The Rational Zealot's Boss Battle
Amon, the believer in cyberpunk, was an exceedingly rational man. It was a natural trait for a hardcore veteran gamer. In speedruns or hardcore mode, a single mistake could send you right back to the start. Even with countless exploits, glitches, and shortcuts etched into his mind, he never attempted anything in hardcore unless the success rate exceeded 80 percent. He'd save at that section in easy mode, practice relentlessly until the odds tipped over 80, and then deploy the strategy. This meticulous approach carried over even to first playthroughs of new series.
He didn't much care for failure. Before攻略 guides from vanguard players emerged, he preferred overwhelming the boss with sheer level advantage rather than risky trials and precise control. He always entered at least 10 levels above the recommended, and for the final boss, he wouldn't even twitch until his endgame gear set was complete. This caution only intensified once the game became reality—no saves, no revives, no guides. It was why he'd skirted Hickzen Group despite being able to topple them in a single night; the success rate wasn't 100 percent. Only when they crossed the line, leaving no room for restraint, did he shoulder the risk. Storming a megacorp blind, without攻略 or full preparation? That was never his style. He'd only acted because piggybacking on their prepped nuke offered relatively high odds. In no case would he dive into a fight with less than 50 percent win rate.
Moreover, Amon knew full well how reckless it would be to challenge the dungeon boss that had effortlessly crushed the guards he couldn't even touch. Charging in without攻略 or sufficient power? Utter folly. The foe was a dungeon boss, after all—it wouldn't flee if he didn't kill it now. The smart play was to retreat calmly, grow stronger, and return. But...
—The Goddess herself is a coward out of step with the times, so her apostles just run away too?
Those unforgivable words—ones he could not and should not overlook—changed his mind.
'What child stands idle while their parent is insulted to their face?'
Across East and West, ancient and modern, pad-lipping was an unpardonable sin. From that moment, Amon's plan was singular: sever that bastard's head and hang it in the square for the crows.
"The Lord demands it."
Amid the fiercely burning rage, Amon calmly assessed the fight. First, his own condition. Though he'd been trounced by the security chief without landing a blow, his eyes had tracked the man's moves. The issues were the hasty infiltration leaving him unarmed and zero knowledge of the chief's patterns. But now? He gripped the sword of the "dead" (or monsterized) security chief. Patterns? 'Not certain, but probably akin to Punk City 1's final boss.' More like a downgraded version—same summons, similar look and speech. Fewer sacrifices meant simpler, weaker patterns. Reaction speed at minimum viable, weapon solid, patterns familiar. Conclusion: doable. Not guaranteed, of course; a new pattern could log him out permanently. Reference only.
Peering through the cross of his dual blades, Amon observed the boss. 'No illusions.' He was the challenger, not the攻略 master. One shot, unknown patterns. A攻略 pro would charge, reading cues from a finger twitch or breath, optimizing dodges to the millimeter and stuffing in damage. Challengers had no initiative—dodge shown patterns, strike in safe windows, wait for the next. So Amon waited. The boss needed him more; that arrogant demon would reveal her hand.
Sure enough, not a minute in, the first pattern dropped. Her gesture—he rolled aside. Pachink! Glass shattered, a cross-shaped scar etching where he'd stood.
'Phase 1: Brand pattern.'
He rolled twice more. Amid evasion, his mind looped: 'Reaction speed holds.' Closing in with rolls, he slashed twice. Ting! Blades rebounded—barrier. Seemingly disappointing, but Amon saw promise. 'Not threatening enough? No barrier.' Plus, it felt softer post-strike. Gear and strength sufficient. No rushing; he withdrew, awaiting the next.
'No greed.' No barrier infinite; time on his side. One greedy hit spelled doom for him. The boss eyed his hit-and-run quizzically but pressed. Exchanges repeated. Barrier shattered; Amon finally scarred her palm.
'Phase 2!' She slashed her hand—he widened distance. As expected, the demon drew a staff, intoning toward the wound.
"How grievous, my wound. Thus I declare: this is true suffering. Shall I endure it?"
Fancy words, but it boiled down to: hurts, pissed, going serious now.
