WeTried Translations

Translator: Hydrogen B

Editor: Abstract

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

Chapter 781: Ridiculous

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Rem's body was not in good shape, and Ragna was an added burden. Did that mean he had to stand there and take it?

'Not a chance.'

He had no intention of doing that. Not even a little. He had already burst through the roof and gotten out. Rem faced his opponent and ran backward. Even so, he was as fast as someone sprinting at full tilt. It was backward running, a technique born from a game every child raised in the West played growing up.

"If I catch you, you die on the spot. Or you resist and die. The choice is yours."

The man chasing him wore thick armor and carried a shield and sword, trying to close the gap, but it was hopeless. His feet were not fast. Instead, they were steady.

He knew this game of tag would end eventually, so he simply kept stepping forward.

What if his opponent threw something?

'So what?'

Hatchets could not punch through his armor and shield. He knew that.

So merely grinding away at his opponent's stamina like this was already a gain. His armored stride carried conviction.

Thud.

The combined weight of his massive body, the armor wrapped around it, and his sword, shield, and secondary weapons made the ground shudder with every step.

If stamina was the weapon, then the one flitting around was having a harder time. Naturally, the one who moved more expended more stamina.

All he had to do was close the distance. Moving along the shortest possible path was enough.

Once he got close, things would be easy.

His tactic was to squeeze his opponent to death. It was a tactic that only had meaning if the opponent fought back, and he believed time would bring things around as he wanted.

Rem did not think that way at all. From the moment he put Ragna over his shoulder and burst through the roof until now, his thoughts had remained the same.

'Why insist on close-quarters combat?'

There was no reason to.

That was why he had run out of the house. The surrounding terrain had changed drastically all at once, but there was plenty of room to run and move. For now, that was enough.

He put aside figuring out why things had changed or what situation they were in.

If his opponent had challenged Rem to a duel while leaving Ragna out of it, he would not have gone this far.

Rem was the sort who would fight if asked to stake honor on the line.

But his opponent had not done that. The corners of the mouth of the man with loose, curly blond hair rose.

His contemptuous mouth asked,

"Choose. Will you abandon the burden you're carrying and run, or die together?"

The man kept forcing choices on him, and Rem, utterly indifferent, raised the middle finger of his free hand.

A finger gesture with a long and venerable tradition across the continent.

"You do not know your place."

The smile remained, but irritation seeped into his tone. Rem escaped the disadvantageous ground and swept through the broad area, tracing a circle around his opponent. Aside from having to quicken his pace whenever the man changed direction, it felt as though he would never be caught.

The place where they faced each other had become an open clearing. Originally, it had been vegetable gardens tended by the villagers.

The owner of the armor drew an invisible line between himself and Rem, pressuring him. The intention was clear. By continually changing his route, he intended to make the one running cover more ground.

One circle was wide, and the other small. Since the one who ran more used more stamina, it was only natural for that person to tire sooner.

The heavy-armored Knight made only the bare minimum of movements, as though storing up stamina. That was enough. Besides, this was inside the Labyrinth. Here, he would not tire easily.

"Will you run until you die, or measure your skills while you still have strength left?"

The armored Knight enjoyed breaking his opponent's spirit by forcing choices on them. He did as he always had, while the Barbarian from the West cheerfully ignored everything.

In truth, Rem was too busy imagining what it would be like to use the lazy bastard as a projectile to properly hear a word his opponent said.

'Take this, it's the Demon Sword Lazy Bastard. No, would Demon Sword Directionally-Impaired Bastard be better?'

He wanted to hurl him, but he was not in a position to do so. So he only imagined it. The directionally-impaired bastard felt like he was carefully storing up stamina, as though preparing for some great battle.

'You have a bad feeling too?'

Same here, you little bastard.

Knowing there was no need to keep the cursing in his head, Rem opened his mouth.

"When you wake up, we'll talk, you lazy bastard."

With that muttered aside, he deftly pulled the Sling from his waist with one hand. Then, with the same hand, he rummaged through his pouch and gripped a projectile infused with Sorcery.

He had more than ten projectiles on him, but he would not need to use all of them here.

