Chapter 334
Chapter 334
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 334
Chapter Title: Those Martial Artist Bastards
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His mind sank into an icy calm sharper than any blade. The fury coiled so tightly within him it bordered on refreshment.
—Tremble.
Sweat poured from Keython's body as he gripped the doorknob.
Betraying the organization? No wonder he was tense.
But hey, he was gonna die anyway, so maybe no need to stress.
—Creak.
Finally steeling himself amid the sweltering tension, Keython slowly pushed the door open, revealing the scene inside.
"Keython?"
"What the hell?"
"Who's that punk?"
The room looked just like a mob boss's office.
A single window sat at the far end, with a bald guy planted in front of it. The fancy desk screamed "this guy's the boss." Scars riddled his scalp—probably why he was bald, right?
Around scattered tables and chairs sat thugs who looked like they murdered for fun, huddled over a card game amid some basic furniture.
Normally, I'd ask to join, but right now I needed the layout. Eyes darting, I spotted stairs leading up to the third floor.
...Might get backup from up there.
"You! Who the hell are you?! Answer me, Keython!!"
Total gangster vibes.
—Rumble.
They jumped up, yanking out their weapons. They had a nose for trouble. But not a single one looked like a real pro.
"Keython! Who's this asshole, and why are you all bloody?"
"Blood on the sword? What about guard Melson?"
"You kill him or what?"
They shifted into fighting stances, yelling at Keython. I ignored them and asked him directly.
"Where's the boss?"
"Th-that guy by the window..."
His finger jabbed out, and the room exploded in shouts.
"You fucking traitor! Keython! What the hell are you doing?!"
"Betraying the organization?!"
Twenty goons total inside, boss at the front. More might come down those third-floor stairs. Had to watch for that.
"Shut up!"
The boss bellowed as I sized up my first targets.
His voice had some real boom to it.
"Hey, stranger. Don't recognize you. What's your business with my crew? And carrying that nasty weapon... Mind if we talk it out?"
"Talk? This guy looks like a thug but reasons like a human?"
"Can't run a gang without talking sense."
Of course, words wouldn't fix this.
Only money would.
Truth be told, return my 100 silver, and I might let it slide. Labor issues aside, worth negotiating.
"Then sit your dogs down."
"Security rules say no can do."
"Fuck your rules, you street-rat punks."
Talks broke down.
"You son of a bitch! Boss! Just kill him!"
One goon raised a hand axe, yelling.
"I said shut up."
"..."
Boss had charisma; one word, and the guy folded. Boss glared at me, then spoke.
"...So, stranger. Guards at the door?"
"Napping, so I came up. Sloppy as hell."
"Then what's that blood on your sword?"
"Gave Keython a little tune-up. See? He's bleeding."
"Why? What'd he do?"
"Enough chit-chat."
Wasn't here for storytime.
I rested the sword on my shoulder.
"Keython stole my money. Said your boss took it. Here to get it back. Clear?"
"..."
"Don't wanna die? Hand it over."
"...How much? Looks like a misunderstanding with one of my men. We'll return it—forgive us."
"100 silver."
"What?!?!"
Boss recoiled like his hair grew back.
"Surprised? Me too. Stealing 100 silver from me."
Principal was 5 silver, but with interest, labor, mental anguish, physical damages—rounded to 100.
Even discounted heavy since I didn't wanna murder everyone.
"What bullshit is this...! Keython! Explain! What the hell?!"
"B-Boss, see, it was..."
This prick... not planning to pay up?
Then everyone here dies.
"No, seriously. Listen. I'm here for my stolen money. Give it back, no one dies. Even installments okay. Smart choice—could all end up dead."
Show willingness to pay, might spare 'em.
"Bullshit! Crazy bastard! Boys! Kill him! Capture Keython alive!"
—Got it, boss!
—Raaah!!
—You fucker!!
—Raaah!!!
—Keython, you're fucked too, asshole!!
Roaring, they charged with weapons high.
"You motherless bastards."
Like always, talk failed. I'd tried, though.
—No need to hold back the rage anymore.
"Kiiiiieeeeeeeeeeek!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Fury burst my eye veins; the world went red. These fucks steal my money and try to kill me too?
Beyond shameless—utterly absurd. Everyone dies.
"Die!"
Three goons swung hand axes at my head from three sides. But they were slower than pros, even slower than killer wasps.
Catch me at that speed?
"All talk, no production!"
—Whoosh!
Swept the claymore wide.
My gear and weapons outclassed theirs. Only numbers against me. But I was a one-vs-many expert.
—Lightning-fast quicksword. And heaviest heavy cut.
"Wh-what?!"
"Guh—huge!"
The massive blade cleaved space; blood sprayed along its arc. Ripped two guts open in a flash, twisted up to ram the tip into another's mouth.
—Spurt!
"Guh... hack!"
"Only know how to steal!"
Three dead in under three seconds. Charging goons froze, terror-struck. I read it in their eyes.
Cowards living off robbery. World-shaking. In battle, first to flinch loses—basics they ignored.
Skilled warriors exploit weakness.
And I—
—Heavenly Demon Supremacy Step.
—Am skilled.
Footwork engaged, slicing the hesitating first. Blade and steps dominated space, severing throats in range!
—Slash!
"Eek?!"
"Human trash!"
—Clang!
Fourth neck lopped.
"What the hell?! Kill him! Kill!"
"Raaah!"
