Supersum: Living in another world [LitRPG Transmigration Fantasy]

...

A low, sticky mist clung to the ground as if the island itself was desperate to hide the dreadfulness marking an otherwise deceptively tranquil village. It soaked up the evidence and turned the nethermost humidity into an opaque red.

"It feels like Paris during a protest," Alexander sarcastically mumbled to himself, his voice subdued, as he trudged over the sticky, blood-soaked earth, his boots leaving deep impressions in the mud. "If this turns into a Vietnam, I will hang myself."

He paused as a weak breeze rustled blackened palm fronds that drooped like broken wings. Ragged animal pens stood open and empty; charred buildings stretched into the distance, some still trailing wisps of smoke. The air smelled of damp ashes and iron, a jarring mix of moisture and blood—evidence of both livestock and villagers.

'What a fucking mess,' Alexander became solemn, his cynicism unable to compensate for the pressure he felt. To say it lightly, he didn't like that he had to pivot from his initial plan already. 'Where was it? Ah,' as the stress weighed him down, he pulled out a metal case, similar to a cigarette etui—with a sharp click, he opened it and threw a blackish chewing gum into his mouth. After the first bite, a poisonous and cursed smoke escaped his lips, and his mind became at ease as the effect set in—a well-needed stress relief.

He made his back crack with a simple shoulder stretch, relieving some stress, but suddenly stopped—his ears twitched at the slightest sound in the haze, still alert for signs of movement. A flicker of mana caught his attention, and he tilted his head, eyes lazily observing where it came from. "Oh? What do we have here?"

He strode between the towering, charcoaled palm trunks. Despite the lazy drift of ash in the air, his sense of smell perceived three distinct presences—tiny, frightened sparks of mana huddled in the remnants of a shattered hut. Alexander emerged from behind a broken wall, ignoring the heat that still radiated from half-smoldering wreckage. He spotted them then: three young fire djinn, soot-streaked and trembling.

"I see you," Alexander said softly, stepping closer. What remained of the house had been lovingly built from mud bricks and fastened with fibers of palm leaves, now scattered and charred. "Three little pups," he added, the corners of his mouth lifting with hollow irony, "trying to hide here, unable to end up in a wilderness even more lethal than this war."

He lifted a hand, conjuring a controlled gust of wind that peeled away layers of broken brick and debris. The barrier parted to reveal the three young djinn. They froze. One of them, a boy who couldn't have been older than nine, donning exquisite but ripped and dirtied native clothing, gripped a rather well-done spear. His eyes were wide with fury and grief, tear tracks cutting through the soot caked on his cheeks.

The boy lunged, spear outstretched in trembling hands. Alexander tensed—but with a simple chant, the earth around the djinn's feet turned to thick mud, anchoring him mid-stride. Undeterred, the djinn hurled the spear in one last act of desperate violence. It soared toward Alexander's face and halted abruptly, hovering just before hitting him—a gust of wind pushing away any settled dust.

Alexander stared at the spear tip, so close to his nose that he could almost feel the sharpened edge. His calm gaze shifted to the furious young djinn. "Have you considered," he said, flicking his wrist so the spear's aim shifted toward the other two hidden behind the wreckage, "what might the consequences of your actions be?"

"Stop!" the fire djinn boy cried, his voice breaking. "You murdered my family and friends!" His limbs trembled with a mixture of rage and terror. "I'll kill you if it's the last thing I do!"

Alexander's smile was chillingly gentle. "Then you won't mind me using this spear on those strangers." With a single push of his finger, the spear flew past the boy's shoulder, straight toward the other two young djinn. They shrieked, eyes squeezing shut, hands clutching at each other in terror.

"Please don't!" the fire djinn boy shouted, his voice torn. The spear froze inches before it struck, eliciting a rather humiliating and degrading reaction from those youths due to their fear. The boy sagged with relief, the mud still binding him in place.

Alexander approached, each step unhurried but resolute. His presence loomed over the boy, who seemed to shrink under his gaze. "You're all so young," Alexander murmured, extending a hand to brush soot off the djinn's hair. The gesture was oddly paternal, though it offered no real comfort. "If the adults put you out here as shields, gambling that my people would show mercy, they gambled wrong. If protecting my people means cutting down hundreds of young heads, I'd do it." A resigned sigh escaped his lips. "Though I take no joy in it."

He turned away, signaling three uniformed soldiers standing nearby, their expressions solemn. "Take them," he ordered. "Separate the one who tried to kill me—he's trouble. I can already tell he'll become a threat if he gains his [Legacy] in the future."

