Chapter 781 - Don't Make Me Laugh
Rem's body was far from normal, and he also had the burden of Ragna with him.
But did that mean he should just stand there and let it happen?
'No way.'
He never even considered it.
After crashing through the roof, Rem jumped backward, facing his opponent.
Yet, he was as fast as someone sprinting at full speed.
This was a talent born from a childhood spent in the Western Region—a skill he picked up from one of the many games kids played there: running backward.
"If you get caught, you die immediately. Or you die fighting back. The choice is yours," Rem said.
The pursuer, clad in heavy armor and wielding a shield and sword, tried to close the distance, but it was pointless.
He wasn't quick on his feet; instead, he was dogged and unyielding.
He simply kept moving, knowing this chase would eventually end.
And if the opponent tried to throw something?
'So what.'
No hand axe or anything like that could pierce his armor and shield.
He knew it.
So just wearing down his opponent's stamina like this was already a win.
There was conviction in the armored steps he took.
Thud.
With his huge frame clad in armor, carrying a sword and shield, and the weight of his other weapons, every step he took made the ground tremble.
If stamina was going to be the deciding factor, then the one darting and weaving around like that would tire faster.
It was only natural that the one moving more would get exhausted more quickly.
All he needed to do was close the gap, so he simply moved using the shortest possible path.
Once they got close, things would get much easier.
His strategy was to tighten the noose and strangle his opponent—one that only worked if the opponent stood their ground, and he believed that, with time, things would go the way he wanted.
But Rem didn't see it that way.
From the moment he crashed through the roof with Ragna slung over his shoulder to now, his thinking hadn't changed.
'Why insist on close combat?'
There was no reason.
That's exactly why he had burst out of the house.
Even though the environment around him had suddenly changed, there was still plenty of space to run and maneuver.
For now, that was all he needed.
Figuring out why things had changed or analyzing the situation could wait.
If his opponent had challenged Rem to a duel over Ragna, he wouldn't have gone this far.
If it came down to fighting for honor, Rem would be the sort who'd accept the challenge.
But his opponent wasn't interested in that.
The lips of the guy with the wild, tangled blond hair curled up.
With a sneer, he asked,
"Go on, choose. Will you run away and leave your burden behind—or will you die together?"
He kept forcing Rem to make a choice, but Rem just raised his middle finger with a bored look on his face.
That was a rude gesture steeped in the continent's long-standing traditions.
"…You don't know your place, do you?"
Though he was still smiling, a note of annoyance crept into his tone.
Rem circled around the battlefield, putting as much distance as he could between himself and his opponent.
It was a wide, open area that had once been a village vegetable garden.
He kept moving in a wide arc around the armored man, who kept drawing an invisible line between himself and Rem, trying to close in, clearly hoping that by adjusting their paths he'd force Rem to run more.
One of them traced a large circle, the other a small one.
Naturally, the one who had to run more would tire out faster.
The knight in heavy armor only made the minimal movements necessary, conserving his stamina.
That was more than enough.
Besides, they were inside the labyrinth—here, he wouldn't tire easily.
"Are you planning to run until you drop dead? Or are you going to test your skills while you still have some energy left?"
The armored knight enjoyed shaking his opponent's nerves by forcing him to choose.
He did what he always did, while the barbarian from the Western Region breezily ignored everything.
In fact, it would be more accurate to say that Rem hadn't even really heard his opponent's words, too busy imagining how it would go if he threw that lazy brat as a projectile halfway through the fight.
'Take this—the Magic Sword Lazy bones! No, maybe it should be Lost One, or the Magic Sword instead?'
He wanted to just throw him, but of course, that wasn't an option.
He could only imagine it.
The Lost One seemed to be conserving his strength as if preparing for some massive battle.
'So, he thinks things are about to get ugly?'
I feel the same way, you brat.
Rem realized he didn't even need to keep cursing inwardly, so he spoke up.
"Let's see you when you wake up, you little slacker."
With those words—half to himself—Rem deftly pulled the sling from his belt with one hand.
With the same hand, he rummaged in his pocket and gripped a projectile, one imbued with magical power.
There were over ten of them made, but he probably wouldn't need to use all of them here.
What he did next looked like a trick to others—though for Rem, it was just routine.
While running, he tossed a projectile into the air and whipped the sling to snatch it mid-flight.
