No. 104 Black Snake Chamber (3)
A crowd of black-robed figures came pouring over the flames, gathering before what used to be the main gate.
With a crowd that size, genuine fighters stood out here and there — squad captains, division masters, branch chiefs... Among them, a warrior who looked to be a branch chief tossed out the very same question I'd just heard.
"Who the hell is this guy?"
"Like I said. Intruder."
"...The man's a lunatic."
"That part's fair."
Since what I was doing at this very moment was, admittedly, half lunacy, I conceded the point without argument. Realizing I wasn't a man who could be talked down, the branch chief moved on to a different kind of dialogue.
"Kill him."
The black-robed figures spread sideways like an opening fan, encircling me, and attacked as one. Blades from every direction hungrily sought my flesh. I threaded between them by a hair's breadth, then hammered a hand loaded with Wind Force into the black-robed man on my right.
- WHAM!
The man's body tangled up with the comrades behind him, and the whole heap went tumbling away. I wedged through the momentary gap and out of the encirclement, then drove a second Inferno Fist into the closest pursuer.
- KWA-KWA-KWA-KWA-KWA—!
A dozen-odd black-robed men were reduced to ash in a single breath. The warriors of squad-captain rank and above, by contrast, showed the veteran's instinct to hurl themselves clear of the flame storm just in time. This was a B-rank dungeon, after all — the cheap tricks weren't landing so easily anymore.
The encirclement quickly re-formed, but having just seen and felt what I could do, they were in no rush to press in. The branch chief who'd first addressed me tried words instead — in a tone remarkably courteous, considering he'd just branded me a lunatic.
"Might you, by chance, be a descendant of the Flame Tyrant?"
'The Flame Tyrant?'
Where had that one come from? Had the Inferno Fist dredged up the old alias of some ancient master renowned for fire-attribute martial arts? Well — if they insisted on misunderstanding me this thoroughly,
'All the better.'
It meant catching their attention had just gotten that much easier. I deliberately arranged my features into an even loftier sneer.
"I owe no answers to the rabble of the unorthodox sects."
"..."
At that, the black-robed men exchanged glances, each convincing himself in turn. The air pulled taut with tension — as far as they were concerned, I was now officially the Flame Tyrant's heir.
Any ordinary unorthodox martial artist, at this point, ought to have scattered to the four winds to save his own skin. Not one of the black-robed men abandoned his post. The branch chief beckoned to the man who looked quickest on his feet.
"You — run and fetch the Chamber Head. Quickly."
Then, one and all, they began stoking their fighting spirit, resolved to make their last stand.
- Shwik!
This time the branch chief led the charge himself, sword thrusting as he came. I evaded the blade by a whisker and slipped inside his guard — but the man was skilled enough to trade several exchanges bare-handed, sword or no. A few passes later, though, he caught a Wind Force square in the chest and reeled backward in disarray.
Of course, the branch chief was hardly my only opponent. I kicked off the ground and threw myself clear; a heartbeat later, a forest of black-robed swords shredded the spot where I'd been standing. I snagged the man dogging my heels, hurled him away, and launched a mass of compressed air along with him. His body shot off like a cannonball — and the others simply stepped aside rather than catch him.
In the end, he vanished clean over the horizon.
'Come on, at least catch the poor guy.'
Heartless bunch. In any case, it bought me a brief opening, and I pounced on it — clenching my fist tight and driving it forward.
Someone cried out in alarm,
"Scatter—!"
and the masked men scrambled clear of my front in a panicked wave.
...And nothing happened.
Because I hadn't used Inferno Fist.
I let out a snort, fist still extended.
"Jumpy bunch, aren't you."
"!!"
"Why, you...!"
A few of the black-robed men went red-faced, but they bit it back and held their composure, standing by. From that alone, you could gauge how thoroughly they'd been drilled. Still, it seemed their turn wouldn't come for a while — because a heavy presence was making itself felt from the direction of the gutted main gate.
A middle-aged man in black robes stood there, and everything about him — the serpentine cast of his face, the razor edge in the air around him — brought to mind a python coiled and waiting to strike.
The Chamber Head. Black Snake.
At long last, the master of the Black Snake Chamber — the final boss of this dungeon — had shown himself.
The Chamber Head did not repeat the question the others had asked; he'd evidently been briefed by his subordinates on the way over.
"So. The Flame Tyrant's disciple, are you?"
"I'm not."
I shook my head. I wasn't that old man's disciple. His men had jumped to that conclusion entirely on their own.
The Chamber Head turned to the branch chief.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"There is no doubt he is the Flame Tyrant's disciple. His mind simply seems to be... somewhat unsound."
At that, every soul present nodded in silent agreement.
The Chamber Head addressed me again.
"You run utterly wild through my chamber, and now you come to deny it — do you truly believe I would let you live?"
"Well, either way, it doesn't look like you intend to."
"Quite right. You will repay the blood spilled in my chamber with your own life. For the Flame Tyrant's disciple, hardly a losing trade."
"If you can—"
Mid-word, I snapped my head back. Something jet-black grazed past the tip of my chin by a hair's breadth.
"—try. Do let a man finish what he was saying."
"Dodging that... not bad at all."
The Chamber Head's fingers were curled like a hawk's talons closing on prey. His martial art belonged to the claw arts — a style specialized in raking wounds into an opponent. What's more, his fingertips and nails were stained pitch-black: proof of a poison art refined to a vicious extreme. One graze, and the deadliest of venoms would seep into the wound; before you could finish a single bowl of duck stew, you'd be reduced to a handful of bloody mist.