The boy's rage collapsed into tears, body quaking as soldiers pried him from the mud and shackled his wrists and neck. The other two djinn whimpered but made no move to resist, fear winning out over the flicker of fight. As the children were led away, Alexander watched them. A pang of something akin to regret darkened his eyes, yet his face settled into the mask he'd worn throughout this bloody campaign.

With another bite, Alexander noticed that his sole comfort had already lost its effect—he gulped it down—and, with an accustomed gesture, took another one, his mind instantly easing, hazing the conscience filled with dread and tension.

Alexander spent the first two to four weeks following his initial plan, grinding them down to reduce as much unnecessary death and future hostility as possible. Usually, when most stayed alive, it became easy to integrate anyone who wasn't benefiting from their life under the Pure-Steam Clan.

Once enemies were caught, they were given a strict mana contract. Signed it, and they'd be sent to the Strip of Hope, a clearly safer region where they could wait out the war with minimal suffering. They'd even receive a stipend to start anew and have the chance one day return when hostilities ended. Some older folks refused to leave their ancestral lands, but many others, especially the younger or impoverished, jumped at the chance to escape.

Surprisingly enough, 90% of all fire djinn had little to no allegiance to the Pure-Steam Clan and were happy to find a new place that gave them far more chances than they had on the island. Patriotism wasn't a mindset exhibited on Orbis, especially not the ones who barely went by. Racism, though, was still quite the problem, as many tried to excuse their horrible living conditions by comparing them to others, living as slaves or worse, in a system that only took. But at the Strip of Hope—with so many various races—it usually turned around once they began interacting with others. It was slow and would take a few more years, but it would work once they saw their life change for the better, side by side with other races.

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Now, with the smoke of the ruined village rising around him, Alexander surveyed the bodies—lying cold and stiff. His nose wrinkled at the stench of singed flesh and burnt thatch. War was ugly, and pivot brought more unnecessary horrors. But, he had no other possibilities to quicken his approach because of the latest happenings—namely, the suicide bracelets.

"This is also getting worse," he muttered, rolling a kink out of his neck. He glanced again at the ragtag line of prisoners. "Can't blame them, though," his voice filled with cynicism. Most fire djinn they caught were young, underfed, or battered by a life of ceaseless hardship, and most importantly—their scent didn't match the one who lived in this village.

Indeed, informants told him families were paying for information on which villages he and Bjoern planned to raid—just to be there when the soldiers arrived, ensuring they'd be taken instead of left to starve or face darker fates under his allies or enemies, who would use them as meatshields. Wild rumors spread that Alexander's group showed a glimmer of hope—unlike others who dealt only in indiscriminate slaughter.

Not everyone, though, came quietly or with a little more persuading. The boy who had attacked him clearly belonged to a family that had some status—or at least enough pride not to yield without a fight. Alexander threw a last glance his way: the young djinn scowled, anger burning behind his tears. "He'll hate me for the rest of his life," Alexander muttered under his breath. "Better me than his own people."

He strode past the scorched remains of the central courtyard, the ground littered with collapsed huts. Still-smoldering embers glowed like angry coals beneath the ash. Alexander coughed against the acrid air and headed toward the largest building in the village, a multi-room structure that functioned as the mayor's mansion. The prominent building hinted at the presence of wealth and authority, as it was far more liveable compared to all others.

His mana sense swept out in small strings, searching for lingering life or hidden traps. Then, he sensed something metallic behind a half-burned wall. "What have we here?" He brought his hand up, and chunks of rubble shifted and flew aside—a battered wooden chest, its hinges warped by heat, floated out of a cracked window and landed with a thud at his feet.

He opened it gingerly—a click, then the lid creaked to reveal neat rows of coin pouches and, ominously, a set of ornate metal bracelets. The coins glinted dully under the weak light, but Alexander's attention went straight to the bands. Each one emanated a dark, crackling potential—the reason for his plan change. "Suicide bombs," he muttered. "Do they want to blow up the whole camp with it?" He probed them with mana, sensing they were primed to detonate at the slightest disturbance. He shorted out their enchantments with practiced skill, and the glow of destruction winked out.

He picked one up, turning it over in his hands. "They must have acquired these from someone outside the village," he mused. A memory surfaced of other squads coming back barely alive, encountering similar traps that had nearly wiped them out because some poor soul wore one of those. "It's the fucking Taliban all over again."

Because of the dangers they brought to his people, there was not much to think about—they had to act more aggressively and prevent the distribution by acting faster before more were made and circulated.

Additionally, they were the reason Alexander personally had to come out, endangering his own life. The mana the artifacts emitted was barely discernable, and only a handful had the skills to do so.

