Chapter 781: What a Joke
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 781: What a Joke
Rem’s body was in no fit state for a fight, and he had the added burden of Ragna slumped over his shoulder. But did that mean he should just take it lying down?
Not a chance.
He had absolutely no intention of doing so. Having just smashed through the roof, Rem leaped backward, keeping his eyes locked on his opponent. Even moving in reverse, he was as fast as a man sprinting forward. It was a technique derived from a game common to any child raised in the West—running backward.
"If I catch you, you die instantly. Or you can resist and die anyway. The choice is yours."
Clad in heavy armor and wielding a shield and sword, the pursuer tried to close the distance, but it was futile. He wasn't fast, but he was dogged. Knowing this game of tag would eventually come to an end, he simply kept putting one foot in front of the other.
What if his opponent threw something?
So what?
A mere hand axe couldn't possibly pierce his armor and shield. He knew that much. Therefore, simply wearing down his opponent's stamina was a guaranteed victory. Confidence filled his armored steps.
Thud.
The ground shook with every stride, weighed down by his massive build, the heavy plate that matched it, his sword, shield, and auxiliary weapons. If stamina was the deciding factor, the bastard fluttering around like that would have a harder time. It was only natural that the one moving more would exhaust themselves faster.
Since he only needed to close the gap, he just had to move along the most efficient path. Once they clashed, it would be over. His tactic was to slowly choke his opponent to death—a strategy that only worked if the opponent engaged. He believed that, given enough time, things would go exactly as he planned.
Rem, however, had other ideas. From the moment he smashed through the roof with Ragna slung over his shoulder, his thoughts had remained consistent.
Why the hell should I insist on close-quarters combat?
There was absolutely no reason to.
That was exactly why he had burst out of the house. Although the surrounding environment had suddenly undergone a drastic change, there was plenty of space to run and move. For now, that was enough. He put off trying to figure out why the world had changed or assessing the situation.
If his opponent had challenged him to a duel over Ragna, Rem might have considered it. Rem was the type of man who would fight if honor was on the line. But his opponent hadn't done that.
The corners of the pursuer's mouth curled upward, framed by drooping, curly blonde hair. A sneering voice asked, "Now, choose. Will you abandon your burden and run? Or will you die together?"
The bastard kept trying to force a choice, but Rem, utterly indifferent, simply flipped him off with his free hand. It was an offensive gesture with a long, storied history on the continent.
"...A fool who doesn't know his place."
Though his smile remained, irritation seeped into the knight's tone. Rem retreated from the unfavorable terrain and circled a wide area, tracing a large arc around his opponent. Aside from the fact that Rem had to move more nimbly every time the guy adjusted his stance, it felt like he would never be caught.
The area they were fighting in had been transformed into a barren, open clearing, though it had originally been a vegetable garden cultivated by the villagers. The armored knight pressured Rem by drawing an imaginary line between them, clearly intending to force the running barbarian to exert more energy by constantly forcing him to change direction.
One circle was large, while the other was small. Since the one running the larger circle consumed more stamina, it was only natural that he would tire faster. The armored knight moved with minimal effort, conserving his strength. That was more than enough. Moreover, they were inside the labyrinth. Here, he would not tire easily.
"Will you run until you drop dead? Or will you test your skills while you still have some strength left?"
The armored knight enjoyed breaking his opponents' spirits by forcing these choices upon them. He played his usual game, but the barbarian from the West ignored him completely.
In truth, Rem wasn't even listening to a word the man said. He was too busy imagining what it would be like to use the lazy bastard on his shoulder as a projectile.
Take this, Magic Sword Lazybones! No, maybe Magic Sword Directionally Challenged would be better?
He desperately wanted to hurl him, but he couldn't. It had to remain a fantasy. The directionally challenged bastard felt like he was tightly packing away and conserving his stamina, as if preparing for some massive battle.
So your gut is telling you things are bad, huh?
Mine too, you bastard.
Realizing there was no need to keep his curses to himself, Rem spoke aloud.
"Just wait till you wake up, you lazy bastard."
Muttering to himself, Rem deftly pulled the sling from his waist with one hand. With the same hand, he rummaged through his pouch to grab a bullet infused with sorcery power. He had a little over ten of them, but he wouldn't need to use them all here.
