Chapter 121: The Immortal God Is No Longer Responsive

When Ang sprinted back, he saw seven or eight sand bandits digging up his crops, their long blades plunged straight into the soil, raking wildly and pulling up the Geshu in severed chunks.

One of them picked up a chunk and said, “What the hell is this?”

He roughly tore off the skin and bit into it.

“Pah! What garbage? This is disgusting!” He chewed a few times, then spat it out.

Uncooked Geshu isn’t tasty—it has a powdery, crisp texture that sticks to the mouth—but it contains moisture, and for sand bandits who’d walked for days across the desert, this plant’s water was the sweetest thing imaginable.

After spitting it out, he smacked his lips, decided he could tolerate it, bit again, chewed, then tossed aside the thin, underdeveloped Geshu he held and kept digging.

Every time he pulled up a root, he bit off only the thickest, most watery middle section and casually discarded the rest—throwing away more than he ate.

Ang ran back and saw this scene; the soul flame on his head flared outward in a ring, and he conjured a fireball to hurl at the bandits.

“Watch out, mage!” The bandits reacted swiftly, slashing their blades through the fireball and shattering it.

Though the explosive fireball looked small, it detonated—the shockwave knocked the bandit back half a step.

“Strong fire...” The bandit was about to shout a warning to his comrades, but the second explosive fireball pierced through the smoke of the first and struck his face with perfect accuracy.

Boom! His head was engulfed in flames as he screamed in agony.

“Double shot! No—rapid fire! Watch out—he’s a battle mage!” The other bandits screamed in horror at the sight.

Not every mage fights; most are born into noble families, raised with servants feeding them and dressing them, and if they lack attendants or followers, they’ll starve in the wild because they can’t even peel an egg.

Some mages, however, grew up through brutal survival, amassing vast combat experience, never chasing flashy spells, only using the most precise magic to kill their enemies.

A battle mage of the same rank is a hundred times harder to deal with than a flashy, inexperienced mage.

Low-tier magic with high firing speed is practically standard for battle mages—if a level-one spell can kill, they’ll never use level two, because they must conserve mana for defense and instant escape.

Marjor felt he was facing exactly such a battle mage, and immediately warned everyone.

But the moment he spoke, a third explosive fireball locked onto him, veering sharply midair toward him.

“Target locked!” Marjor shouted in alarm, yet his saber slashed out without hesitation.

He held back three-tenths of his strength—and as expected, he shattered the third fireball, only for the fourth to follow instantly.

Marjor slid back, slashed diagonally with his saber, retreated again, swung vertically, retreated once more, then slashed again—his saber spun before him like a blooming flower, impenetrable.

As he slashed and retreated, fireballs exploded along his path; the blade grew hot from the intense heat, and if this continued, the sword would melt.

In the desert, horses are legs—having a horse versus none is the difference between a healthy person and a cripple; horses are the bandits’ lifeline.

But under these conditions, Marjor had no time to care for his lifeline—he ducked behind his horse.

The explosive fireball slammed into the horse’s body—with a thunderous boom, it tore open its flesh and skin, flames instantly clinging to its coat.

The horse let out a piercing shriek.

Dragging the horse, using its body as cover, Marjor crawled and rolled toward the distant dune—once he reached the top and hid behind it, he’d break the mage’s target lock.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Six explosive fireballs struck the horse in succession, shredding its flesh, setting it ablaze, until it collapsed with a final, dying scream—but thanks to the cover, Marjor had already reached halfway up the dune, snatched his one-handed shield from his back, and sprinted sideways up the slope.

This sideways sprint gave him rear visibility, ensuring he wouldn’t be hit from behind without noticing—clear proof of Marjor’s vast combat experience.

The other bandits scattered in the chaos; Ang quickly locked his gaze onto another bandit—some turned to slash, some raised shields, some rolled like lazy donkeys, some threw sand to block vision—every trick in the book.

Ang soon realized killing these bandits was harder than killing Holy Angels—they were too slippery, and many carried heavy gear.

For instance, one bandit—Ang had already locked onto him, the explosive fireball nearly hitting him—when he suddenly slapped his chest, and a magic shield flared around him.

He tanked four or five fireballs before the shield vanished; any other mage might’ve let him escape—few could cast five fireballs in a row.

But Ang could—the instant the shield vanished, the sixth fireball struck him, sending him stumbling forward as he spat blood.

