Chapter 182
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 182
Chapter Title: Kingdom - Lv. 1320 King of the Northern Slums (3)
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[Resurrection] was a skill that ordinary kingdom Exiles envied.
Even if a single death didn't lead to eternal oblivion, losing years of hard-earned progress was threat enough.
For those Exiles who were no longer Exiles, it went without saying.
Who in their right mind would welcome death?
And with that one shot at resurrection now gone, the King of the Northern Slums flew into a towering rage.
"You fucking bastards!"
Careless? Sure.
He had been careless, no denying it.
He hadn't even considered the presence of a time mage.
His senses for detecting frozen time had rusted away completely.
But this was too much.
His body was fully restored. The skill's cooldown wouldn't reset, but his condition was better than ever.
He fiercely parried the incoming attacks and hauled himself to his feet.
"You goddamn scum! Do you even know what you've just thrown away?"
A warrior with eyes rolled back in fury was no different from a berserker, skill set be damned.
Remy quickly fell back.
The Leader's analysis of the King of the Northern Slums' skill set matched almost perfectly.
It was an astonishing experience.
She had never seen this world as a game. She couldn't afford to.
Treating the Labyrinth—a place harsher and more grueling than reality itself—like some game would be laughably naive.
But lately, these hyper-real spaces were starting to look a little different.
The Leader was remarkable. He saw this world as a game so naturally it was obvious.
He always had.
Following the Leader's orders meant no such thing as failure.
Under that unshakable faith, fear held no sway.
The youngest charged at the onrushing King of the Northern Slums.
The king swung his greatsword with no thought for his own safety.
It was less a blade and more a blunt instrument—primitive violence incarnate.
No intent to even use the edge.
The rage twisting that face screamed smash, not cut.
The youngest's mithril door shield blocked its path.
The king didn't care. This one was definitely human.
No angelic anomalies meant he could tear him apart.
He had to crush that mage behind him as fast as possible, then deal with the angel.
The angel swooped in. Feathers whipped around, exploding near his body, but the king's sturdy frame shrugged off the damage.
The shield was pushed back.
Pushed, not shattered.
The king faltered.
His greatsword was top-tier rune-forged steel.
He wouldn't have drawn it against anyone but an angel—too precious in durability to waste.
Paired with the devastating attack power of his unique skill, no shield warrior could stand against it.
Yet even that destructive force barely scratched the enemy's shield.
Sparks flew bluish-silver where steel met steel.
He knew that color. Mithril.
"Goddamn it all!"
The angel dove in from behind.
No choice—he spun, parrying the blade.
The angel's greatsword was nothing special.
Plain, serviceable steel. Not a primary weapon, more like disposable backup gear.
He pushed with raw strength. They'd clashed multiple times already, and it'd struck his body too.
Its durability had to be spent.
The danger was the critical triggered by a weapon's destruction.
Sensing it, he struck twice more, then ducked low on the third swing.
Blue shards burst forth.
The angel's greatsword shattered, triggering a critical that surged extra power into his own blade.
The king simply dropped it.
Still low, he charged the angel.
Grappling was a knight's virtue.
The sudden assault caught the angel off guard.
He mounted him.
"I'll crush your skull!"
Then the youngest barreled in from behind.
The mithril door slammed into the king's skull.
A thunderous impact sent him flying from the sheer brute force and material.
The youngest's attack wouldn't deal meaningful damage.
But with that mass, getting hurled away was unavoidable.
The angel grinned, scooping up the king's greatsword.
Gnashing his teeth, the King of the Northern Slums began his retreat.
He still had plenty of underlings. Loyal enough not to betray him just yet.
The God of Magic cut an utterly bizarre figure for a demon.
Demons got massive appearance buffs, just like angels.
They kept human forms, eternally hydrated and bouncy, soft to the touch yet impervious to ordinary blades—not even a scratch.
No calluses, always fresh and powdery.
Their hair was the same. Too durable to frizz from neglect, always pristine.
But the god before him looked wrecked at a glance.
Unbefitting an ascended Exile, dark circles deep under his eyes, frizzy hair, dull skin.
Disheveled, gaunt—gender ambiguous, but the frame was male.
He spoke. His voice weary, gloomy.
"Ohhh... finally. Finally, I get to meet you, my boy."
His speech was doddering, but his looks weren't far off from mine. This exhausted god tottered forward, seizing my hand.
"Truly... you're the greatest mage among all Exiles I've seen. Please, teach me...!"
"Hold on, Mr. God of Magic. You look ready to keel over. You sleeping at all?"
"Ah, sleep? That old concept. Gods have it easy—no need for shut-eye."
"You're overtaxing your divinity to the breaking point!"
"I'm fine, though."
A rare case. Plenty obsessed with magic, but mostly continental natives for whom it was their livelihood.
Exiles usually weren't that extreme. Skill buffs let them outperform NPCs without diving so deep.
Even I—pushing raw magic without buffs—was a rarity in the kingdom's mage tower.
They rarely pursued pure magic in the strictest sense.
Not even Sharkma had this god's fervor, probably.
