Cain's initial priority did not hinge on the potential for profit. His mind, sharpened through years of conditioning, settled instinctively on survival as the only valid objective.
The battlefield roared around him. The friction of steel clashing and the guttural cries of beasts reverberated through the air in an unrelenting cadence that pressed against his ribcage and threaded pressure into his lungs.
The rhythm was not just noise. It was a signal, and a living, violent pattern to read.
He allowed his gaze to move with controlled calculation. Every motion was measured. Every figure, every trajectory, every weapon, logged in a quiet flowchart within his thoughts. Targets formed, threat levels stabilized, and vectors closed in on opportunity windows.
'Save magicules... make it look like I'm putting in the effort.'
A fragment of memory surfaced. It was not warm. It carried weight. Julius's voice returned with its characteristic grit, like gravel dragged across iron, filled with unrelenting critique and veiled lessons.
"A strong warrior can swing his sword and sever the heavens, but a true warrior... A true warrior knows a little of everything... More than just wielding a sword."
The words had once sounded dramatic. Now, Cain understood them as structural advice, the foundational logic carved into the marrow of survival doctrine.
His fingers flexed subtly. There was no intent to draw too early, no need to overexert for the sake of theater.
'Let's go with enchantments then.'
No need for raw impact yet. Precision could cost less than force and could have yielded more.
His voice carried across the open field, not by force but by clarity. It passed clean through the bedlam, a current of articulation threading its way through steel crashes and beastly howls.
"I've got sharpness, swiftness, and dexterous hands. Anyone interested, let me know."
There was no arrogance in the tone, only utility. An offering made with intent, not bravado.
For a moment, the soundscape did not dim, but the attention within it shifted. Glances, sharp and searching, turned his way.
Beastmen with primal gazes and thick, corded frames regarded him with narrowed eyes. Even the giants, whose presence seemed forged from tectonic mass and ancient battles, gave pause.
A silent weight accumulated in the space between breath and reaction. The air thickened not from humidity, but from a forming expectation, a lull where desire met scrutiny.
In that pause, Cain understood the gravity of what he had triggered. His words had not merely advertised, they had invited judgment.
The leader of the giants moved. His form towered well above the crowd, marked by skin that bore the texture of stratified stone and eyes that churned with iron-colored glow.
He raised one arm with slow certainty and extended a massive finger, directing its full force at Cain. His voice followed, deep and resonant, vibrating across the battlefield in a low register that rolled like distant thunder over a mountain range.
"Midi. Dilim."
From within the congregation, two giants stirred. The crowd parted without resistance, revealing their ascent. Each step they took was deliberate, each movement measured with a purpose far beyond mere obedience.
One of them had crimson skin threaded with glowing veins, as if molten rivers flowed just beneath the surface. The other was a towering blue figure, his frame dense and solid, muscles reflecting the sheen of polished sapphire.
Cain studied them as they stepped forward. Each carried an oversized blade, one giving off a cold sheen that hinted at frostbite, the other warping the air with a subtle shimmer of heat.
Giants favored raw power. Their culture placed strength above theory, and survival had forged them into blunt instruments of war.
He remembered what he had learned. Skill mattered, but not in the form of scripts and sigils.
To them, Enchanters were often tolerated, not respected. That held true whether you were a man or a giant.
After all, who admired a spellcaster when a sword could speak louder?
Cain's hands moved without hesitation, drawing both pistols in a fluid arc that ended with a slight outward angle. The motion was practiced but unhurried, shaped more by design than by urgency.
To the untrained eye, they appeared as ordinary weapons. For Cain, they served a far deeper function, catalysts that sharpened his will, focused his flow, and allowed for refined spellwork the way a staff might for more traditional mages.
His thumb grazed the trigger. He did not fire. He activated.
The response came instantly. Magicules surged, weaving down the twin barrels in controlled pulses before leaping across the space between him and the giants. Invisible threads of energy locked onto the massive blades, tracing their surfaces.
Flames surged up the crimson giant's sword, the heat intensifying until the blade flickered like a living furnace. Ice thickened across the cerulean edge, jagged crystals blooming outward in intricate, spreading veins.
Midi and Dilim exchanged a glance, their expressions subtle yet readable. A brief curl of their lips followed, a gesture that hovered somewhere between approval and calculation.
They moved forward without delay. Their steps were heavy but controlled, each motion calibrated. Then the blades came down.
Steel collided with prepared stone, sending a burst of sparks across the clearing. The enchantments held. More than that, they enhanced. Slices cut deeper, cleaner. The force behind each swing found new rhythm, channeled by the refined bond of magic and metal.
The giants responded with a grunt, neither verbal nor ambiguous. Their sounds echoed with clear confirmation. This was no longer a trial. It was endorsement.
From the opposite end, two rat beastmen approached. One raised a blowdart gun, the other leveled a crossbow, both wearing expressions they likely thought were wary.
'Those excited sparks in your eyes can't be masked. Not with those bad acting skills.'
The voice that followed carried weight, not only in volume but in pressure. It rumbled through the ground, stirring loose fragments of dust and grit.
"Dexterous hands and sharpness."
Cain responded without delay. His focus narrowed, aligning thought with motion. The enchantment process began again, subtle in gesture but exact in structure. Threads of energy drew from his core, not outwardly explosive, but refined and deliberate.
He understood the principle that made it all work. Energy was constant. It could not be made nor erased. Enchantments were not additions. They were unlocks, optimizations that cleared blockages and tuned the weapon's flow to the user's own strength and potential.
With the last connection sealed, Cain completed the casting with a deliberate arc of his hand and stepped away. He did not wait for gratitude. The shift in their expressions told him enough.
The leader of the giants began to move. Each step landed like a falling boulder, pressing weight into the ground with a deep, steady rhythm.
The giant's eyes were dark, set deep in a face carved with resolve. There was no warmth in them, only judgment and assessment.
Without speaking, he extended his weapon toward Cain, a brutal scourge with nine chain-linked hooks, each thorned and gleaming under the fractured light like predators poised for release.
Sensing the shift, the giant finally spoke. The words were heavy, broken by the gravel of age and force.
"Ragta. Alup Gigga."
(Ragta. Earth Giant.)
Cain gave a short nod. He had already begun. His thoughts aligned with the structure of the enchantment, one layer at a time, directing the flow through his pistols with quiet exactness.
Magicules responded, weaving into the weapon's trailing ends. The hooks shimmered faintly, each one drawing sharpness and velocity into its links.
Ragta did not wait. With the confidence of someone who had crushed dozens before, he launched the scourge in a wide, hissing arc.
The air split. One of the barbed hooks struck a shardling mid-motion, dug deep into a limb armored with plated metal, and tore it free in a clean, brutal pull. The remains clattered to the ground, twitching, stripped of purpose.
A wide grin spread across the giant's face, his satisfaction clear in the hardened lines of his pewter-toned features.
Cain shifted his weight and swept his gaze over the gathered fighters. One eyebrow lifted.
"Anyone else?"
There was a pause, followed by a series of short grunts and head shakes.
"No need."
He accepted the silence. Pressing giants was pointless when they had already made up their minds.
Even while engaging, his mind ran separate tallies. Each enchantment had a lifespan. Each timer ticked down. None could be allowed to lapse at the wrong moment.