What he did next was nothing short of a spectacle—though it was only a spectacle to others; to Rem, it was second nature.
While running, he tossed the bullet into the air and whipped his sling to catch it. Snap! With a crisp sound, the bullet settled perfectly into the leather pouch. He immediately began spinning the cord, building momentum in the same fluid motion as the catch.
Rem held the handle tightly, keeping a firm grip on the cord connected to the leather pouch. Using his hand as an axis, the loaded pouch began to trace a circle. Even before centrifugal force had fully built up, the arc drawn by the sling was flawless, without a single wobble.
Whoosh—
The sound of it slicing through the air was perfectly smooth. As he spun the leather cord faster and faster, the sound began to reverberate through the clearing, shifting from a low whoosh to a heavy whir.
The armored knight watched Rem's movements.
A projectile?
Seeing him use a sling, that had to be it. Still, there was no reason to panic. He trusted his shield and the armor protecting his body. It was an invincible set of armor that had never once been breached—until he met the Balrog.
Rem maintained his indifferent facade, but his mind was working fast. He had to gauge the distance to his opponent while running, spin the sling, and channel his sorcery power into the bullet all at once.
The bullet, crafted using the secret techniques of the West and Rem's own refined personal arts, readily accepted the sorcery power. He then cast a spell upon it, as if laying a curse.
Fiery Roar.
That was the name of the spell. It was said that when the god of the West was enraged, his voice would erupt into flames.
As the channeled spell flowed into the bullet, the sound of the accelerating leather cord shifted from a heavy whir to a high-pitched screech. The smooth sound carried an ominous, unsettling weight. The circular motion originating from Rem's hand could be unleashed at any second, and even if he maintained perfect control, the sheer threat it posed was incomparable to a stationary blade.
It was a lethal, spinning disc, far more menacing than a bowstring drawn to its absolute limit.
Rem offered no warning. Drawing upon the instincts he had honed over decades of mastery, he unleashed the full force of the spinning disc.
The bullet shot from the sling like a streak of light. The armored knight couldn't even perceive its trajectory. It was a speed that far exceeded a knight's dynamic visual acuity. Relying purely on instinct, he threw his shield forward, like a turtle retreating into its shell.
As he released the projectile, Rem reflexively channeled his sorcery to shield his eardrums.
Crack—
The sound cut off.
... BOOM!
The sudden silence erupted into a deafening roar. The projectile Rem had unleashed tore through the air, triggering three consecutive sonic booms before detonating against the target. The sheer pressure of the explosion whipped up a violent gale. The bullet was so destructive that even the sound of its detonation was terrifying.
Rumbleeeee.
Following the roar, the shockwave-induced gale swept outward, clawing at everything in its path. A few villagers watching from afar ducked their heads and trembled in terror. Naturally, no one dared to draw close. Rem had lured the knight to this open area for this exact reason.
The dust kicked up by the explosion billowed into the air before quickly settling. The dust of the Demon Realm borderlands felt strangely heavy. Crossing his arms and lowering his stance, Rem shielded himself from the flying debris. He had already dropped the burden from his shoulder onto the ground behind him.
A few sharp fragments embedded themselves in Rem's forearm. If this was the state of things even with his sorcery protecting him, what must it be like for the bastard who had taken the direct hit?
"...Son of a bitch."
A staggering shadow spat the curse through the settling dust. With half of his armor shattered, the knight glared at Rem, clutching a crumpled shield with its bottom torn away. His kite shield was now nothing more than a broken wreck—shattered, splintered, and reduced to tatters.
"You..." the knight stammered, unable to hide his sheer shock.
"What?" Rem replied.
Lowering his defensive guard, he loaded a second bullet and began to spin the cord once more. His opponent was slow on his feet, meaning he could never catch up to Rem, even when Rem was carrying a heavy load. Rem had widened the gap to his heart's content, and ranged combat was one of his greatest specialties.
"Son of a bitch..."
One of the strongest warriors in the Balrog's labyrinth was crumbling after running into his natural enemy. From Rem's perspective, however, there was nothing special about it.
*
Encrid lost all track of time, and even of his surroundings. He simply swung his sword, enduring and fighting on.
—Good.