"Kill!!!"
Boss's yell spurred them; instead of fleeing, they rushed. I used the long sword's reach, skewering necks like kebabs.
"Gack?!"
Repeated, and they dropped fast.
These punks only shook down slums—never real fights or warriors. Numbers wasted, no counters to my attacks.
Skill, courage, experience, valor—that's the gap.
—Spurt.
Office drowned in crimson. Blood painted walls and ceiling; severed heads rolled like dropped watermelons.
Eight butchered in under five minutes.
"Die, you double-fucks!"
Cancer of society—cut 'em all out!
These are the scum who killed Lina's grandma! Stole kids' smiles! My money! Trashed the world's morals!
Nazi Belgian shits!
This blade, forged in Congolese and Jewish tears!!!
"Kiiiiieeeeeeeeeeek!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Gack!"
Great Demon Heavenly Demon Saint Rogue Kim Katt judges scum like this. Words fail? Sword speaks. Violence is true communication. I chatted with their cross-sections via blade.
—Thud!
"Criminal fucks!"
Kicked chairs and desks apart, unleashing Exec Swordsmanship, slashing everywhere!
"Murderer shits!"
Slum trash swarming changes nothing! Dryads! Kobold Guardians! Orcs! Undead! Merfolk! None killed me!
"Krhaaaack!!!!"
Flung limbs and fingers painted the air—murder constellations.
"Die!!!!"
"Savage bastard!"
Two more rushed; no armor, no piercing blades—they couldn't breach my guard.
"Kehk!"
Thrust killed one; Exec Footwork retreated a step, yanked blade free, thrust again.
"Kuhek!"
Unilateral victory.
No fatigue yet; mana raged through me, canceling exhaustion. Red world sharpened foes crystal-clear.
"This is what happens when you rob Kim Katt's wallet."
—Groan...!
—Krrgh...!
—Mommy, mommy...!
"All die. Every last one. Beg or plead—no mercy."
—Stab!
Rammed the mommy-caller's neck.
"All die."
—Sea of Corpses, Mountain of Blood.
"Your worthless lives end here."
Room soaked in gore: three goons, boss, piss-shrunk Keython in the corner, Lina hiding behind.
No untrained thugs beat me.
"You didn't know."
Body honed to extremes, pro swordsmanship.
Overflowing mana, absolute control.
"That's why."
Can't fill this gap with mob numbers.
"Massacre."
Courage, valor, guts, power, muscle, skill, experience—all lacking. Can't touch me. Blood-drenched, I thirsted.
Weak.
Too weak.
Steal 100 silver? Show some spine...!
"Eek?!"
"Huff!"
Glared at survivors; one rolled eyes, prepping necromancy? Trump card curse?
Rushed, severed his neck.
—Swish.
Head flew to boss's desk.
"Un-believable! My men, wiped in seconds...!"
Boss wailed in despair.
"Harsh reality. Knew eating others' money ends like this, right?"
"How... why... And you, that skilled—how'd Keython take 100 silver?!"
Oh, that.
"Actually stolen was 5 silver."
"What?!?!"
Boss's eyes bulged like his dead mom revived.
"Then why?! We'd have paid full! Why lie?!"
He clawed his nonexistent hair.
"Stolen cash repaid with compound interest, dumbass. Didn't know?"
"Even 20x...! We don't have that!"
Obviously.
"Said installments fine."
"Impossible... no way... no... NOOOOO!!!!!!"
Boss panicked, denying reality. I'd offered solutions from the start.
Escape all you want—this is real.
Boss bears all murder blame.
"Mershin... right! Mershin! Call Mershin! Hey! Upstairs, get Mershin! Hurry!"
"What? Mershin?"
—Flash!
Organization's ace?
"Mershin!!!! Lord Mershin!!!!!!"
"Lord Mershin!!!!"
Last two survivors bolted for stairs.
"Where you running, ball-less fucks!"
—Slash!
Easier than stabbing backs. Two dead in exactly six seconds—"Krahk!" "Guhk!"
"Who's Mershin..."
Glanced at stairs—then it happened.
"Haa. Another idiot intruder?"
—Thud thud.
Someone descended from the third floor. Voice super androgynous.
Guy? Girl? Unclear.
"Woke me up."
Figure emerged.
A swordsman in sharp blue robes descended.
Face like a psycho killer. Voice from weird mouth structure?
Anyway, long blade in hand. But that tone and speech—oddest part.
Why's this fucker talk like that?
"You came! Mershin! Time to earn your keep! Kill him!"
"Heavens... what massacre? Don't tell me... you did this?"
Sensing kill intent, scanned Mershin's muscles. Well-trained... Never fought a long-blade user.
Exploded muscles and mana full-body.
—Thus strikes the Exec Swordsmanship essence.
"Fierce-looking brute... hehe, fun slice... huhuhu, slicing fun eek?!?!?!"
—Exec Slash.
"Exec Slash, you bitch!"
—Crack.
Mershin split crown-to-crotch, flopping apart.
Pretty brutal strike.
"..."
Why?
Strong foe? Lead with finisher, idiot.
That True Exec Swordsmanship First Secret Ultimate: Exec Slash—drained all power and over half mana. Decisive blow.
Not as tough as thought.
"Hah, huff! M-Mershin one-shot!!!"
"That your best card?"
"Mercy, big bro!!! Take all the money!!!"
Boss bawled.
Now, money talks begin.