Rem's body wasn't normal and he had the burden of Ragna too. So should he just meekly take the beating?
'As if.'
He had no such intention whatsoever. After bursting through the roof, Rem ran backward while facing his opponent. Even so, he was as fast as someone sprinting at full speed. A skill derived from one of the common games children raised in the West played—running backward.
"Get caught and die immediately. Or resist and die. The choice is yours."
The pursuer tried to close the distance wielding thick armor, shield, and sword, but it was futile. His feet weren't fast. Instead, they were steady.
He merely took steps knowing this game of tag would end eventually.
What if the opponent threw something?
'Even so.'
Hand axes and such couldn't pierce his armor and shield. He knew this.
Therefore, it was advantageous for him to just wear down the opponent's stamina like this. His footsteps in full armor were filled with certainty.
Thud.
The weight of his massive frame, the armor befitting that size, his sword and shield, and his auxiliary weapons combined—the ground shook with each step he took.
If stamina was the weapon, the one prancing about was in more trouble. It was obvious that the side moving more would tire faster.
He only needed to close the distance, moving with minimal motion, and that would be that.
Once they engaged, from there it would be easy.
The tactic he employed was to strangle opponents to death. In other words, it was a tactic meaningful only when the opponent resisted, and he believed things would go as he wished once time passed.
And Rem didn't think that way at all. From the moment he burst through the roof shouldering Ragna until now, his thoughts had been consistent.
'Why would I insist on close combat?'
No reason.
That's why he'd rushed out of the building. The surrounding environment had suddenly undergone drastic change, but there was plenty of room to run and move. That was enough for now.
He postponed understanding the reason for the change and grasping the situation.
If the opponent had proposed a duel to Rem over Ragna, he wouldn't have gone this far.
When it came to fighting for honor, Rem was the one to fight again.
But the opponent hadn't done that. The man with drooping curly blond hair grinned.
His sneer-filled mouth asked.
"Now, choose. Will you abandon your burden and flee? Or will you die together?"
The man kept forcing choices, and Rem responded with a half-hearted attitude by raising his middle finger with his free hand.
The finger curse passed down through continental tradition.
"...You don't know your place."
Though his smiling face remained unchanged, displeasure was evident in the man's tone. Rem escaped the disadvantageous battlefield and circled the wide area. It was a form of drawing circles centered on the opponent. Aside from having to move more nimbly each time the man moved, it seemed he could never be caught at this rate.
The place they faced each other was terrain that had become like an open field, originally the site of gardens tended by village residents.
And the master of the armor applied pressure while drawing an imaginary line between himself and Rem. His intent to make the one changing motion continuously and running move even more was clear.
One drew a large circle while the other drew a small circle. The side running more would tire faster, so exhausting quicker was natural.
The heavy-armored knight showed minimal movement, conserving stamina. That was sufficient. Moreover, this was inside the labyrinth. Inside here, he didn't tire easily.
"Will you run until you die? Or will you test your skill while strength remains?"
The armored knight enjoyed crushing opponents' minds by forcing choices. He did what he always did, and the barbarian from the West pleasantly ignored everything.
In reality, it was more accurate that he was imagining using that lazy bastard as a projectile halfway through and wasn't properly listening to what the opponent said.
'Take this, Demon Sword Lazybones. No, rather than that, should it be Demon Sword Directionless?'
He wanted to hurl him away, but his circumstances wouldn't allow it. He only imagined it. The directionless bastard felt like he was carefully pressing down and storing stamina as if preparing for some great battle.
'Bad feeling, is it?'
Me too, you bastard.
Knowing there was no need to curse only inwardly, Rem opened his mouth.
"Let's see when you wake up, you lazy bastard."
Along with the mutter, Rem skillfully drew out the sling hanging at his waist with one hand, then fumbled through his pouch with that same hand to grasp a projectile imbued with shamanic power.
There were roughly over ten projectiles, but he wouldn't need to use them all here.
What he showed next was also a feat. A feat only to others' eyes—it would be more accurate to call it ordinary behavior for Rem.
