Chapter 176
Chapter 176
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 176
Chapter Title: Chapter 10 Lead and Silver Coins (30)
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Splash!
As I hurl myself forward, two eerily bright yellow lights latch onto me in an instant, following close by my side.
The transformed creature’s form was, as it claimed, akin to a tiger. More precisely, something that *had been* a tiger.
Its skin and facial muscles had rotted away, leaving only traces of striped fur amid the exposed bones on its skull, unmistakably resembling that of a large feline predator. Empty sockets gleamed with yellow eyes in a bizarre spectacle. Through the tattered remnants of its old uniform, its body fur appeared brittle and dull like a decayed corpse, yet strangely, beneath it pulsed the springy muscles unique to a beast of prey.
A form like a predator whose exterior had rotted to ruin.
Crunch! Grind!
Sparks fly where claw meets claw, and as I deflect the blade slicing toward my side and catch my breath, a gun barrel is suddenly right in front of my face.
‘Damn it.... Fast!’
Bang!
Screeeee—
A ringing tinnitus assaults my skull alongside searing pain. I’m grateful for the agony at my ear tips. In my overheated head, where I’ve lost track of my own actions, nothing reassures me that I’ve dodged the enemy’s attack quite like this!
I blocked it. That meant the enemy’s guard was open.
Close combat has its flow. Attackers endure the same impact as defenders, and those in motion recover balance less easily than those standing still, so a failed attack leads to an exchange of offense and defense. Basic common sense in melee.
My left arm is locked from the defensive shock, but my right is free. Thanks to my forward-leaning balance, the enemy’s head—fully exposed ahead—is within reach, and despite its own imbalance, it closes in with eerie speed....
“...?! Damn it!”
Splash!
Slash!!
I instinctively slam on the brakes with my toes and leap back just as its saw-like fangs graze my approaching right arm. The clash of teeth makes my ears ring with its biting force.
“Argh! You bit me! This doesn’t make any sense!”
“Hahaha! Would a tiger not bite a man, then?”
“What tiger! You’re a zombie tiger bastard!”
I tried talking to buy time, but conventional tactics wouldn’t seize the advantage against it.
Savage claws from blind spots, tusks aimed at my throat. Its movements were beastly, yet whenever I dodged, its gun barrel was suddenly at my head.
A perfected combat style wielding calculated savagery.
I don’t know what memories birthed it, but this variant calling itself a tiger was undoubtedly combat-specialized.
‘Shit. Here it comes again!’
I spot it leaping. I need to evade, but I’ve already retreated hastily, throwing off my balance completely.
‘I can’t... dodge!’
Ping!
In a flash, my left hand yanks the pin from the grenade at my waist, and I roll it toward my collapsing back. Perfect position for both of us to get caught in the blast when it pounces.
I see its bright yellow pupils tracking the grenade before the pin even hits the ground. The beast’s ears twitch at the fizzling fuse. A grenade rolled toward itself with every intent to detonate.
“Mutual destruction. Pathetic folly!!”
Buru growls once and twists its body. From its fully committed forward lunge, it rotates using core strength, then kicks off the ground to create distance with fluid grace.
Thud thud, roll....
But the expected explosion doesn’t come. Seizing the gap as it retreats, I finally manage some breathing room.
“A dud.... So you’re not relying on mere luck.”
Click.
Grinning as if amused, the tiger picks up the fallen grenade.
The safety lever on top, the metal between fuze and striker pin crushed flat, rendering it inert. Not a mere defect, but mangled by immense force. Satisfaction curls on Buru’s lips at the sight.
“A trick.... Yes. Your favorite claw. Sharp and cunning. Splendid. Truly splendid!”
“...You shred me to rags and then praise me.”
“With such composure even now, how could I not praise you?”
“It’s not composure, you fool. That’s just who I am.”
The Professor banters while releasing his right hand from pressing his side.
Sizzle—
‘Shit. It burst open. Need time to staunch the bleeding.... Keep it talking somehow....’
First strike. Couldn’t react to its astonishingly sharp movements; deep gash on my side.
If not for the grown leather patch sealing it, my guts would’ve spilled. Quick-clot burst barely held it, but even Dome’s premium meds need time to bond. If it charges again, it’ll tear wider.
An unstoppable foe.
Me, with a fatal wound needing immediate treatment.
Suddenly, a brilliantly obvious thought hits—what a fool I’ve been for not thinking of it sooner.
‘Run!’
On reflection, this situation is all wrong. It’s a Type 3 variant. Walking wasteland disaster. Treated like a natural calamity.
Even in Sector 47, subduing Old Picture took dozens of mortars, a truckload of ammo and explosives, plus tailored countermeasures. I learned bone-deep how monstrous Type 3s are. What madman—no War Boy—rushes to their death yelling [He’s calling me!]? Unless there’s something wrong with its head...!
‘Virus! Fuck, it’s got brain damage! No wonder it buzzed with energy and got feral! This is exactly like hormone doping!’
Common sight on battlefields. Before suicidal orders, soldiers doping with banned post-trauma drugs, berserking like fanatics. Knowing death awaited, they fought braver. My solo dash to hunt it mirrored that exactly.