He exhaled a slow breath, scanning the courtyard until he spotted a suspicious figure in the huddle of prisoners—an older fire djinn woman with her arms wrapped protectively over her belly. Her scent matched the faint trace of sweat on the chest's lid, even though she wore an attire befitting a beggar.

Alexander conjured a mana hand that flew, clamped around her waist, and dragged her forward. She stumbled and fell to her knees, trembling. "Come with me," he said, his voice low, turning on his heel. He led—or rather dragged—her into a house that still stood, though cracks ran along its walls. Inside, the faint glow of ember light illuminated ragged furniture and singed rugs.

He flung her onto the floor, her breath rasping as she coughed in the smoky air. "We have a problem," Alexander said, eyes narrowing. "You know what it is—or do I need to convince you with more…persuasive methods?"

She coughed and stared up at him, terror etched in every line of her face. Though stories circulated that Alexander wasn't the worst of the conquerors, she also knew he had a reputation for ruthless efficiency. "I—I'll tell you!" she stammered, scooting back until her shoulders hit a charred chair leg. "Wh-what do you want to know?"

He lifted one of the deactivated bracelets, letting it hover between them. "Where did you get these?" Its metal surface gleamed ominously, echoing the devastation it could cause.

"A messenger from the main clan," she whispered, eyes darting nervously to the remains of the battered doorway. Fear glazed her face as if she'd once thought these devices might save them but now saw as evidence of the horrors she may need to answer for.

Alexander tilted his head. "Interesting." He conjured a second mana hand that wrapped around the woman's throat, not tight enough to strangle her but enough to force her gaze onto him. He was about to press further when he remembered that another presence had a similar scent to her. Her child—the boy from before—stared in hate from far away, face ashen from fear and despair. Before the woman could react, Alexander yanked the boy inside, snapping one of the explosive bracelets open. With deftness, he locked it around the boy's neck.

The woman screamed, voice raw. "No! Please, don't!"

Alexander arched his brow, activating the bracelet just enough that it hummed with threatening [Energy]. "I'm sure you don't want your child to test how 'powerful' these are," he said coolly. "Now… where did they really come from?"

Her breath hitched. "I—I got it from our local shaman. He—he was the one who arranged the deliveries from the clan." The words tumbled out in a panicked rush. "He left the village days ago… to meet our leaders."

Alexander lifted his free hand and idly played with the crackling energy around the collar as if he might detonate it on a whim. Then he sighed, flipping some of the enchantment off with practiced ease. The hum receded. He removed the collar from the terrified boy, who collapsed in sobs at his mother's side. The djinn woman choked back relief, tears streaking through the grime on her cheeks.

"See," Alexander said, "that wasn't so hard." He tossed the bracelet into his spatial pouch, its threat neutralized. "Now you'll tell my people everything about this shaman and everything else you know. Who they are, where they're meeting, what other villages they've supplied. Understood?"

She nodded frantically, speechless from fear and regret. The boy, all bravery dissipated, clung to her, trembling uncontrollably.

Alexander turned away from them, shoulders taut. Outside, the air was still hazy with the acrid stench of loss and burning. Yet faint dawn light pressed at the edges of the sky, promising another day in an unnecessary war. One of his lieutenants peered, cautiously approaching him.

He glanced over his shoulder at the woman, who knelt silently, cradling her son. "Get them out of here," Alexander said. "Process her for interrogation and see the boy get some food. Afterward, send them to the rest of the prisoners." The lieutenant nodded, stepping in to collect the two djinn.

A moment passed where Alexander simply stood, gazing at the destroyed building's interior as though searching for something he'd long lost. But the war offered no respite, no homecoming—only more villages, more heartbreak, and more regrets.

With a gulp, he swallowed his solace and threw another one, needing every bit of calm he could receive. He brushed the dust from his shoulders, summoning the resolve to oversee the cleanup. Outside, soldiers moved among the ruins, corralling survivors, dousing smoldering timbers, and searching for more hidden traps. There would be dozens of scenes like this to come—villagers wary and desperate, bombs planted in half-burned houses and on unaware civilians. And, inevitably, the tension between showing mercy and guarding against treachery would remain.

Stepping out of the battered house, Alexander inhaled deeply, ignoring the faint taste of ash on his tongue. The first rays of dawn caught in the mist, painting the battlefield in washed-out pastels that clashed with the grim reality. He surveyed the horizon, where more war-torn villages and strongholds lay. There was no turning back. The only path was forward into the next fight—but at least, for now, he knew more about who armed this island and how these living bombs kept coming into circulation.