While running, he tossed the projectile into the air and swung the sling to catch it. Tak! With a crisp sound, the projectile settled into the leather pouch. With the catching motion, he added acceleration and spun the cord.
The handle connected to the cord firmly interlocked with the leather pouch remained tightly gripped by Rem.
Then, with Rem's hand as the axis, the leather pouch carrying the projectile drew a circle. Even before centrifugal force properly took effect, the circle the sling traced was perfect without a single distorted part.
Vvvvv—
The sound cutting through air was smooth. As he repeatedly spun the leather cord, the sound slicing air began spreading around.
The sound changing from vvvv to huuuu.
The man in armor watched Rem's trick.
'A projectile?'
Seeing him use a sling, that must be it. Still, no need to panic. He trusted his shield and the armor covering his body.
The invincible armor that had never broken even once until meeting the Balrog.
Rem's outward attitude remained half-hearted as always, but inwardly he was somewhat busy. While running, he had to measure distance from the opponent, spin the sling, and in the process transfer shamanic power to the projectile.
The projectile made normally through Western secret methods and Rem's personal refined techniques readily accepted the shamanism. Then, like casting a curse, he applied shamanism to the projectile.
'Fire Command.'
The name of the shamanism.
They said when the god of the West grew furious, flames erupted from his voice.
The transferred shamanism headed toward the projectile, and the sound of the accelerating leather cord changed from huuuu huuuu to wiiiiiing.
Ominousness and anxiety accompanied the smooth sound. The circular motion originating from Rem's hand could end at any moment, and even if he perfectly controlled it, that threat was incomparable to a stationary blade left alone.
It was a threatening disc to a degree that couldn't even compare to seeing a bowstring loaded with full tension.
Rem gave no warning. Using the sensation he'd grown familiar with over decades of handling it, he poured out the force of the spinning disc.
The projectile contained in the sling became light and flew. The armor-clad man couldn't perceive its beginning or end. It was speed surpassing a knight's dynamic vision.
He could only rely on sensation and put his shield forward, like a turtle hiding its body in its shell.
Rem reflexively swirled shamanism to protect his eardrums as he released the projectile.
Kwa—
The sound cut off.
...Kwaaaaaang!
The severed sound continued and transformed into a roar. The projectile Rem had fired pierced through the air midway, bursting three shockwaves, and exploded upon meeting its target. A storm raged from the pressure caused by that explosion. Even the explosive sound was threatening.
Kwaaaaaaa.
Following the roar, the shockwave from bursting through air brought forth wind that whipped around, clawing in all directions. Several residents in the distance cowered and trembled.
Naturally, no one came close. In the first place, Rem had lured the man here to do this.
Dust shot up as the projectile exploded then quickly settled. The dirt and dust of the Demonic Realm's border zone had an oddly heavy feeling.
Rem, who'd crossed both arms and lowered his stance, blocked what came flying from the projectile's explosion. He'd dropped the burden he'd been shouldering on his shoulder behind his back.
Several fragments embedded in Rem's forearms. This was despite protecting himself with shamanism. In that case, what about the one who took the projectile directly?
"...Damn it."
Words spat by a staggering shadow between the settled dust.
The man whose armor was half-destroyed glared at Rem while holding a shield that was crushed and torn at the bottom.
His kite shield had now become a broken shield. Shattered and destroyed, it was in tatters.
"You."
The opponent opened his mouth, unable to hide his shock.
"What?"
Rem said while lowering the arms that had blocked ahead, then began spinning the cord again while inserting a second projectile. Since the opponent wasn't fast on his feet, he couldn't catch up to Rem burdened with cargo. In that situation, he'd created as much distance as desired, and long-range attacks were one of Rem's specialties.
"Damn it."
One of the strongest even within the Balrog's labyrinth was being dismantled after meeting his natural enemy. From Rem's perspective, this wasn't particularly special.
[ * * * ]
Enkrid forgot the flow of time and even the situation. He merely endured and fought while swinging his sword.
