Chapter 132
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 132
Chapter Title: Nothing Will Change
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Ryu Gangcheol, and Bellos too.
After using 『Constellation Descent』.
The changes they wrought were immense.
But even they paled in comparison to Yujin, who had undergone the greatest transformation of all.
Whether in terms of ability...
Circumstances...
Or mentality.
Boom! Rumble! Kraaang!
"Hahaha! Hahahahaha! Ahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!"
The black mist tore apart in shreds.
The world shook like a toy.
Blade-sharp killing intent exploded outward.
Wearing a bear pelt as a cape in place of her hoodie, protecting only her elbows and knees below with mechanical gauntlets and boots thicker than her limbs, while her chest was casually bound with leather straps, fully exposing her slender waist.
Yujin swung the massive hammer—once a crude guitar—with one hand and laughed.
The thrill of smashing obstacles in her path.
The ecstasy surging through her boiling blood.
The euphoria gifted by her overflowing power.
It all dyed her vision blood-red, forcing laughter from her lips.
Kraaang! Rumble rumble!
"Aaaagh!"
"Focus your psychics! We can't let the formation break!"
Above all, what delighted her most was the cacophony of roars, screams, and shouts.
The chaotic inferno that would normally register as mere noise melted away in the heat filling her mind, reduced to musical residue.
It became a single song.
A mad ode woven from screams, laughter, and destruction.
'More, more, more!'
For sharper ecstasy.
For deeper music.
For more blood.
Yujin rampaged ever more fiercely as time went on, and nothing could stop her.
Boom!
"Urk!"
"General Manager!"
Thus, she finally pinned the old bug—frozen in place like a fly in a web—making it spew blood with sheer wind pressure alone.
She snapped the arm it thrust out in retaliation.
And just as she was about to smash it flat with her hammer...
"『Eightfold Boundary Formation』."
Bzzzzt!
Eight layers of barriers suddenly materialized in midair, blocking her hammer.
Of course, it lasted only a moment.
Yujin's hammer, infused with divine power that shattered all creation, pulverized the eight barriers like pie crust and slammed into the ground.
But in that fleeting instant...
The old bug she meant to crush had vanished.
"I was told to enjoy the hotel services until things got truly dire, so I've just been watching so far..."
Shhh.
Replacing the old bug, a calm voice echoed from the air above the lobby.
"But it looks like we're at that dire point now."
A man in a crisp white suit.
With hair covering one eye.
His monocle was his signature feature.
Even Yujin, who saw all humans as bugs, couldn't help tensing up at his aura.
"Everyone, withdraw."
Rimon's insurance to protect Leviathan.
The reason Li Chingwei could send Rimon to the affiliate without worry.
And the main culprit behind Guardian's massive expenditures this time.
"Per the security contract between Infinity Guild and Guardian, this place is under my watch from now on."
The master of Infinity Guild.
One of the ten great lords.
Infinite Monarch Lee Cheongi drew his sword, gazing at Yujin with his usual impassive expression.
Clang!
Grand Duke.
A term once used mainly for the kings of small nations.
But after the Player Association began classifying players by level into a five-rank, ten-grade system...
It became a special title.
Nobles beyond the five ranks.
Beings infinitely close to kings.
In other words, a term for players level 90 and above—next in line to become lords, or lesser lords.
Ka-clang!
In truth, Grand Dukes rivaled or surpassed lords in their specialties, and sometimes wielded greater influence regionally.
This held true for raw power as well.
One-on-one might be debatable.
But two Grand Dukes demanded caution even from lords.
And five or more could challenge even a Regression Lord, or so the enthusiasts claimed.
Now, what if you gathered a hundred such Grand Duke-level players?
Everyone would agree:
'A hundred Grand Dukes could slay a god!'
And they'd add:
'Not that it's possible.'
It was obvious orthodoxy.
In this era where high-level players were rare to begin with.
Grand Dukes, each commanding massive guilds and wielding king-like power, rarely pooled their strength—let alone dozens of them.
Never mind that there were only a few dozen level 90+ players total.
But at this very moment...
That armchair theory was unfolding in reality.
A hundred clones, each at Grand Duke level, united to assault Rimon—courtesy of Ryu Gangcheol.
[UHAHAHAHA!]
[Die already!]
[I'll carve ya up a hundred times meself!]
It was a steel tsunami.
A landslide of blades, a storm of death.
Nearly three-meter steel giants numbering over a hundred—a calamity beyond any natural disaster, precisely because no human could stop it.
And yet, the human steadfastly weathering that steel tsunami stood out all the more anomalously.
Deflecting scythes with his sword.
Spinning to dodge tackles.
