Chapter 115
His hand reflexively pulled the reins of his mule, his foot striking lightly against the animal's belly, and the sturdy old brown mule immediately responded by quickening its pace—from slow to fast, from fast to a light run, until it was truly sprinting along the stone road that gradually left Rhegion behind them.
"Lord Jesus Christ," Leontios whispered over and over, his voice nearly swallowed by the pounding hooves and the rush of the night wind, "protect Your humble servant, keep me far from their pursuit, save me from whatever is chasing me."
Those prayers continued to flow from his lips, interwoven with the name of Jesus Christ spoken in countless ways, like beads of a rosary turning within his heart.
The mule surged forward with surprising speed for a beast of burden, leaving a trail of dust behind, and for a moment, Leontios felt that he might succeed—that this sudden burst of speed would be enough to distance himself from the mysterious group.
But when he glanced back, his heart nearly stopped: the riders with torches were not falling behind—they were getting closer, faster, as if they knew no fatigue.
Leontios urged the mule even harder, nearly to the limits of the animal's strength, as cold sweat drenched his body and his prayers poured out more urgently from his dry lips.
"Lord Jesus Christ, Father in Heaven, save me, protect me, do not let them capture me."
He did not know who they were, nor what they wanted, but the instincts of a former slave who had survived decades of oppression told him that if they caught him, there would be no new life in Thessaloniki, no small workshop in Sofia or Serbia—there would be nothing left.
And at that very moment, amid the thunder of hooves in his ears and the dust swirling around him, Leontios heard something utterly foreign—something he had never heard in his entire life in Constantinople or anywhere else.
It was not the sound of horses, nor of men, nor of nature.
It was like the roar of a raging dragon, like thunder crashing down to earth and exploding beside him, like thousands of iron anvils being struck at once within a confined space.
Leontios turned back once more, and there, in the distance among the riders and torches, he saw something that made him question his sanity—whether this was a nightmare or reality.
A strange object, neither horse nor carriage nor anything he recognized, was speeding forward while continuously releasing thick white steam from one end.
It cut through the distance at an impossible speed, leaving the mounted riders behind as it closed in on Leontios with a velocity that made his skin crawl.
In its grasp, someone—or something—held a long, dark object aimed directly at him.
From behind the Prefect's soldiers who were still struggling to give chase on their increasingly exhausted horses, Arya took a deep breath and lifted the 2020 bazooka onto his shoulder.
The weapon felt utterly foreign in his hands, deeply out of place in the Thracian night of 1101 AD, yet Nirma's command had been clear: shoot Leontios Chalkeus, but do not let anyone see what truly happens.
With his index finger, Arya pressed a small button on the side of the bazooka, and from his chest, a projection device shaped like a round medallion instantly activated, sending invisible waves that connected directly to the brains of every Prefect soldier behind him.
The illusion network worked instantly, penetrating the optic nerves, flooding the visual cortex, rewriting the reality perceived by their eyes before their brains could process it.
What they saw afterward was no longer a bazooka in Arya's hands, but a traditional Byzantine longbow with a flaming arrow ready to be released.
Leontios in the distance continued to drive his mule at full speed, his back wrapped in a worn cloak rising and falling with the rhythm of the animal's sprint, while his lips likely still whispered prayers to Jesus Christ—prayers that would never be enough to save him from what was coming.
Arya aimed carefully, holding his breath as he had done thousands of times in future shooting drills, then pulled the trigger.
From the tip of the bazooka, a small projectile shot forward at a speed beyond the perception of the human eye, leaving behind a thin vapor trail that was instantly transformed by the projection device into the ordinary smoke of a flaming arrow.
To the eyes of the Prefect's soldiers who were still closing in, what they saw was simply Arya releasing a single arrow that arced across the night sky before striking directly into the body of the galloping old brown mule.
But the reality behind the illusion was vastly different.
The projectile from the 2020 bazooka reached its target in the blink of an eye, and within a fraction of a second, Leontios's mule became a massive ball of fire that exploded with a thunderous roar.
The animal's body was hurled into the air, suspended several meters above the ground, burned to ash in flames so intense that even its bones melted before they could fall.
Leontios himself, who just a second earlier had been seated upon the mule, was suddenly thrown like a ragdoll cast by a giant hand.
His body floated through the air, suspended for seconds that felt like centuries, before gravity finally pulled him back to the earth with a sickening impact.
He rolled several times along the stone road, dust and embers from the explosion still scattering around him, until his body came to rest on its back with both arms spread wide like a fallen cross from a church wall.
The horses came to a halt in a loose semicircle around Leontios's body, which still lay on the ground, as dust and glowing sparks drifted slowly through the cold night air.
Nirma dismounted from her white mare with swift yet graceful movements, while Arya had already leapt from his black horse and rushed toward Leontios, who was not entirely unconscious—his eyes were still half open, his chest still rising and falling in search of breath, and when Arya's shadow covered his face, the body suddenly moved, attempting to rise.
Arya immediately seized both of Leontios's arms, slamming him back to the ground before wrenching them behind his back with all his strength.
But Leontios, despite having just been thrown dozens of meters by the explosion, still possessed the residual strength of a blacksmith accustomed to lifting heavy iron day after day.
He struggled, growled, nearly breaking free from Arya's grip.
From behind, several Prefect soldiers who had been chasing with mounting frustration at having to ride hard through the night stepped forward without waiting for orders.
The first to reach Leontios was a large man with a scar across his temple—he drove his fist hard into Leontios's abdomen, knocking the breath out of him instantly.
The second followed with a kick to the ribs, the third with a punch to the face, and for several long seconds, Leontios's body became the target of their pent-up fury from the long pursuit.
Arya loosened his grip slightly, giving them space to vent their anger, while Nirma, from a distance, merely observed with a neutral expression—neither approving nor intervening.
To be continued…