‘...The virus is goading its host—me—to fight. What’s Hyde doing? Hey! Hyde! Manage the headspace! It’s broken!’
[---Arghh- ----what the fu----]
‘...Hyde?’
[--my home’s---- dogshit---- Gyaak---!]
Yeah. Hyde lives in that head. Chaos obvious even from afar. Should’ve checked when it went quiet.
Thanks to that, I’m dueling this psycho killer variant solo. If the virus wants the host dead, it’s on the cusp of victory. Blood loss cooled my head, or Hyde’s desperately defending.
Anyway, from doped idiot to anemic Professor. Time to think.
Volunteered for reckless charges, willing or not. Result: this disaster.
‘No matter their human shape, W and this one are both Type 3 variants. Incarnations of trauma from someone’s memories. Like Old Picture, it has a weakness, exposed somewhere.’
Old Picture projected memories nonstop, blatantly demanding you exploit it.
W spilled its past unprompted, in detail. Like it just wanted understanding.
Trauma: deep mental scar. Type 3s bound to negative moments, struggling to escape somehow. This one, as Type 3, must have a weakness rooted in those memories.
‘Kept emphasizing “claws.” Not just combat prowess. When I tricked it with the grenade, it praised that as claws too. Show more claws, reveal them.... It wants to see something from me? Wants me to trouble it more, be a tougher foe?’
A hunch crystallizes. Rags for me, not a drop of sweat on it. Ignores W’s plans, claims to have watched me.
“...Matching my level on purpose? Hey, tiger. You don’t intend to kill me, do you?”
At that, its relentless steps halt—the same steps no tactic had stopped.
Overflowing with predatory thrill. It battered me to the brink, urging claws, to push back.
It hopes I’m stronger. Attacks calibrated not to kill, as if I’ll grow from it.
“Toying with me. Or rather, sculpting me to your specs. Corpse tiger. Don’t tell me you buy that nonsense about cornered humans unleashing superhuman strength? Push to the limit, awaken like in comics, multiply power several-fold. That what you believe?”
Only explanation. Impressed by my gameplay, expects something, pushes me.
“...Gave too many hints?”
“Yeah. Screamed for me to get it. If you’re so frustrated, head to Raptor Society over there—tons of brutally strong guys. Why nurture a scrub like me?”
“Hmm, no. Wrong track entirely. Professor.”
‘Back half wrong, front half right. Not masochistic thrill, but genuinely wants to strengthen me for some purpose?’
Type 3s all had dark quirks.
Ultimate depressive Old Picture, vague W, this bipedal corpse tiger pounding heads like steel, wishing them unbreakable.
“Professor, you move with a soldier’s precision. Which unit?”
Whatever. It’s talking. Buys time for my bleeding side to clot. Play along, it’ll give more.
“...14.”
“Perfectly seasoned. Good pick this time.”
“‘This time’.... So, played with others before me?”
“Not ‘played.’ Trials, teachings, steps to progress.”
“...By ripping bodies and crushing skulls?”
“A fruit complains of peel’s pain, yet must it not be stripped?”
I nod along, pulling another emergency patch from my pocket and slapping it on my side. No interference.
“...What’re you trying to make? Let’s talk. If no killing intent, I’ll take your lessons in the form you want.”
“No need. You’re nearly complete. The upright one. Who, in any crisis—even facing death—hurls every claw at the foe. I wandered this barren world seeking such a soul. Upright *and* stronger than me. If none existed, I’d forge one. I *needed* that existence.”
“...And when you find it? Become friends since souls align?”
The tiger shakes its head.
“No. The exact opposite. When I meet him again at last, he’ll test me once more. If I, born from deep regret, truly differ from the original. If I’ve truly overcome that ugly essence.”
Buru recalls the memories forming its soul.
****
Hiding ugly cowardice, desperate to outshine all.
Commander of the 42nd Special Ops. Led countless ops to success, claimed wealth and glory.
Yet he cringed at the empty praise echoing in his ears, longing to flee.
When all charged ahead, he turned tail.
Exploited allies’ sacrifices. Secured safest spots, picked easiest foes despite superior skill for survival.
Result: crews cycled repeatedly. No comrades left to share battlefield tales. Solitary commander.
Instead of carrying broken-legged comrade to escape, left him in machine-gun nest. Its final blaze amid gunfire let him survive.
Isolated in enemy lines, no resupply. While all starved, he sustained on hoarded rations.
Vowed countless times to stand with them, but death’s terror always brought the same choice. Unbearable shame. Guilt. Never sought honors. Just thrashed to live. Why praise the coward surviving over dying comrades? Why reward me?
“...Grrrrr.”
Shuddering at his own wretchedness, he’d visit the outpost warehouse.
A house-sized Bengal tiger, bones gaunt from long captivity.
Descended for food, caught in trap. Planned to skin for superior gift to gain support, store till expert arrived.
“Grrrrr. Raaargh!”
Clang! Clang clang!