—Good.
Occasionally, the Balrog conveyed his will through Will. Enkrid felt the same.
No matter what was done, he blocked, deflected, and counterattacked. How should he describe the occasionally visible unorthodox attacks?
They easily bypassed the barrier called Wave-Blocking. If it had been broken through with force, he would have rather accepted it. But the Balrog struck by bypassing with technique rather than force.
'Feet.'
The Balrog used his feet disproportionate to his size. Simultaneously, the living whip drew attention. The Balrog's attacks were all compound.
'Harmony.'
That exact feeling arose. Because it was perfectly harmonious, he could only nod at whatever technique emerged from that body.
Enkrid swung Dawnforge with instantaneous movement to deflect the opponent's sword and closed distance sharply to headbutt or sweep feet.
He'd induced close combat brawling with momentary wit, and each time, the Balrog released his sword and responded to close combat as is.
Striking, beating, gripping, and twisting with hand-blades. In those moments, the whip didn't interfere either.
The Fire Serpent raised its head straight on one side and watched. Of course, Enkrid had no capacity to observe that.
He was busy blocking the rushing hands and feet, knees, elbows, and somehow finding gaps to try jabbing in fists or fingers.
Crack. In that close combat, three of Enkrid's left fingers broke.
His hand was caught briefly and pulled out immediately, but in that moment the Balrog twisted and snapped with his fingers and wrist to break Enkrid's three fingers. Just before that, he'd taken a hit to the ribs making breathing somewhat uncomfortable.
Injuries accumulated. Nevertheless, Enkrid endured and fought until the end.
And now he could summarize this entire process into one word.
'I'm losing.'
The Balrog saw openings to strike Enkrid's neck but gave him time to dodge as if yielding a move in chess.
It was a situation that had already occurred many times. As is, he mentally murmured the question.
—Can't you fight a bit more?
Having met an opponent worth fighting after a long time, the Balrog toyed with Enkrid.
'The skill gap.'
From handling swords to manifesting intimidation.
If he honed all possessed techniques to the extreme, could he become the Balrog? Instinct spoke. Nothing could give a definite answer.
The Balrog approached as that high and solid a wall.
Play cannot last forever. Finally, the blade made of black flames bearing the name Surt shredded Enkrid's innards.
Before that, three fingers and two ribs had already broken, his knee joint twisted, and his hip joint creaked. In the one-sidedly overwhelmed situation, a blade finally entered his belly.
In that moment, Enkrid's Dawnforge drew a single line. Even the Balrog couldn't predict this, as part of his horn was cleanly sliced off with a swish.
"That was close."
The Balrog only spoke calmly.
Starting from the innards, they sizzled as fire spread throughout his entire body. The black flames were fire brought from hell that wouldn't extinguish until the opponent died.
This too was one of the Balrog's authorities.
Enkrid had to bite his tongue to endure the pain. His tongue should be severed and bleed, but the flames had already burned even inside his mouth. Instead of blood, only the stench of burning filled the air. The burning smell seemed to fill even his head.
—You will be reborn in my labyrinth. Let's play fighting eternally.
In that situation, the Balrog caught mental will.
It would be better to say he barely caught it. Having experienced death numerous times, pain couldn't be adapted to, so this was purely caught with mental strength alone.
The Balrog looked into the eyes of the burning Enkrid. Those blue eyes didn't extinguish even while dying.
It was as if blue flames dwelt within those eyes. The Balrog was exceedingly pleased by this as well.
—See you again.
The Balrog displayed joy, saying this wasn't the end. Enkrid faced the moment he'd experienced insanely many times before. When surroundings went pitch dark, he passed through a dark cave without a single point of light. Death. He'd died again.
And.
—What a joke.
Enkrid heard another being convey will mentally at the cave's end. It was the Ferryman.
It was an answer to what the Balrog had said, with death as the turning point. Of course, those words wouldn't be conveyed to the Balrog.
Because these were words only the dead Enkrid could hear.