Chapter 170
Chapter 170
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 170
Chapter Title: For Whom Does the Bag Open?
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To His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince, I humbly report.
(Excerpt)
...There is some truth to the claims of those foolish nobles. Crops can be grown without fertilizer, and merchants can sell their wares without trains.
But freedom is different. Freedom is like mana—those who have once tasted it can never go back...
(Excerpt)
Even if the hero defeats the Demon King, the demonic realm remains. Likewise, the communist demons sown by Stalin still lurk in the shadows...
(Excerpt)
...Thus, I beseech you to light the torch of peace before the flames of revolution spread.
『Excerpt from a letter sent to the Crown Prince by Tower Lord Mahagan, 13 days before his assassination.』
***
First Secretary Bikov took a step forward. His lips twitched beneath his long mustache.
Was it the killing intent cloaking his body? Red glints and bloody tears streamed from Bikov's eyes.
At the same time, the muscles hidden beneath his people's uniform swelled, minor wounds regenerated, proving the awakening of the Juga Shibili Style's power.
Yeomyeong responded in kind, channeling the Mariji Heavenly Divine Art. Visible mana rose from his body like heat haze.
Seeing the haze, Bikov tilted his eyebrows in interest and continued speaking.
"Do you know what the other palace lords planned to do with the nuclear weapons in this armory...?"
"...No idea. Nor do I care to know."
Bikov grinned at the reply. A chilling smile, bloody tears pooling along the wrinkles around his eyes.
"The West Palace Lord, that fool obsessed with Earth culture, tried to sell the nukes to become an Earth noble. Ha, an Earth noble. What does he think democracy is?"
"..."
"And the South Palace Lord... well, he was more classical. He planned to offer the nukes to the Imperial Emperor, hoping to make the empire an equal to America. As if that hollow shell of an empire amounts to anything... Don't you agree?"
Yeomyeong glared at Bikov with deepened shadows in his eyes.
Knowing the other palace lords' intentions meant he had predicted their actions.
Yeomyeong easily realized that the red before him was the mastermind behind the city's chaos.
Spreading rumors of the World Tree Crystal, the tower lord's secret relic, and nukes in the city.
Drawing in the other deranged palace lords and external forces—it was all Bikov's design.
"...Why orchestrate all this?"
"Because this city needs a revolution."
"Revolution...?"
"Chaos is the seed of revolution. If outsiders sow chaos, and the palace lords don't stop it but fan the flames instead... Do you think the citizens of this trash heap would sit idly by?"
"..."
"In the end, I planned to lead the rat legion to end the chaos..."
"...But we ruined your plan."
More precisely, Seti's rumors had been the problem.
The moment word spread of treasure in the sewers, the citizens forgot revolution for greed.
"Yes, you know it well. Thanks to the rumors you spread, the revolution never even started, forcing me to move my hidden rat legion early."
"..."
"Fortunately, the plan isn't a total failure. I just need to deal with the dragon above the city and you now..."
Bikov assumed his stance as he spoke.
Right fist high, left low, feet spread wide, brimming with mana ready to launch at any moment.
A simple stance for charging in and punching.
It looked clumsier than basic academy martial arts, but Yeomyeong fixed his gaze on him.
He couldn't predict what attack that sloppy stance would lead to.
A brief silence fell between them.
From the control room entrance came the saintess's voice—prayer or curse, unclear—along with gunfire, but in their ears rang only each other's heartbeats.
Breaths lengthening, muscles contracting, sweat and bloody tears dripping.
The next instant, as Bikov's bloody tears and Yeomyeong's sweat fell, they charged at each other.
The distance closed in a blink.
Yeomyeong's sword gave him slightly longer reach, but Bikov struck first.
At incomparable speed.
His fist aimed straight for Yeomyeong's face. Mana-laced killing intent whipped up wind, scattering Yeomyeong's hair.
Yeomyeong calmly slashed at the fist with his sword.
Bikov's fist split, blood spraying, but as if anticipated, he burrowed into Yeomyeong's guard, targeting the lower body with his left hand.
Precisely, the groin.
Yeomyeong instinctively retreated, dodging. An emotional move, naturally exposing a brief opening.
Bikov seized it. He twisted his waist for a roundhouse kick to Yeomyeong's wrist.
Crack—Bikov's foot's killing intent pierced Yeomyeong's mana, shattering the wrist bone.
Shards stabbed muscle, grip strength vanished. The swordless hand felt empty.