"Now then — let's see you dodge this as well."
Five venom-laden fingers shot for my chest. I shifted a fraction sideways and, channeling Wind Force, gave the passing arm a sharp shove.
The arm, which should have been knocked only slightly off line, bent at a grotesque angle and came raking back for me. I had no choice but to give ground, step after step — and the Chamber Head stayed glued to me, determined to grant not an inch of quarter. Both hands shot out, targeting my left shoulder and right arm at once.
I backpedaled with everything I had, like a sprinter running his race in reverse. The Chamber Head came on and on, claws raking — and carving nothing but empty air.
The Chamber Head's jaw tightened, teeth grinding.
"You slip away like a loach."
"I'm just a little quick, that's all."
He'd plainly assumed a mere backpedal would be easy to run down, and with me staying just barely, maddeningly out of reach, his temper was visibly starting to boil. Well, then — I couldn't very well pass up the chance to pour oil on the fire. Eyeing the black nails that had just swept past my nose, I offered my review.
"Whoa, would you look at those nails. Black as pitch. You really ought to trim them once in a while — or at least take a toothbrush to them and give them a good scrub."
"Wh... what did you—"
For an instant, the Chamber Head's face went blank. He looked like a man hearing such insolence for the first time in his life. Fair enough — who in their right mind would comment on the man's nails to his face? Rub his mood the wrong way even slightly, and you'd be swallowing lethal poison. In any case, I finished my trash talk.
"Eating with hands like that, you'll catch something! A disease, I say! Food poisoning is a miserable way to go, I'm telling you!"
"...I shall grant you a death of exquisite agony."
The Chamber Head's face twisted into something vicious. He was so enraged his fingertips had begun to tremble. A moment later he came at me again, his killing intent sharper than ever.
'Yep. Still faster than you.'
Of course, I wasn't fighting flat-out either, so the same picture unfolded as before: me backing away, the Chamber Head in dogged pursuit, raking at empty air. The bizarre chase carried on for a good while longer — until, quite abruptly, he asked:
"Just how long do you plan to do nothing but run?"
'Until word comes from Go Hyeon-woo, that's how long.'
Once that word came, I wouldn't be shuffling backward in circles anymore — I'd turn my back outright and bolt at full sprint. Until then, I'd keep killing time exactly like this. But if I made it too obvious, they might start to suspect I was hiding some other design. The Chamber Head, too, seemed to be catching the scent of something off — which meant it was about time I let him land a blow or two.
"If you're that desperate to see my true strength, then I suppose I'll show you."
"...!"
The moment my fist stained a deep crimson-black, the Chamber Head eased his assault, readying himself to respond. But the flames wreathing that fist were never thrown — they poured straight back into my own body instead.
Overheat
Fire spread racing through my whole body, flooding me with tremendous power. The Chamber Head's face stiffened as he studied those flames.
"...So you truly are the Flame Tyrant's disciple after all."
"I keep telling you. I'm not."
"Still denying it, are y—"
This time I moved first, striking before he could finish. In a blink I compressed the space between us and appeared at his back. The Chamber Head whipped around and raked at me, but he was half a beat too slow. I shifted to his opposite flank and stretched out a hand — and a fistful of compressed air detonated right before his eyes.
- Pop!
The point wasn't to hurt him — only to make his eyes pinch shut, if just for an instant. That alone was enough. I'd carved a blind spot into his vision, however fleeting.
Slipping into that blind spot with exquisite timing, I closed in dead ahead of the Chamber Head.
Wind Force
A burning fist — backed by a punch-wind laced with raw physical force — drove square into the Chamber Head's abdomen.
- KWA-KWA-KWA-KWA-KWA—!
The Chamber Head's body was hurled across the Black Snake Chamber and hammered into the ground. A firestorm came crashing down in his wake, and the buildings around the impact site caved in with a roar.
"..."
Even so, the black-robed men's reaction was strangely bloodless. Their Chamber Head had just been launched across the compound, and all they did was stand rooted in place, faces frozen, holding the encirclement. Not one of them so much as cried, 'Chamber Head!'
The implication was singular: an absolute, unshakable faith that their master could never be felled by something like this.
I hadn't expected much either.
'Not even close.'
Inferno Fist traded a brutal penalty for destructive power far beyond its rank — but even so, it fell just short of putting down the final boss of a B-rank dungeon.
Which raised a question. The priest of a fairly sizable tribe had rated D-rank as a boss — so how did the head of a mere underworld gang rate a B? And how was he still standing after eating an Inferno Fist head-on?
The answer, as it happened, was simple.
'Because he's no mere underworld gangster.'
- KWAAAAAAAH!
From the crater where the Chamber Head had landed, a jet-black energy erupted skyward like a detonation. Splinters of the collapsed buildings scattered in every direction, and a figure sheathed in black power came walking straight toward me. Vile demonic qi was pouring off the Chamber Head's body in thick, ropey streams.
The Heavenly Demon Divine Cult — the infamous cult that had shattered and scattered after losing the Righteous-Demonic War of the past. And the Chamber Head's true identity was once the master of that cult's Black Snake Hall — an executive of the inner circle, in other words.
The Chamber Head — no, the Black Snake Hall Master — glared at me and ground the words out between his teeth.
"If I do not tear you apart today, I will forsake my own name."
And my answer never changed.
"Save the threats for when you've actually caught me."
[72] The Support Ate it All