Summoning his last strength, the bandit activated his battle aura, lunging forward several more meters—only for the seventh fireball to slam into his back, knocking him flat.

The bandit had no choice but to roll onto his back in the sand, swinging his long blade, screaming desperately: “Why?! So many fireballs!”

His answer came with the eighth, ninth, and tenth fireballs—he shattered the eighth, but the ninth and tenth struck him, engulfing him in flames.

Every sand bandit who served as a frontline fighter was among the best in their ranks; in such loose gangs, anyone without skill had long been eliminated—or killed by their own.

Yet they faced an asymmetric enemy: despite using every trick they knew, only six escaped Ang’s range; the other dozen or so lay dead beneath the dune.

Marjor stared in disbelief—he’d been the first to flee, positioned atop the dune with a clear view—and he saw clearly: no double shots, no rapid fire—it was just continuous, unceasing fireballs, like a magical artillery platform.

“This is terrifying—even an Arcane Mage couldn’t cast this fast.” Marjor’s heart trembled.

Hooves thundered behind him—he turned and saw his own group arriving.

This gathering of bandits totaled five thousand—no single trade route could sustain so many; they belonged to different factions, each with their own territory and distinct operations, some even mortal enemies.

Almost no force in the world could rally these bandits—even the strongest human empire or cavalry unit ignored them.

Except the Winged Knights.

The Winged Knights were a uniquely famed order—only a thousand strong, yet renowned across the continent; had they been larger, they’d have easily ranked among the top ten knightly orders.

Their greatest feature? They could fly.

Flying meant unmatched mobility and aerial vision—the perfect counter to these elusive sand bandits. So when the Winged Knights issued their call, most bandits sent out contingents.

Of course, Theres didn’t shortchange them—after slaying the dragon, ten thousand magic crystals were split equally among all, counted by those who set out.

That meant twenty crystals per person—and counted by those who departed, meaning the more you sent, the more you gained.

Even sending cannon fodder was fine—since payment was based on departure numbers, dead members meant one less share. Suddenly, every bandit gang was buzzing with enthusiasm.

Marjor was at a disadvantage—his gang was small, only sixty-some men; even if they all came, they’d earn little—but he couldn’t ignore the Winged Knights’ summons.

He came, but he wanted to bring his men back alive, so he volunteered for the vanguard—any sign of trouble, he’d flee immediately.

His men lagged behind the vanguard, now arriving.

Marjor glanced at the artillery mage below the dune, then suddenly remembered something—he shouted to his comrades: “Quick! Where’s that goblin engineer?”

One of his men pointed to a crate at the rear: “There!”

Marjor rushed over, opened the crate, and dragged out a goblin, pale and barely breathing.

The goblin’s beard and hair were white, with hair only growing at the back and sides—his bald forehead clearly marked him as a sage; even as he was dragged, he remained calm, lying still without panic.

Marjor rushed over, grabbed him by the collar: “You said you’re a goblin engineer—do you have any inventions that can blast enemies from afar? Down there, beneath the dune—kill him.”

The goblin was dragged to the dune’s crest, forcibly turned to look down.

He glanced once, then lazily closed his eyes, as if to say: “Kill me if you want.”

“Hey! Did you hear me?” Marjor shook him by the collar.

The goblin replied coolly: “Kill me. A Gear Award winner will never serve vile sand bandits.”

“You want to die?” One of Marjor’s men stepped forward, raising his foot to crush the goblin—but Marjor stopped him.

“You’d rather die than cooperate—could it be your invention is useless?” Marjor sneered.

Instantly, the goblin who’d been lounging on the sand leapt up, beard and hair bristling as he roared: “Useless? You dare say my invention is useless? Ignorant fool! Brainless zombie! Stunted idiot! #%￥@! *…….”

A torrent of curses sent Marjor’s blood pressure soaring—he grabbed the goblin’s throat: “Say another word and I’ll snap your neck.”

The goblin choked, face turning crimson, kicking desperately.

As he neared death, Marjor released him and urged: “Use your invention—blast that mage below—and I’ll admit your invention is useful.”

The goblin gasped heavily, finally catching his breath, then glared at Marjor: “Do you think goblins are fools? My invention won the Gear Award—it doesn’t need your stupid bandit approval.”

“Uh… then I’ll let you go. You want to continue your research, right? I’ll return your crate.” Marjor bit back his anger.

At the mention of the crate, the goblin hesitated, his expression wavering.

Marjor pressed: “I’ll give you twenty magic crystals too—I already listed your name when we departed, and I’ll escort you out of the desert.”