A groan escaped his throat, but no respite. Bikov spun, thrusting a hand blade.
Yeomyeong unleashed Flying Leg Art, arching back. The killing intent-charged blade grazed hair by a hair's breadth.
Immediately, Yeomyeong kicked off the ground with his sole, swinging his leg.
A back handspring kick—spinning backward, his upraised foot smashed Bikov's jaw.
"Urk!"
As Bikov's unexpected strike halted his assault, Yeomyeong completed his spin, handplanted, and rose.
Jawbone broken? Bikov didn't charge, fingering it, eyes gleaming murderously at Yeomyeong.
"After expending mana on the dragon, you're still this strong... Pristine, it would've been close."
"..."
"But a swordsman without his sword? Victory tilts away."
With that, Bikov charged again.
Yeomyeong glanced at the dropped sword, extended a hand blade to counter.
Without a sword, close quarters were inevitable.
After a few hand blade clashes, they pressed close enough to feel breaths.
Neither yielded, turning the fight into a frantic vital-target brawl.
Hand blades slicing shoulders, fists smashing faces.
Nose bones cracking as wrists crushed, knees slamming guts...
Each clash erupted shockwaves, toppling desks, monitors flying.
Yet neither retreated. Instead, killing intent surged fiercer.
Bikov roared mid-punch.
"This killing intent! This regeneration! Anyone'd think you were Juga Shibili!"
As if in reply, Yeomyeong whipped his left leg, striking Bikov's groin.
Knee cracked, body shook violently, but Bikov leaned, headbutting Yeomyeong's forehead.
"Ugh!"
Yeomyeong groaned for the first time.
He grabbed the retreating leg instinctively, using the reeling momentum for a counter headbutt.
Crunch—which forehead shattered? Maybe both.
Yeomyeong didn't care. Bikov seized his collar amid stagger, smashing a fist into his face.
Reformed nose bone snapped again, just as Yeomyeong's toe struck Bikov's groin.
"Grk!"
Both recoiled.
Blood-soaked and savage, Bikov clutching crotch looked worse.
"...That last hit—copying my move?"
Bikov asked leisurely. Of course, bloody tears streaming, groin-grasped, it looked ridiculous.
Yeomyeong swept blood-matted hair back.
"Good things should be shared. Isn't that communism?"
"...Hah."
"So, is that all you're sharing?"
Impudent provocation, no manners.
Bikov chuckled incredulously, slowly rising.
"You don't know the terror of Juga Shibli."
Killing intent writhing around him flowed into wounds.
Sizzle—wounds healed instantly.
Matching, perhaps exceeding Yeomyeong's regeneration.
But the issue wasn't regeneration—it was the remaining mana.
'...Why doesn't it decrease?'
Not just mana. Bikov's ambient killing intent matched the fight's start, undiminished.
"Figure it out?"
As Yeomyeong narrowed eyes, Bikov bared teeth in grin. Blood trickled from his mouth with the smile.
Bloody tears and hemoptysis. Overflowing mana side effects. No way...?
"The reason I fear no dragon."
Before doubt turned certainty, Bikov charged.
Targeting face as before, but faster.
Yeomyeong's response differed. Telekinesis pulled the fist, then True Strike stomped.
Boom!
Concrete cracked underfoot, vibrations shaking the room. Bikov, resisting telekinesis, briefly lost balance.
A razor-short gap from magic and Flying Leg Art's essence.
Yeomyeong burrowed in.
Fist? Kick? Hand blade?
Bikov watched leisurely.
Confident blocking vitals, regenerating others.
But Yeomyeong's attack defied expectation.
No limbs. Surging mana clashed directly with manifested killing intent.
!
Martial arts without limbs—pure mana contest?
Sure, Yeomyeong's mana was abnormally vast, unknown elixir or not.
Meaningful against others, but...
'Worthless against Juga Shibili.'
Bikov was certain of victory.
"Still clueless. Juga Shibili's true power."
"..."
Their manas pushed, entering a contest of strength.
Yeomyeong briefly dominated, then Juga Shibili's red mana reversed instantly.
Bikov advanced, teeth gritted at Yeomyeong.
"Juga Shibili converts killing intent to mana. Yours or mine, doesn't matter."
Mana grew with murderous intent. Soviet murder art's pinnacle.
"Simple principle. For efficient killing—speed, power gained—what's last need?"
Soviet answer: endurance.