Tripping them with leg sweeps.
Calmly enduring the charge of a hundred steel giants, his demeanor was composed and unadorned.
Like a mountain unmoved by a thousand calamities, or an ocean letting disasters flow past.
And like any force of nature, Rimon wasn't some merciful being who merely endured attacks in silence.
Slash! Boom, rumble!
One slash severed a head.
One thrust pierced a chest.
One swing sent a body flying.
To cleave through Ryu Gangcheol—clad head to toe in thick armor and moving at Grand Duke speeds—with single strokes was swordsmanship bordering on the divine.
Especially repeating it in a one-versus-hundred scenario—it was astounding, verging on the impossible.
[Kill us if ya can!]
[A hundred times, a thousand—don't matter.]
[In the end, you'll be the one crumplin'!]
But that was all.
One felled, another spawned.
Two gone, two more appeared.
Ryu Gangcheol endlessly produced new clones, and no matter how Rimon swung, their numbers never dwindled.
It was pure violence of numbers.
The simplest force in the world—and thus the most terrifying.
[Ya got too cocky, buddy!]
[Sword Master or whatever, yer just a good sword-slinger!]
[No wonder they call ya a has-been!]
Ryu Gangcheol crowed triumphantly.
A lord might have coped.
Their absolute skills transcended providence, turning impossible into possible.
Just as he churned out clones endlessly.
The Infinite Monarch could threaten him with thousands of skills; a Summon Lord could block him with infinite summons.
But Rimon was ultimately just a sword-slinger.
A relic of a bygone era who only knew how to swing a sword.
[Flail all ya want!]
[One slip-up, and yer done!]
That was why Ryu was confident.
His victory was inevitable.
Unlike Rimon's single body and life, he had infinite clones.
No matter how masterful Rimon's swordplay, it could only kill one at a time—powerless against his infinite spawn.
Whereas he needed only kill Rimon once, no matter how many times he died.
Who would win?
No need to deliberate.
Even a human like Rimon would err eventually; all he had to do was press until then.
[Let's see how long ya last!]
So Ryu thought, charging with glee at the thought of dismembering Rimon.
[No use thrashin' around!]
Ten, twenty clones fell.
[One mistake, and it's over.]
Fifty, a hundred, two hundred passed.
[Just one slip...]
Until he finally surpassed five hundred.
[...Buddy, what the hell are ya?]
But even that had limits.
Not just because Rimon remained unscratched after five hundred deaths.
His face showed not a drop of sweat after a battle that would have felled any high-level player.
His movements sharpened rather than dulled.
Above all, that sword tip—unwavering since the fight began—drew a scream-like shout from Ryu Gangcheol.
[How can ya fight like this without a single mistake?!]
Humans could never be perfect.
No artisan, however skilled, produced masterpieces every time.
Especially in life-or-death struggles—even battle-hardened veterans slipped up once or twice.
The heightened focus from tension fatigued them faster, breeding more errors later.
At least, that was humanity as Ryu knew it.
Yet in this razor-edge fight, how could he commit zero errors?
Ryu felt not just shock, but the uncanny.
"Dumbass bastard."
Rimon sneered at him.
As if hearing the stupidest question imaginable.
With pitying eyes, he swung and felled another clone.
"What the hell do you think a Sword Master is?"
As Ryu himself had pointed out.
A Sword Master was just a damn good sword-slinger.
But precisely because of that, absolute in swordplay.
Ten million swings or ten billion.
Hands torn, legs severed.
When swinging the sword, not a single mistake—drawing perfect arcs every time.
That was a Sword Master; anyone falling short didn't qualify.
Rimon stated coldly.
Then asked.
"You think I'd err against trash like you, after centuries of flawless sword swings?"
[......]
Not sarcasm.
Not mockery.
A genuine question, baffling yet curious.
Seeing that, Ryu Gangcheol's pupils quaked.
His killer instincts, honed by countless lives taken, screamed of a fatal mistake.
[...Doesn't change a damn thing!]
But Ryu bellowed away the primal unease.
With infinite clones, he'd win in the end—that faith fueled his bloodlust.
"Yeah. Nothing changes."
Watching Ryu charge fiercer, Rimon slowly nodded.
Then swung lazily, murmuring.
"Error correction finished ages ago."
[What the hell does that...]
Slash!
The clone's head flew before it finished.
Ryu cursed the ruthless stroke but didn't stop charging.
Plenty of clones left; spawn more as needed.
Stab, crunch, splatter!
[What?]
But moments later...
Ryu Gangcheol panicked.
The situation had changed.
He still couldn't touch Rimon's clothes; clones still died to single strokes.
Only one thing differed.
It was none other than...