Days without food or water, yet it lunged at me beyond bars, eyes ensnaring me. Its utter disregard for life. That hateful glare—why so comforting? Only through this beast did I receive the just scorn I deserved.
Butcher dismissed. Tiger stayed caged. Welcomed the hate, yet craved watching it fade. At death’s brink, even this noble beast would flail ugly for life. Proving my acts mirrored human essence, that I wasn’t wrong.
****
“But, Buru. That great tiger never extinguished its hate till life’s end.”
Final memory of its original host. Survivalist sunk in self-loathing, not even recalling his name.
“Enemy airstrike. Despite all his survival, absurdly felled by bomb shrapnel. Clutching bleeding gut, he raced to the warehouse. Reason unknown. To prove innocence to the last? Or habit seeking solace?”
There he met his end. Embracing the tiger’s claws that showered the scorn and hate he craved.
“Buru.... That old tiger thought one thing only. Kill the one who caged me. Just once, sink claws into its nape! Satisfied with that. When the man bled against its bars, Buru knew the moment. Starved to blurry vision, forepaw withered pathetically. Yet shoved whole through bars too narrow for a toe normally.”
Trembling, bleeding man. Claws snag his throat, yanked mercilessly.
“Man with half his neck severed saw the half-corpse tiger gazing down. Gaunt to pitiful bones. Yet eyes blazed triumphantly as it collapsed! In that instant, unbearable wretchedness and realization. Ah, I didn’t want to see the beast broken.”
Proof’s moment. That all-acclaimed survival was wrong. Proof his comrades charging to limbs embodied something beyond fear at death!
At death, his fingertips touched the upright tiger’s corpse he’d envied. Virus seizing the host began drawing in the body of the clearest memory: that corpse....
The Professor feels awe amid the rapid recounting.
“W-Wait. So your goal is...?”
“Yes. I want to face death’s terror again. Irresistible death. In that absolute dread, will I flee like the old man? Fight like the tiger? Did he truly overcome his ugly nature at the last, or merely seek solace? To prove it, I’ve done vile deeds. Thrown myself at armed human hordes, charged absurdly strong fellow Type 3s. Raided you Raptors too. None fit. Humans too weak. Type 3s strong enough to kill, but eyes lacked will—just mechanical lumps. Raptors... potential substitutes, but unsatisfactory.”
Thud. Thud.
The tiger’s flaming skull approaches.
“What I seek is a great adversary. Like that tiger, hurling all for one moment. Truly transcendent before death’s terror. One to drive me to death’s fear. Somewhere, my death awaits—I’m no invincible against endless foes. But dying to a mob lacks satisfaction. Like it, I crave one warrior investing all in me. Transcendent ones existed, but crumbled without surpassing limits. One reached Type 3 threshold, but half-corpse trapped in past. None became the great adversary I craved.
Now its skull nears, beastly stench overwhelming. No expression, but palpable: genuine joy.
“After endless failures, I found you. Advancing forward through deaths’ pain and fear. Already molting by your power, yet unbent uprightness! At last, the perfect material for my great adversary!”
Professor ignores the rant, edging backward stealthily. Bought clotting time; as unstable Type 3, it loves monologuing—learned its origins fully.
Problem: the flaw in those memories, its “weakness,” absurd.
‘Goal: self-proof. Craves death’s terror, but from a single entity meeting its criteria. Prove coward or brave? Ultimately, 1v1 beatdown to satisfy! What masochist is this!’
Worse: it targets me. Tone drips desperate proposal; won’t let go easy.
Shhh—
It advances slowly as I retreat, claws drawn.
“Thrashing maximally, hone that edge in hardship. You’ve proven much already; won’t take long. Perhaps skip straight to the finale.”
“Finale... meaning?”
“Die. Only in death reborn as strong, perfect great adversary, no? Even partially unstable now it’s this much; full Type 3 rebirth.... Mmm. Thrilling! Can’t contain myself!”
“!!!”
‘It plans to kill me after all!’
Sneak sneak sneak!
Retreat accelerates. Who’d think a powerful old male would coo “can’t contain myself” at me. Shouldn’t have come!
Scanning wildly while backing. Something useful. To shake it off...!
Crunch!
‘Damn!’
Hearing its hind claws gouge earth, I rip off a nearby car door and hurl it, then sprint opposite with all speed.
“Fleeing? Still defying fate!”
“Just let me go, psycho! I’ll turn variant soon anyway—wait till then!”
Shhh—!
“Too long waited! Give up, bare your neck meekly! I’ll rebirth you as *my* great adversary!”
Crunch!
“Argh! Shut your crap! Goddamn geriatric furball masochist yandere corpse male! Don’t court with unmarketable traits!”
Hurling random debris, I bolt for outpost’s edge.
At least from talk, no worry it’ll hit 47th supports’ rear chasing me. It followed *me* here.
‘Speeds match! Lure outside, stall till Ian Azel clears above; no snipers then, outpost pushes, gains breathing room, then... uh... allies save me! Holding it solo is plenty 1-man effort! Yeah, sure thin—’
Slice—
“Ughhh!!! God!”
Professor prays fervently seeing hair chunked by claws. Please send aid while I live.
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