Chapter 180
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 180
Chapter Title: Kingdom - Lv. 1320 King of the Northern Slums (1)
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The King of the Northern Slums was brutal, but he wasn't stupid.
He quietly observed the heated Northern Hospital District and reached one conclusion.
This wasn't just simple charity work.
Of course it wasn't, but he could sense an intentional crafting of illusions.
Some of the organization's members began cleaning up. It wasn't anything impressive.
They were just spraying water on the filthy, grimy spots and wiping them down, shoving collapsed debris to the side.
At first glance, those actions seemed utterly meaningless.
The Exiles in the organization had always tidied up around their own dwellings like that anyway.
It wasn't difficult for them with their strength—it was just business as usual.
But there was something off about it, a reluctant creep toward not just their own areas but others', bit by bit.
And then some of the NPCs who had been sitting around dazed started mimicking them.
The King of the Northern Slums thought, Damn it all.
Money. Hired thugs with money. Who the hell would do that kind of work voluntarily?
But it was effective.
Crowd psychology worked just like that.
And in this slum, there were plenty who yearned for a better life.
Very slowly, but steadily, people started joining in voluntarily.
"Well, I'll be damned. Shock therapy if I've ever seen it."
They weren't planning to throw money away recklessly. He could feel a calculated design aimed at genuinely improving this district somehow.
Today was already like a dream come true for the people here.
Clean food they'd never seen before in their lives overflowed everywhere, enough that they worried about it spoiling.
Clean clothes, hygiene products, even warm blankets if they wanted.
If they truly desired something, it was given.
It was an illusion that wouldn't have formed with half-hearted welfare policies from outside.
But it was too much. Too generous, impossibly so.
There were thieves who tried to steal, but even they soon realized it was pointless.
It left people stunned.
Even the most cynical humans held back, voicing only doubts.
Of course, that alone wouldn't yield purely positive effects.
These were people rotten to their cores.
They knew no other way to live their whole lives, and even now, they were just momentarily rattled—true slum survivors would resort to their despeciation, petty tricks.
If not for the bald burly man who appeared to rally them.
His intimidating presence was obvious at a glance. Intense skinhead with tattoos writhing on his arms.
Coppery skin like something out of Central or South America.
He didn't look like some organization's boss—more like an assault captain.
But the face he showed while joining the work wasn't that of a gangster.
Not stained and sullen, but genuinely smiling, as if this job brought him joy and happiness.
The King of the Northern Slums recognized that face.
It was common in the priest's country. The face of a zealot, you could say.
And he was pretty strong, too.
Even accounting for his natural build, wielding that heavy-equipment-level power meant level 300? 400? Something like that.
In this slum, he was a powerhouse hard to resist.
Probably a member of that Angel's Tear guild.
The burly man stepped forward, bellowing at the dazed or hesitant ones.
Despite the shouts, it didn't feel like scolding. A reverence contrasted his gruff voice.
Anyone hearing it would think he truly cared for them.
That gave direction to the slum dwellers' confusion.
Little by little, more people joined the beautification efforts.
The wary, distrustful gazes of the other onlookers softened a bit, too.
And this street wasn't populated by paupers alone.
Owners of small hole-in-the-wall shops peddling goods leaked from the city's back alleys, or taverns brewing fake booze—they started stepping up, too.
The atmosphere was shifting.
"I don't know whose idea this was, but I can't let it stand."
It was an insidiously brainwashing method.
In the Labyrinth, no favors came free. Those fools didn't know that.
Whoever was behind this would seize the hearts of these vagrants this way, then aim for something—whatever it was, it would inevitably target the King of the Northern Slums.
Better to crush it now.
No such faction could be allowed in this slum.
Just then, the troops from his guild arrived.
He'd called them ahead, planning this from the start.
Jericho was glad for the situation, but he wasn't optimistic.
The anomaly in the Northern Hospital District would spread like wildfire, drawing in hordes of scavengers.
Among them would surely be tigers and lions.
Angel's Tear? Angel? Fine, whatever. But if the King of the Northern Slums showed up?
No matter how he'd come to know Angel's strength by using her at will, you couldn't cover the sky with a hand.
With that "king" title, the madman acted like he really was royalty—no containing that.
The King of the Northern Slums was a Ranker.
Last place or not, he was a genuine Ranker in the top 1,000 of the guild rankings.
High-level players like that didn't even number 1,000 in this kingdom.
No way they could win in a fight.
Rumors said Angel was a Ranker, too, but it was probably false.
Rankers were symbolic, embodiments of power.
The problem was idiots slapping "Ranker" on anyone vaguely strong.
No reason to hang with clueless fools anymore.
"You got all the luggage?"
"I've got all the valuables, dear."
"With this gear and our wealth, we can live anywhere. Warriors are needed even in the mage's country. That's how we'll survive."
His young daughter still didn't grasp the situation, looking bewildered.
His wife scooped her up.
"It'll be okay. We'll survive."
Saying that, they headed out.
Angel's Tear didn't have many members.
They were mostly borrowing existing organization grunts temporarily.
No surveillance, obviously. He recalled the mage who'd brazenly held his family hostage to threaten him.
And the destruction about to hit this street soon.
They fled.
No matter how he thought about it, that was right.
But his dream didn't come true.
"Kill all the Exiles!"
"Leave the NPCs alone unless they get in the way!"
Fierce shouts began echoing.
Jericho sensed something was wrong.
He grabbed his wife and daughter's hands and ran.
Luggage didn't matter.
