Chapter 60
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 60
Chapter Title: Outlaw of the Wasteland (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
[Class 11 All Eliminated]
"...As expected, things aren't going smoothly."
I'd thought the survival round would wrap up quick once Class 11 was fully wiped out.
But the presence emanating from outside the island flipped that idea on its head.
Monster.
The necessary evil required to push the novel's story forward was heading straight here, right now.
Tzzzzzt.
"Looks like comms with the outside of the island are cut off."
It suddenly hit me—this might be the novel's enforced progression at work.
Like in the movies, where the two tough cops have to beat down the entire gang before backup finally shows.
A hypothesis formed: maybe backup doesn't arrive unless a specific outcome is triggered.
And honestly, it fit the black market scenario pretty well too.
If I caught the Hungry Mouth, or if it inflicted enough damage first.
Either way, those were proven outcomes.
'Even if it's not me, someone catches it and claims the black market reward.'
When the Hungry Mouth wreaked havoc on the black market, it led to the first-round results.
Weighing all that, running from this incoming monster and just waiting endlessly for backup was a fool's errand.
'But this isn't some rigidly scripted novel—backup will come, for sure.'
Though it'd probably be delayed as much as possible through some gimmick.
So, why not just get eliminated and head out of the arena? That idea might pop up.
[...]
The system staying silent even as I lingered over the forbidden zone answered that—no reaction.
'So right now, about 60 of us are trapped on this island.'
The monster was closing in on the coast at high speed, and backup was a long shot.
Luckily, no kids were near the shoreline where it was approaching.
Tzzzzzt, beep.
"Hey, it's me. You still facing off with Class 12?"
-Yeah, waiting for your word like you said.
"Intruder's hit the island."
-What?!
I shared the intel fast.
"Suspected monster, way beyond what we can handle alone. From now on, link up with Class 12 and head to the spot I tell you—run."
If Class 12 doesn't buy it, prove it by staying in the forbidden zone over 30 seconds.
Tell 'em outside comms are dead anyway, so trying won't help. Knock out anyone panicking.
I issued the best immediate countermeasures I could.
-So what about you, Kim Geon-ho?
"I'll link up soon. There's some distance between you guys, Class 11's spot, and me."
-...Got it.
I answered Karan promptly, quashing the kids' anxiety around me.
No need to play hero here with lines like, "I'll handle it solo!"
That wrapped comms.
No time to waste—I bolted straight for the coast.
"Ugh... I hate spots like this."
And there it was: the monster, already staking claim on the shore.
Ten-gallon hat on its head, leather boots, chaps over jeans, even a sheriff's badge gleaming on the chest of its leather jacket.
Impossible to mistake—that quintessential cowboy getup.
'A conceptual monster, born from ideas.'
Monsters broadly split into two types.
Those without human form, and those with it.
The former—like the ones from orientation or the black market—were prime examples.
Mere clumps of impure emotions, unable to solidify true power. Weak compared to the latter, despite power variances.
The latter? Humanoid monsters, each with distinct traits.
Monsters shaped from concepts incarnate, or born from human imagination.
Having taken human form, they fixed into one idealized image from collective dreams.
"Alexander, come forth!"
Whoosh, whoosh!
A whistle from the cowboy, and a horse materialized in an instant.
That was the universal vision of a cowboy.
Spurs on the heels like cogwheels.
He tapped Alexander's flanks with them, primed to charge inland anytime.
Mount up, and suddenly a poncho draped his form—picture-perfect.
But the good news?
"Cowboy? I can work with that."
Cowboys had one glaring weakness for thriving here.
Conceptual monsters peaked when embodying their core idea perfectly.
An "Outlaw of the Wasteland" riding horseback on an uninhabited island backed by ocean?
Fine for a pirate, but this mismatched role and setting big time.
"...Who the hell are you?"
"Hunter."
Hunters had no single ideal stage.
A seasoned hunter reshapes any environment to suit.
'Couldn't hide my presence forever.'
Let it ride free, and it might slip pursuit—endangering the others.
Better to lock it onto the prime target first: me.
"You plannin' to hunt me?"
"That's right."
I scanned its armaments mid-chat.
Visible: a single pistol on the hip, a lasso.
But don't assume that's all—gotta stay cautious.
These were monsters in human skin, after all.
"Trouble, real trouble... Can't have a sheriff hearin' that. Makes you the outlaw here."
Click, bang!
Rapid fire too fast for the eye.
If I hadn't anticipated dodging, my head would've exploded.
"Damn fine outlaw."
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Five-shot barrage.
Hammer cocking and trigger pull in flawless unison—an artistic blur.
Never dreamed I'd see movie legend in real life, let alone be the target.
"How long you gonna keep dodgin', huh?!"
Neeeigh!
Spurs dug in, front legs reared, charging me head-on.
The classic cowboy—no, movie-hero cowboy archetype.
Lightning reloads, expert riding, flawless quick-draws.
Tough matchup, but the beach gave me an edge—for now.
'Sand's my ally.'
Horse can't properly kick off loose ground for full speed.
"Hyah!"
Whip!
Lasso whistling mid-charge was threatening, but a blade slice handled it easy.
'Gotta end it in one go.'
Targeting the horse crossed my mind, but it was a summon, not its original mount.
No doubt it'd resummon quick if killed.
Snort, snort, whinny.
"Hmph, same thought here, Alexander. No need to kill this one first. The greater cause ain't so petty."
The greater cause? What the hell?
'Not some random spawn—tied to the story?'
I died a tool in round one, blind to the full plot.
Encyclopedia gave worldbuilding, some future glimpses—but not the whole future.
Yet this cowboy's "greater cause" screamed story relevance.
Wanted to probe more then finish swift, but now I couldn't end it quick.
"Hup!"
"Wh-what?!"
I charged the cowboy, breath steady.
Exploiting blind spots innate to living forms, footwork disrupting vision.
Instinct drove me—not to kill, but perfect the hunt.
Slash!
"Gaaargh!"
'One arm down.'
Severed trigger arm from the shoulder—no more rapid fire.
Regen possible? Not a worry.
Whoosh!
"F-fire! Fiiiire!!!"
Flames already clung to the stump, cauterizing regeneration.
But doubt crept in.
'Too easy.'
Conceptual monsters should be tough—this cowboy surrendered an arm too readily.
Even the Hungry Mouth resisted before damage.
Why?
Then it hit.
"Knew it! This ain't my style!"
The revolver swelled massively.
"Ugh! Horseridin' ain't my forte either!"
Each word warped its surroundings.
The horse Alexander ballooned, morphing into new form.
"An' lassos? Hate 'em! I prefer killin' 'em all!"
The West meant horseback gunslingers, but certain films showed different.
Outlaw mowing down horseback cowboys from a train with a machine gun.
"My first greater cause? Slaughter as many lives on this island as I can!"
Toot! Toot!
Train whistle blared; its eyes dilated.
Enormous now, arm stretched to devour coal from a fuel car.
A centaur fused with train instead of horse?
Cowboy supplanted the locomotive head, flaunting its colossal frame.
Riding steel horsebeast, minigun in grip, belching coal-smoke fumes—a monster reborn.
"Hell! Hell! I'll drag you all to hell!"
Thus, the Outlaw of the Wasteland revealed itself on the shore.