The goblin’s eyes darted. “I’ll try—but I can’t guarantee a hit. My Magic Egg Cannon hasn’t been tested. And I don’t want your crystals—twenty? Hah! I’ve lost more than that in the cracks of my bedframe.”

“Even if you miss, just scare that mage off.”

“Swear an oath. A divine oath.”

Marjor placed his hand over his chest solemnly: “I swear by the name of the Immortal God—I shall honor my pact with the goblin engineer Valigu. Should I break it, I shall die on the spot.”

A symbol floated from Marjor’s body.

Valigu took the oath seal, his expression visibly relaxing. He waved dismissively: “My toolbox.”

Marjor ordered his men to bring Valigu’s engineering case, a faint smile creeping onto his face.

A divine oath—sworn in a god’s name, broken, and punished by the divine. But what if some gods no longer worked?

Like the Immortal God—Marjor’s family had sworn hundreds of divine oaths in His name over centuries, yet most lived to be a hundred. Perhaps the Immortal God’s punishment was simply to make you “immortal”—live longer?

Last year, Marjor swore by the Immortal God’s name—nothing happened. After Valigu blasted the mage, he’d break the oath, seize the goblin, and see how funny his face would look. Ha ha ha.

Valigu opened his toolbox and pulled out two two-meter-long iron tubes.

Marjor’s eyes burned—he saw the box was only twenty centimeters thick, yet it held two-meter-long items—this was a space artifact! Just the box alone was worth a fortune, let alone its unknown contents.

Too bad the box required Valigu’s magic to unlock.

With the two iron tubes and a pile of small parts, Valigu quickly assembled a device resembling a slingshot—but with a base and two rails.

Valigu tightened the ox-hide cord, proudly declaring: “This is my invention—the Magic Egg Cannon!”

Marjor and his men gathered around, chattering:

“It’s just a giant slingshot? This thing can siege a city?”

“I thought it was something amazing—total junk.”

“Does it shoot stones? I can throw farther than this.”

Hearing his invention mocked, Valigu’s beard bristled—he shouted: “Get back! Let you see the power of the Magic Egg!”

As he spoke, he carefully withdrew a round sphere the size of a watermelon: “I have only one Magic Egg. Whether it hits or misses, it’s gone. Either way, you must honor your oath.”

Marjor chuckled: “Of course. The Immortal God is watching—who’d dare break a divine oath?”

No sooner had he spoken than Marjor felt eyes on him—he turned, but saw no one watching.

“Weird.” He muttered, then urged Valigu: “Hurry up!”

Valigu pushed the Magic Egg Cannon to the dune’s edge, adjusted its angle, aiming at Ang and the others—but after aiming, he shifted the barrel slightly.

These bloodstained bandits’ enemies might be good people—he wouldn’t let his Magic Egg Cannon become a weapon against the innocent.

After aiming, Valigu placed the magic egg on the string, pulled out a crank, inserted it into the magic egg, and turned it hard.

Creak—creak—zzz, something inside the magic egg seemed to begin spinning.

But since Valigu had been captured, he hadn’t eaten a proper meal and had no strength; after a few turns, he was gasping for breath.

“Useless goblin.” A burly sand raider shoved Valigu aside and began turning it forcefully—zzz zzz zzz—the thing inside the magic egg spun at high speed.

“Is it ready?” the burly sand raider shouted proudly, but heard no reply. He quickly turned around and saw everyone had scattered to the sides, crouching on the ground with their hands over their ears.

The burly sand raider asked dumbly: “What are you doing?”

“Don’t you know? Never stand next to a running goblin machine—it might explode at any moment,” Ma Yueer shouted.

“Huh? It’ll explode?!” The burly sand raider immediately dropped the crank and dove forward, crawling and rolling away as fast as he could.

But the magic egg had already reached maximum speed; the zzz noise inside had merged into a continuous roar, growing ever faster—clearly, it had activated.

Valigu explained: “When the magic egg cracks open, it’s activated—it’ll shoot out automatically.”

Ding! The magic egg cracked open. A powerful magical reaction spread outward, intense enough to feel like a Grand Mage casting a spell.

With a magical reaction this strong, if it struck an enemy and detonated, wouldn’t it leave nothing but ash?

Ma Yueer suddenly grew eager to see the magic egg cannon fire—but just then, a beam of light flashed, striking the magic egg cannon.

Roughly two and a half chapters