Unwavering power after dozens strikes. Stamina for dozens kilometers! True Juga Shibili.
"Unknown foe—your fatal error."
Bikov smugly crushed Yeomyeong. Glanced at door—would allies intervene?
No worry. Three girls blocked ratkin legion, no eyes here.
Finish Yeomyeong, then them leisurely.
Turning, Bikov eyed precariously standing Yeomyeong.
His mana near gone, red Juga Shibli mana filled space.
Pity, but end it.
Hand blade raised to immobile Yeomyeong's throat.
Then, Yeomyeong dodged, countering—deep slash across Bikov's chest.
"Gah...!? How?"
Bikov clutched chest, retreating. Yeomyeong moved mana wordlessly.
Not Wave Yang Art's waves, but red killing intent mana of Juga Shibili.
"..."
Bikov stared blankly at drifting red mana.
How? Even successor impossible.
Mastering required filling intent to brim, then suppressing—complex.
But denial futile. Reality before eyes.
Endless killing intent and mana halved—proof.
"...I was the ignorant one."
Bikov wiped eye blood, adding.
"What's your true identity?"
Yeomyeong met gaze with sunken golden eyes.
"Cheon Yeomyeong."
"..."
"The one about to beat you senseless."
***
Neti forcibly held the control room's iron door ajar.
Intended to slam shut, but her power only halted half-open.
Even that, saintess's blessing barely sustained past a minute.
The blessing waned too.
—Ura! Ura!!
—Chit, chit! Push! Push!
—Fire! Fire!
Ratkin shouts beyond door, gunfire piercing gaps.
Neti turned to sister and saintess fortifying entrance.
Perfect sync: reloading, firing repeatedly.
Most guns and ammo from saintess's massive back bag—why carry such arsenal?
No, more: where'd she learn marksmanship? Sister forced by gov, but saintess...?
Mid-thought—
Boom!!
Explosion-like from room depths. Ah, finally!
'Brother-in-law.'
As Neti turned, something whooshed overhead, slamming door.
A person, blood-drenched.
Blood-smeared across door, he fell.
Gunfire between ratkin and group paused.
Brief silence.
People's-uniform ratkin broke it first.
"Chit, chit! First Secretary! Secretary's down! Save him! Save!"
Eyes reddened, ratkin hurled guns, rushed Bikov.
Thud thud thud!
Saintess fired, unheeded. More ferocious, desperate to protect First Secretary.
But next instant, all halted.
Seti held Bikov hostage.
"Everyone stop! Approach, old man dies."
Click, gun to dying man's head, finger on trigger—vicious.
"...Geez, what sister..."
Neti released telekinesis, sighed. Overlimit magic numbed muscles.
Turning, brother-in-law stood at central monitor.
...Tough monitor, huh?
Input code there, claim nukes—end nightmare fight.
Neti beamed, approached sister and saintess.
Shell casings littered doorfront. Seti asked without looking back.
"Yeomyeong?"
"Inputting code."
Seti and saintess sighed relief. All envisioning end.
Then, collared, gunned Bikov laughed. Blood from every facial hole hid it from Seti and saintess.
But Neti, remembering bloodied family smiles, spotted it.
"...Why're you smiling?"
No reply. Uneasy, inexplicable—Neti rewound memories.
First Bikov meet to recent Yeomyeong talk.
Sudden realization: something off.
"...Why didn't you ask brother-in-law for launch code?"
"..."
No answer. As Neti whipped back urgently—
"Imperial Birthday."
"...What?"
"Tomorrow's the Imperial Emperor's birthday. Day all nobles and mages flock to capital."
"..."
"Tomorrow best, but... Interlopers stronger than imagined."
What? Seti jammed gunbarrel to throat.
"Talk straight or die."
"Cough, armory nukes need launch code. But one shot?"
"..."
"Backup missile for checks... Field commander launches with party temp code."
Saintess gasped at bombshell. Neti scoffed.
"Ha! What lunatic puts nuke on backup?"
"Backup with... cough, nuke—think difficult?"
"...Still useless. Launch code supersedes temp. Brother-in-law outranks you."
"Kh, khuhu..."
"And Soviet missiles liquid-fueled—prep takes dozens minutes. You lose."
As Neti finished, Bikov shuddered. Holding laughter.
"Lost? Kid, I'm no fiction villain. If your ragtag could stop decades prep, think I'd stall blabbing?"
"..."
"Input 35 minutes ago."
* * *