The gear they wore now was fortune enough.
He pulled his concealing cloak and hood deeper.
Darting through alley after alley.
He had to get far, far away.
If he worked as a mercenary in the mage's country, Hardrock's reach wouldn't easily find him.
Sure, he'd be despised, but the mage's country was full of mages pushed out like exiles to Hardrock anyway.
Nations skewed heavily toward specific classes ironically valued other classes highly.
He could make good money.
He ran frantically.
But Jericho was unlucky.
"Halt right there!"
As if he'd stop for that.
But then.
"Hey, you horny bastard. When people talk, you listen! Got it?"
If a casually swung greatsword shattered the ground, that changed things.
Jericho was forced to stop.
His relatively low-level wife and NPC daughter flashed in his mind amid the shock.
He threw himself to shield them.
The wrecked ground was littered with debris sharp enough to cause serious injury just from rolling.
He hit his head hard, blood flowing.
Clanking heavy-armor footsteps approached.
He looked up to see a warrior with wolf ears glaring down.
"An Exile, huh? Gear looks way too good. You get it from those Angel whatevers?"
The title floating above his head: [King of the Northern Slums]. Jericho realized his fears were right and despaired.
"You're dying because of that angel? Got it?"
The sword came down.
And the angel blocked it.
He'd known an attack like this would come soon enough.
If so, the leader who'd been resting would step up.
Simple plan.
"Faster than I expected."
"Angel can hold off a Ranker, at least. I'll join in."
The youngest spoke, wielding a mithril door scavenged from the Abyss.
So-called gear advantage.
Rankers called that were terrifyingly strong, but they'd already faced enemies as powerful as Rankers.
Just more of the same.
Remi sighed.
"Let's go."
[Lightning Bolt]
Lightning raced toward the greatsword the angel blocked.
Followed by.
[Lightning]
[Confuse]
[Slow]
Curse spells aimed purely at disruption, not damage, fired like a barrage.
Remi had trained in this direction over raw attack magic.
Her talent wasn't exceptional, nor did she have the skill to leverage magical attack power.
But in this warrior-filled nation, a mage's presence alone wielded power.
The King of the Northern Slums staggered.
"A mage? Cocky bastard! You know where you are?"
His reaction was predictably uniform.
The angel raised her battered greatsword and activated a skill.
The berserker's signature red aura rippled around her.
The King of the Northern Slums was baffled.
"Angel? Shit. Why's a higher race here?"
No answer.
Her emotionless face lifted, silently swinging the sword.
Her racial strength outmatched his.
Shocked by the berserk angel's power, the King deflected as best he could.
Greatswords slid against each other, sparking.
He didn't just block. Twisting his body, the King activated his skill too.
[Beast's Fang]
The wildly swung greatsword tore gashes like fangs as it charged ferociously.
The moment it clashed with the angel's greatsword, interference struck again.
Not magic this time.
A glimpse from the corner of his eye showed that mage aiming a gun.
The gunshot burned where it hit.
Blue plasma scattered like embers.
Plasma rifle?
Of course, a Unique skill active shrugged off that much.
The angel spread her wings to counter, but they were ripped away.
Her body followed suit.
One arm, one leg gone, she sprayed sacred blood laced with holy energy as she flew.
The bald burly man caught her.
Even he slid back several steps.
Spraying potions was routine by now. The angel recovered and took flight.
Feathers scattered. Seeing the bombardment of feathers, the King recalled a faint nightmare.
Back when he poked around the [Main Dungeon], swarms of seraphim charging like flocks of birds.
But this angel wasn't that strong.
He planted his feet firmly on the ground.
Kicked off powerfully.
Controlled the power surging through his body.
Launched like a missile at the airborne angel.
Magic snagged his ankle again.
A persistent curse projectile caught up.
The slight speed drop meant he missed the perfect strike point.
Magic was so annoying for this reason.
The angel parried with her greatsword, and both shot up into the high sky.
The angel was the main force?
He knew who she was.
The bounty assassin lately famous as "Angel."
A real angel?
Not that high-level, but her racial edge let her hold her own—chilling.
But how lazily had she lived with power like this?
Your sloth kills you.
The King's strike came down.
His Unique skill [Beast's King] was agility-skewed for a strength type.
Precision movements got massive buffs.
No ground to push off, yet smooth power transfer flowed.
Beautiful.
Greatsword on greatsword, angel on leaf fairy.
He could win this fight.
The plummeting angel slammed into the ground like a fly swatted down.
Earthquake rumble—nearby buildings half-collapsed.
Domino sections crumpled.
But the King saw it: the angel herself took no major damage.
Berserker, was it? With [Berserk] active, she'd fight till death's door.
The angel was too tough. Her body itself was.
Injuries, yes—but one-shot lethals? Hard.
Gunfire hit again.
Plasma rifle packed too much punch barehanded.
Unlike bullets, it heated armor red-hot, melting from outside—gear damage was huge.
Take out that mage first. The angel could simmer slowly.
He adjusted midair.
Recovered the downward greatsword with a flip.
Then activated [Fierce Charge].
[Fierce Charge]
(Higher-tier skill above [Dash]; buffs charge attacks)
Several tiers above [Dash]. The mage couldn't dodge this charge-attack buffed strike.
He saw the gun-aiming mage's lips move.
Divine power?
Feeling ominous, the King invoked his own god.
The Duel God's chill silver divinity enveloped him, dramatically boosting his state.
And time stopped.
The King didn't perceive the halted time.
The next instant, he was smashed into the ground.