into the ground in front of him.
The man blinked. Nothing happened.
He pitched the bridge of his nose, "I thought I was the one who got hit in the head."
"Shoot me again," Jun said, his breath hitching between words, trying to ignore the wound, "I dare you. Gonna shove that shotgun up your a-"
The man fired.
One.
Two.
Three shots with his trench gun. Each volley smashed into an unseen plane inches from Jun's face. The sword rattled after each impact. Without it, he'd already be dead.
"Huh," the man whistled, "Well I'll be damned."
"I'll give you a little tip," Jun murmured, "Any person of a meaningful rank in this world has at least a rudimentary understanding of Zen Dao Fa."
"Of wha?"
Jun rolled his eyes, "Magic."
The man waved his hand, "See, could'a just said that, no need to be extra."
"Don't try being friendly with me now," Jun snapped, "You're still gonna pay for the damage you've done."
The man smiled again, "You want an angry Mojave?"
Fourth, fifth shot. The sixth time clicked empty.
"You're gonna get an angry Mojave!"
The revolver appeared next, Big Iron. By the 3rd round, Jun was more irritated than threatened.
"Is this how you do things in America? Shoot it until something happens even when something is clearly bulletproof?"
"Four," bang.
"Five," bang.
The cylinder spun dry, "Plus the one with the rope makes six. I'm out."
"Out of ammo?"
Mojave nodded, "Didn't need more."
He pointed into the treeline.
Jun had to squint. His eyes shot open the moment he realized.
"A tank?!"
The cannon fired.
The impact kicked up dust around Jun's shield dome and knocked the prince with his sword back towards Varga.
"Good ol' M1A2 Freebrams for when bullets just ain't enough!"
The shield managed to absorb most of the damage before it deactivated. Jun coughed up some moist dirt mixed with blood. When the ringing faded, the trees were still; the tank was gone.
"See," Mojave said, walking closer, boots crunching rubble, "You wanted me angry, and that meant I had to upgrade from Light to HeavyOrdinance."
Jun forced himself onto one knee. He reached for his sword.
"Unfortunately had to burn through my remainin' ammo for that. Think I'm gonna take your sword and have it melted down for some spares."
He stopped a hair's breadth away between the tip of Jun's sword and his own throat. The prince was still zippy despite his injuries.
"What, thought I was gonna approach a swordsman all willy-nilly?"
Jun's brow dropped. Then his sword dropped. And lastly, the prince dropped to the ground at Mojave's feet.
The american kicked the body lightly. Lifeless.
"Shame," he hummed as he made continued his stride towards Varga.
Between the trees, a darkened figure tailed the man, slipping past the body of the prince in the dirt. It picked up the sword and vanished into the forest once again.