Ignoring his own state, the god begged.
"Please, debate that virtual mana engine theory with me... like back then."
"Calm down first. I'm not going anywhere. We'll be thick as thieves from now on, right?"
"Of course. A mage like you won't drop dead."
Says the guy who did and looped to this run.
The God of Magic just grinned vacantly, delighted.
Better give him what he wants first. He seemed mellow now, but this god was mad enough.
He could snap and 'collect' me anytime.
I sensed that lunatic vibe. Gave me chills.
No way I'd end up a brain in a jar. Scarier than the God of War.
The Leader issued directives for the right actions at the right moments.
Plan A had always been the three resting at the mansion handling it.
Even then, they'd spread rumors pinning the finish on Remy and the youngest.
The prestige of toppling a ranker.
Nothing boosted slum cred like that.
Ironically, the kingdom even had a 'Ranker Slayer' title.
But the attack started sooner than expected.
The angel was impressed by how the Leader foresaw the King of the Northern Slums fleeing the moment he was cornered.
Rankers were prideful; rare for them to cut and run like that.
Being this cautious against clear underlings—talent in itself?
At a glance, the king seemed cornered, but these three still had no quick way to drop that tanky warrior.
Even if he went toe-to-toe with fists against that greatsword, dragging into a war of attrition—the outcome wasn't guaranteed.
This smelled like a muddy slog.
"What a rat bastard. Ears like a wolf's, but he's all dog."
The youngest scowled. Remy was mildly surprised at the uncharacteristic venom.
Then she got it. She'd heard bits of the youngest's outside life.
Probably swarmed by types like him. Personal grudge mixed in?
As a cartel grunt, he seemed upright and loyal.
"So what now? Ignore the angel and smash?"
"Leader said there's profit no matter what post-fight, so do what feels right, sis."
The angel faced a choice.
Spread wings and pursue, and he'd surely topple the King of the Northern Slums.
A high-race soon-to-be ranker versus a leaf fairy slum king.
Plenty for Exiles who'd clawed through tutorial hell to this point.
The king, with no real loyalty, would be left with nothing.
Risk: confirming he was the 46-server angel, exposing himself.
Leader left that to discretion.
Judge on-site. No plan covers everything.
"Pursue, then. Make it flashy."
"Perfect. Spread word the Angel's Tears guild really has an angel."
Remy began casting.
The formula Leader drilled wasn't simple, but not impossible.
Sparkling lights scattered. An adapted [Flash] spell, bent into a radiant halo.
The angel took flight. Wings spread, feathers trailing.
Sunset bled across the sky just then.
Silhouetted against twilight, greatsword in hand, the angel rose.
The king's pillaging goons spotted drifting feathers and glaring halo first.
A few carelessly struck became heavy casualties.
Soon, residents hiding from raids saw the divine messenger in the sky.
The Goddess of Chaos bestowed divinity on her angel.
Her seat offered no combat buffs—just gaudy effects. But that sufficed.
Purple chaotic divinity gleamed on feathers snowing down.
Majestic. Ethereal.
And at the end of that pursuit: a warrior fleeing, bellowing pathetically.
Leaping rooftops, his [King of the Northern Slums] title blazed overhead.
His underlings froze, dazed.
Slum rule thrived on fear's shadow.
A haloed greatsword angel chasing a tyrant stirred varied emotions.
"Gods above...!"
"Oh, the angel come to save us...!"
For non-Exiles, true religious awe—beyond system gods.
"That's... an Angel?"
"High-race..."
"Wait, so the 46-server Angel is an actual Angel?"
For the king's men—eking by as slum tyrants' lackeys—their loyalty wavered.
"Head back. Hitching to that train feels right."
"Woo! An angel! Angel!"
"We picked a winner this time."
To Jericho's couple and other northern hospital bosses—who'd fled salvation, doubting—it brought hope.
The angel kept flying. For maximum eyes on the scene.
By the time the king realized and turned, enough had witnessed the chase.
He snarled, but none followed now.
As he landed for a final stand against the angel, the youngest stepped up.
The youngest set down his shield. Shed his armor piece by piece.
Bare now, he raised his fists.
The king's face twisted. No retreat left.
Scanning around—no rescuers. They'd be here if coming.
Rule by force crumbles before greater force.
He sighed.
The danger was self-inflicted; his caution half-hearted.
Crowds gathered bit by bit. Fight over.
All the king's men sensed bigger things afoot, converging to watch.
Under all those eyes, the king shed his armor—for final pride.
He hadn't lived easy either. Not his first rodeo.
Exiles unequipped main gear lose mastery bonuses.
Level gaps shrink more than expected then.
Leaf fairies weren't physical standouts anyway.
"Beat me, and you're spared."
The king didn't reply to the youngest. His mastery was sword-exclusive.
Enough experience for ranker status meant optimization know-how.
Opponent? Shield warriors packed mean punches.
Mind Maps heavy on strength sparked minor unarmed mastery.
Still, he was a Lv. 1300s ranker. Edge remained his.
No more words needed.