Occasionally, the Balrog conveyed his thoughts through Will. Encrid felt the same way. No matter what the beast threw at him, Encrid blocked, parried, and counterattacked. But the Balrog's occasional erratic attacks were on another level.
It easily bypassed the defensive wall known as the Wave Barrier. Had the beast shattered it with brute force, Encrid would have understood. Instead, the Balrog bypassed it entirely through sheer skill.
His feet.
Despite his massive size, the Balrog was incredibly nimble with his feet. At the same time, his living whip demanded constant attention. Every single one of the Balrog's attacks was a complex combination.
Harmony.
That was the only word for it. Because his movements were in perfect harmony, no matter what technique he unleashed, Encrid could only marvel in admiration.
With a sudden burst of movement, Encrid swung Dawn Forge to parry the beast's sword, closed the distance, and attempted a headbutt or a trip. He was trying to drag the beast into a messy brawl with quick-witted improvisation, but each time, the Balrog simply let go of his sword and engaged in close-quarters combat.
The Balrog struck with the edge of his hand, punched, grabbed, and twisted. During those moments, even his whip did not intervene. The fire snake simply reared its head to one side, watching the spectacle. Of course, Encrid didn't have the luxury of paying attention to it. He was fully occupied blocking the onslaught of hands, feet, knees, and elbows, desperately searching for any opening to drive a fist or finger into.
Crack.
In the midst of that brutal melee, three of Encrid's left fingers were snapped. His hand had been caught for a mere fraction of a second before he yanked it back, but in that brief window, the Balrog had twisted his wrist and fingers, snapping three of them. Just moments before, he had taken a heavy blow to the ribs, making every breath a painful struggle.
His injuries were piling up. Yet, Encrid held his ground and fought to the bitter end. But now, the entire battle could be summarized in a single, stark realization:
I am going to lose.
Even when the Balrog saw a clear opening to take Encrid's head, he deliberately gave him time to dodge, like a chess player allowing an opponent to take back a move. It had already happened several times. The beast spoke directly into his mind, his voice a low murmur.
—Can you not fight a little longer?
Having finally found a worthy opponent after so long, the Balrog was merely playing with him. The gap in their skill was too vast—from his swordsmanship to his manifestation of intimidation.
If Encrid honed every single one of his skills to their absolute limits, could he ever reach the Balrog's level? His intuition offered no answers. The Balrog loomed before him like an insurmountable, solid wall.
But the game could not last forever. In the end, the blade of black fire known as Urt tore through Encrid's abdomen, gouging his entrails.
By then, three of his fingers and two of his ribs were broken, his knee joint was dislocated, and his hip was creaking. Cornered and utterly overwhelmed, the final blow had pierced his stomach.
Yet, in that exact moment, Encrid's Dawn Forge traced a single, brilliant line. It was a strike even the Balrog hadn't anticipated; a piece of the beast's horn was cleanly sliced off.
"A close one," the Balrog remarked casually.
Searing him from the inside out, the black flames rapidly consumed his entire body. It was a hellfire that would never extinguish until its victim was dead. This, too, was one of the Balrog's authorities.
Encrid bit down on his tongue to endure the agonizing pain. Blood should have spilled from his severed tongue, but the flames had already scorched the inside of his mouth. Instead of blood, only the stench of burning flesh filled his senses, permeating his very mind.
—You shall be reborn in my labyrinth. We will fight and play for eternity.
Even in his dying state, the Balrog's voice echoed in his mind. He could barely hear it. No matter how many times he experienced death, he could never grow accustomed to the pain; hearing those words at all was a testament to his sheer willpower.
The Balrog gazed into Encrid's burning eyes. Even as he died, those blue eyes refused to lose their light. It was as if they held a blue flame of their own. The Balrog found himself quite fond of that look.
—Until we meet again.
The Balrog showed clear delight, knowing this was not the end. Encrid welcomed a sensation he had already experienced countless times before. As his surroundings faded to black, he passed through a pitch-dark cave devoid of even a single speck of light. It was death. He had died once more.
And then.
—What a joke.
At the end of the cave, Encrid heard another voice speaking directly to his mind. It was the Ferryman.
It was a retort to the Balrog's parting words. Of course, the Balrog would never hear it. These words were meant for the deceased Encrid alone.