With a sharp tap, it landed smoothly inside the leather pouch.
As he caught it, he added speed, spinning the cord faster.
Rem kept his grip tight on the handle, firmly connected to the cord and leather pouch.
Pivoting from his hand, the bullet-laden pouch started tracing a circle.
Even before centrifugal force fully set in, the circle made by the sling was perfect, without the slightest wobble.
Whoosh—
The sound of air being cut was clean and sharp.
As he spun the leather cord again and again, the slicing sound of the air began to spread outward.
The whoosh turned into a low hum.
The armored man watched Rem's trickery.
"A projectile?"
He saw that Rem was using a sling, so his guess was right.
Still, there was no need to be worried.
He trusted his shield and the armor wrapped around his body.
Until he met Beelrog, his invincible armor had never once been breached.
Rem still wore that outwardly indifferent look, but inwardly, he was a bit pressed for time.
While running, he had to judge the distance between himself and his opponent, keep spinning the sling, and channel his sorcery into the projectile all at once.
The bullets, crafted with secret Western Region techniques and Rem's own honed skills, easily accepted the flow of sorcery.
Next, almost like casting a curse, he enchanted the bullet.
"Fire Command."
That was the name of the spell.
It was said that when the god of the Western Region grew wrathful, flames would burst forth from His voice.
The transferred spell surged into the bullet, and the accelerating leather cord's sound shifted from a hum to a high-pitched whine.
There was a sense of menace and unease beneath the smooth sound.
The circular motion, which began from Rem's hand, could end at any moment, and even when perfectly controlled, it was far more dangerous than a sword simply held still at your side.
The tension in a fully drawn bowstring was nothing compared to the threat of this spinning disc.
Rem offered no warning.
Drawing on decades of familiarity, he unleashed the full power of the spinning sling.
The bullet within exploded into light as it flew.
The armored man never even registered when it began or ended.
It traveled faster than the knight's eyes could track.
Relying on sheer instinct, the man raised his shield in front, like a turtle retreating into its shell.
As he loosed the projectile, Rem reflexively spun a secondary spell to protect his eardrums.
Bang—
The sound was abruptly cut off.
...KWAANG!
The abruptly cut-off sound then erupted into a deafening roar.
The projectile Rem had fired pierced through the air, unleashing three successive shockwaves before exploding on impact with its target.
The pressure from the blast whipped up a violent gale—a detonation so intense that even its sound carried a threat.
KWA-AAAAH.
In the wake of that thunderous crash, the wind, pulled forth by the shockwaves that had torn through the air, whipped around and lashed everything nearby.
Some residents ducked and trembled in fear from afar.
Of course, nobody dared come close.
In fact, Rem had lured the enemy here precisely for this.
As the bullet exploded, a cloud of dust shot up, before quickly settling again.
The soil in the Demonic Domain borderlands always seemed strangely heavy.
Rem, arms crossed and crouched low, had shielded himself against the flying debris as the round detonated.
He had already dropped the burden from his shoulders onto the ground behind him.
Even with the protection of sorcery, a few shards still lodged into Rem's forearms.
If this was what it did to him, protected by magic, how bad must it have been for the fool who took the shot head-on?
"…You bastard."
Those muttered words came from the staggering shadow emerging from the settling dust.
The man, now with half his armor shredded and holding a buckled, torn shield, glared at Rem.
His Kite Shield had been reduced to little more than a broken shield—shattered, battered, and in tatters.
"You."
The opponent spoke, unable to hide his shock.
"What?"
Rem replied, lowering the arm he'd used as a guard, then loaded a second round and started swinging the sling overhead.
Since his opponent wasn't particularly fast, he hadn't been able to catch Rem, even weighed down with his gear. With that, Rem had gained all the distance he wanted—and ranged attacks were one of his specialties.
"Damn it."
Even inside Beelrog's Labyrinth, one of its top fighters was crumbling before his natural enemy.
From Rem's perspective, this wasn't anything unusual.
***
Enkrid lost all sense of time, forgot even where he was.
All that remained was to keep swinging his sword, holding out, and fighting on.
-Good.
Occasionally, Beelrog would communicate through Will.
Enkrid felt the same way.
Whatever the enemy tried, he would block it, cut it down, and counterattack.
As for those occasional odd, unpredictable moves—what could you even call them?