Phase 2: staff slammed ground. Golden light poured from above—a holy scene at a glance. But Amon knew gold didn't mean sacred.
'You could dye termites gold too.' Don't trust eyes. By that logic, robbers could wear cop uniforms and wield their guns. Substance over effects. Divine power wasn't saints' exclusive—entities, demons, villains wielded it as mystic power. Faking holy visuals? Easy.
Golden pillar speared his spot; he dodged, leaving a rotten scar. 'Real holy light? I'd tank it.'
Thus Phase 2 unfolded in faux sanctity. Boss room morphed to bright white temple, like she was the true saint. Amon grumbled at the midnight snow cone, slashing. Clang! Invisible wall shattered against white backdrop illusion.
'Phase 2's different.' White walls weren't final boss tech—more her four kings' mid-boss. Buildup from the dye job; pattern incoming.
'Reality, after all.' No fixed moveset like games; no balance holding back skills. He dual-wielded iaido arts himself—hardly cheating.
Dancing through attacks, he nicked her flesh. Oddity: no regen on his cuts. Wary of traps at first, but deep calf slice unhealed confirmed it.
'Can't heal?' Likely. Good news—far easier than regenerators.
Calmly accumulating wounds. She rained light pillars, spear volleys, fire everywhere. He evaded; she raged, manifesting spear-blade on staff, swinging. Magic-main? Melee weak. Hurt if hit, but dodgeable. He even sidestepped that, slashing her throat.
"Aaaagh!!"
"Tch. Miss?"
Aimed neck, but she dodged—eyes instead. Fatal, but not finishing. Black blood poured; she wailed.
"Aaah!!! Aaaaah!!! Why rob me of my light?! My last remnant—how can you be so cruel!!"
Mommy! Mommy!! Blind demon called for Goddess, cursing silence, then pivoted.
"Aaaah! Amon!! O Amonnn!! Why persecute me?!"
Utter gall. She started it, murder intent full, now victim cosplay. Amon skipped rebuttal.
'Gall's demonic baseline.'
Eyes locked, throat tempting but black blood dripping? Nope—transformation imminent, smoky aura rising. He wasn't manners guy, but blind rush risked fatal flail. Wait short; black tears from eyes coated lower body, slime-congealing to elongated black serpent tail.
'Good wait.' Viscous black ooze dripped, corroding all. Assuming Antichrist final form and charging? Swallowed.
Tail slithered; Phase 3 shed holy pretense.
First unseen form, but no quit reason. Reality diverged from game—expected.
'No forced offense.' Phase 3 meant her cornered. Defense-focused slow攻略 fine. Issue: unknown patterns meant parrying her spear inevitable.
Did he have reflexes and strength? 'Have to.' Fail = death.
Gripping blades firm, sheathed one, single sword glaring. Phase 3: spear swing.
Chiiing! Air burst; he skidded back. Checked sword—exec guard gear held. Muscles screamed first.
'Hurts like hell...' Taming jolt, blocked next. Ting! Arms numb. Silver lining: blind, her swings telegraphed, no combos—recovery time ample.
Urged by his parries, two-handed overhead. He ducked/jumped instead. Fierce exchanges; mid-swing magic, but he widened on cues. Blind, no precision—AoE spam. Ironically harder: unpredictable, unknown. Result: first magic hit ever.
"Kuh!"
Blind laser scorched side. Spine-searing pain; clothes melted, sticking to burns. Stoic, he endured. Moment came: bold thrust. He sidestepped, pinned spearfoot, hurled his sword.
Puk! Forehead embedded. Writhed in agony—yet lived. True demon. He snatched grounded spear.
Lightened grip, she flailed pathetically—no pity. His divine power infused; blade massively expanded.
Sensing holy surge, she recoiled; Amon lunged.
"Back to hell, demon!"
Upward diagonal slash. Light trail scarred air, through her to wall. Golden line on her; frozen. He watched silent.
Crack.
[Kiyaaaaah!!]
Casting aside dignity, she crumbled to ash in a final screech.
Victory confirmed, Amon sighed relief.
"Hoo..."
Twisted body purging demon, first thought wasn't triumph or superiority.
What hit first...
"Ugh... gotta temper this temper."
Post-rage sage time.