Chapter 14: Air Raid

After joining this group, Wang Liang and his companions started using the makeshift sand boats they had fashioned on the spot. Each of them managed to get a camel, and Niu Xuanguang and his companions took positions on the outer edges of the formation, while Wang Liang and the young woman with the skull mask, considered the ‘weakest’ in terms of strength, stayed at the very center of the group.

Now that he understood how to use the team and private chat channels, Wang Liang kept himself occupied, chatting nonstop with Zhao Gongming. He discovered that Zhao Gongming had a strong desire to show off, acting like an omniscient bystander who seemed to know every secret as he watched events unfold.

Furthermore, Zhao Gongming had a penchant for boasting; when he couldn’t back up his claims, he’d weave in some divination jargon to cover his ignorance.

It just so happened that Wang Liang was quite proficient in the Book of Changes, able to keep up with Zhao Gongming’s line of talk, making their conversations rather enjoyable.

“The timeline of the world you’re in now should be somewhere between 1273 and 1274,” Zhao Gongming said. “I deduced this as soon as I heard the names Niccolò and Matteo. Now, it’s just a matter of figuring out the power level of this world.”

“How do we determine that?” Wang Liang asked.

“It’s simple. Observe carefully. In this group, the strongest is that paladin—if I had to guess, in his prime he was about level 50, which corresponds to the Nascent Soul stage in the Eastern system. That suggests there are people in the Church with even greater strength, otherwise he wouldn’t be sent to do grunt work. So, I’d say their Pope is probably around level 60, which would be the Immortal stage in the East, and likely called an Angel or Holy Spirit in the West. Their god, then, should be around level 90.

“Now consider this: in a world where gods exist and the gods are level 90, but the Eastern nations are able to wage war deep into the West, what does that say about the baseline strength of the East?”

With his mastery of the Book of Changes, Wang Liang quickly calculated the answer: this was a world where Golden Immortals roamed everywhere and even Immortals were as common as dogs.

Comparing this to his own meager level 10, Wang Liang wondered whether he ought to find a quiet place to lay a proper foundation for himself.

Just then, Zhao Gongming continued, “We’re bound to meet enemies around level 50 on our journey. When that happens, you’d better keep yourself hidden, because once the battle starts, no one will be able to help you.”

“Don’t worry, I can take care of myself. By the way, do you think there’ll be anything valuable among the treasures they plan to gift?”

“It’s possible, but they won’t dare to give much. In worlds with a Church, the treasures they can offer are usually things like the Saint’s Six Relics: the Holy Grail, the Crown of Thorns, the True Cross, the Spear of Longinus, the Shroud, and three or four Nails. But really, which one could they give? No matter what, it’d be a slap in the face.”

Wang Liang nodded in agreement. In his past life, he’d held a position equivalent to Grand Chancellor, serving under Emperor Xuanzong, a ruler known for his ambition and love of glory. Wang Liang knew very well what kinds of tributes each vassal kingdom would present; anyone bold enough to offer a cross, a spearhead, or a burial shroud would have their country wiped out by imperial decree, especially in a world like this, under the reign of a conqueror.

“So, what do you think they’ll actually send?” Wang Liang asked.

“No idea. If you ask me, they’d be better off offering a Saintess. Sure, after three or four years on the road she’d probably be old, but that’s still better than making the wrong choice with the relics.”

At this, Wang Liang burst out laughing. It was, in fact, a clever idea—one that was much less likely to cause trouble.

While the two of them were joking in private, the leading paladin suddenly raised his spear, and the group halted abruptly.

Sensing that something was wrong, Wang Liang loosened his grip, allowing the Blade of Life and Death to fall into his hand.

He glanced at the ground. They had reached the edge of the desert, where the hard soil of the Gobi began to appear. While still barren, it was no longer suitable for sand bandits to sneak about.

Far ahead stretched a plain. From where they stood, they could see for miles—there was no sign of cavalry or any obvious ambush. Why, then, had the paladin halted the group?

Before Wang Liang could figure it out, a dark shadow flashed across the sky. The white-robed men in the center drew longbows from their saddles, nocked arrows, and shot into the air.

“They’re worried about the sky,” someone called.

At that moment, Niu Xuanguang and his group shouted as well. Wang Liang looked up and saw more than a dozen hooded men, clad in white and masked in rainbow colors, riding enormous swallow-shaped kites as they soared toward them.

Each kite spanned nearly three meters and seemed fully maneuverable.

“Shoot them down! Leave me two kites—take them apart so I can study their flying mechanism!” Wei Ban shouted as he leapt from his camel, excitement clear in his voice.

It was obvious Wei Ban was thrilled, so much so that he hadn’t even considered what would happen if the kites couldn’t be shot down.

Meanwhile, Wang Liang noticed the paladins tightening their formation, herding several camels into their circle of defense.

“Sky Assassins, level thirty-five, with aerial gliding and Leap of Faith abilities. Listen up—they’re not bandits. I repeat, they are not bandits!” the young woman with the skull mask shouted over the team channel.

Curious, Wang Liang asked, “How does she know that?”

“She has the True Sight skill—she can identify enemies. It’s like divination: once you’ve learned it, you just know. Don’t ask too many questions. Just find somewhere to hide. No one’s free to protect you right now,” Zhao Gongming replied, shoving Wang Liang into the midst of the camels.

Chaos erupted; Wang Liang was nearly trampled by a panicked camel, but his skills allowed him to push back and carve out a small space for himself.

Before he could settle in, someone else was shoved into the herd with him.

Wang Liang noticed that it was one of the white-robed men—a youth, not yet twenty, judging by his face and eyes.

Clearly embarrassed, the newcomer hesitated, not knowing how to greet him.

“Speak whatever language you like—I’ll understand,” Wang Liang said with a smile, recalling that Zhao Gongming had told him they’d gain the local languages upon entering each world. While reading and writing might be difficult, conversation was no problem at all.

The youth smiled sheepishly. “Ah, I see. My name is Marco—Marco Polo. And you?”