He easily bypassed the barrier known as Wave Breaker.
If it had been broken through by sheer force, that would've made sense.
But Beelrog didn't rely on strength—he sidestepped it with technique.
"His footwork."
Beelrog, despite his massive frame, used footwork expertly.
At the same time, the living whip drew one's attention.
Every aspect of Beelrog's attacks was a seamless blend of different elements.
"A perfect harmony."
That's exactly how it felt.
The moves were so completely integrated that, no matter what technique came out of that body, you couldn't help but nod in acknowledgment.
Enkrid would, in an instant, swing Dawnforged to knock aside the enemy's sword, close the distance, then land a headbutt or even try a trip.
It was a desperate attempt to drag the fight into a wild brawl.
But every time, Beelrog would simply let go of his sword and engage in close combat without hesitation.
He'd chop with the edge of his hand, strike, grab, and try to twist.
In those moments, even the whip stayed out of it.
The Fire Serpent stood to the side, head raised, watching the fight intently.
Not that Enkrid had the luxury to care.
He was far too busy fending off lunging hands, feet, knees, and elbows, desperately searching for an opening to jab with a fist or drive his fingers in somewhere.
Crack!
Amidst that brutal close-quarters fight, three fingers on Enkrid's left hand snapped.
His hand was caught for an instant, though he quickly pulled away—but in that split second, Beelrog wrenched and twisted his own wrist and fingers, breaking three of Enkrid's fingers in one smooth motion.
Just before that, a blow to his ribs had left his breathing ragged and painful.
The injuries kept piling up.
Even so, Enkrid fought on, enduring until the very end.
Now, he could sum up everything that had happened in a single word.
'I'm losing.'
Beelrog, despite having countless opportunities to strike at Enkrid's neck, would sometimes pull back and give him a chance to dodge—as if letting him undo a move in a game of chess.
It had happened more than a few times already.
In his mind, Enkrid couldn't help but mutter quietly,
-Can't I fight a little longer?
For the first time in ages, Beelrog had found a worthy opponent, and he was toying with Enkrid.
'The difference in skill.'
From swordsmanship to the very embodiment of overwhelming presence.
If he honed every skill he had to its absolute limit, could he become like Beelrog?
His instinct answered: nothing was certain.
That was how insurmountable and solid a wall Beelrog had become.
But games can't last forever.
In the end, the blade made of black flames—the one called Surtr—tore through Enkrid's insides.
By that point, three of his fingers and two ribs had already been broken, his knee joint twisted, and even his hip was grinding in its socket.
In a fight where he'd been pushed back from the start, it ended with the blade buried in his abdomen.
At that moment, Enkrid's Dawnforged cut a single, shining stroke.
Beelrog hadn't seen this coming either—part of his horn was cleanly sliced off.
"That was a shame."
Beelrog spoke nonchalantly.
The flames seared his entrails and spread throughout his body.
These black flames were brought from hell itself; they would not die out until the victim was dead.
This, too, was one of Beelrog's powers.
Enkrid had to bite his tongue just to bear the pain.
His tongue should have been cut, and blood should have flowed, but the flames had already scorched the inside of his mouth.
Instead of blood, the taste of burning filled everything.
The acrid, smoky scent seemed to swallow his mind whole.
-You will be reborn in my labyrinth. Let's fight forever, for all eternity.
In that moment, Beelrog's voice echoed directly in his mind.
Barely, just barely, Enkrid managed to hear it.
No matter how many times he had brushed against death, he could never get used to this pain; he only heard the words now through sheer force of will.
Beelrog looked into Enkrid's burning eyes.
Even as he died, those blue eyes refused to fade.
It was as if a blue flame was burning within them.
Beelrog found himself oddly fond of that.
-I'll see you again as part of my army.
Beelrog was delighted—this wasn't the end.
***
Enkrid found himself in a moment he had experienced all too many times before.
As darkness closed in around him, he drifted through a pitch-black tunnel devoid of even a speck of light.
Death.
He had died again.
And then—
-What a joke.
At the end of the tunnel, Enkrid heard another presence send its will to him, directly into his mind.
It was the Ferryman.
It was the answer to what Beelrog had said at the moment of death.
Of course, Beelrog would never hear it.
These words were meant for Enkrid alone, now that he was dead.
***
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