What he did next was another trick. It only looked like a trick to others, though. To Rem, it was an ordinary action.

While running, he tossed a projectile into the air and swung the Sling to catch it.

Tack!

With a crisp sound, the projectile settled into the leather pouch. Catching it, he accelerated the motion and spun the cord.

The handle connected to the leather pouch by its tightly fastened cord remained firmly gripped in Rem's hand.

Then, with Rem's hand as its axis, the leather pouch carrying the projectile traced a circle. Even before centrifugal force had fully built, the circle drawn by the Sling was perfect, without a single distortion.

Whoom-

The sound of air being cut was smooth. As he repeatedly spun the leather cord, that sound began spreading through the area.

It shifted from a whoom into a deeper hum.

The armored man watched Rem's actions.

'A projectile?'

He was using a sling, apparently. Even so, there was no reason to panic. He trusted his shield and the armor wrapped around his body.

It was invincible armor that had never once been broken before he met Balrok.

Outwardly, Rem remained indifferent, but he was a little busy inside. He had to gauge the distance to his opponent while running, spin the Sling, and transfer Sorcery into the projectile at the same time.

Projectiles made with Western secret arts and Rem's own refined forbidden sorcery readily accepted Sorcery. Then he cast Sorcery upon the projectile as though laying a curse.

'Thunder Edict.'

That was the name of the Sorcery.

They said that when the god of the West grew enraged, flames burst forth through the god's voice.

The transferred Sorcery flowed into the projectile, and the sound of the accelerating cord changed from a hum into a high, sustained whine.

The smooth sound carried unease and dread. The circular motion beginning in Rem's hand could end at any time, and even if it was perfectly controlled, its threat could not compare to that of a sword simply held still.

The threatening disc was beyond comparison to a bowstring drawn to its fullest tension.

Rem gave no warning. Using the senses he had grown accustomed to over decades of handling the weapon, he unleashed the force stored within the spinning disc.

The projectile inside the Sling flew out as light. The armored man could not perceive either its beginning or its end. It was faster than a Knight's Dynamic Visual Acuity.

Relying solely on instinct, he merely brought his shield forward, like a turtle hiding inside its shell.

As Rem fired the projectile, he reflexively swirled Sorcery around his eardrums to protect them.

Kkwa-

Sound cut out.

......Kkwaaaang!

When the severed sound returned, it became a thunderous roar. The projectile Rem fired punched through the air and created three shockwaves before striking its target and exploding. The pressure generated by that blast stirred up a storm. Even the sound of its detonation was threatening.

Kkwaaaaaa.

After the roar, the wind drawn in by the shockwaves tore through every direction. Several villagers in the distance ducked their heads and trembled.

Naturally, no one had come close. Rem had lured the man here in the first place to do this.

Dust rose when the projectile exploded, then quickly settled. The dust near the border of the Cursed Ground felt strangely heavy.

Rem crossed his arms and lowered his stance, blocking the debris thrown by the explosion. Ragna lay dropped behind him.

Several fragments embedded themselves in Rem's forearms. Even with Sorcery protecting him, this was the result. Then what would the man directly struck by the projectile look like?

"Son of a..."

The words came from a staggering shadow amid the settling dust.

The man, half of his armor ruined, glared at Rem while holding a dented shield torn open underneath.

His kite shield had become a broken shield. Cracked and shattered, it hung in tatters.

"You."

The man spoke, unable to hide his shock.

"What?"

Rem lowered the arms that had been blocking in front of him, loaded a second projectile, and began spinning the cord again. His opponent was not especially fast and could not catch Rem, even with Ragna in tow. Rem had opened as much distance as he wanted, and ranged attacks were one of his strengths.

"Son of a..."

One of the strongest fighters in Balrok's Labyrinth was crumbling after meeting a natural predator. From Rem's perspective, this was not particularly remarkable.

* * *

Enkrid forgot the passage of time and even the situation itself. He only swung his sword, endured, and fought.

-Good.

Balrok occasionally conveyed his intent through Will. Enkrid felt the same.

No matter what Balrok did, Enkrid blocked, deflected, and counterattacked. What could he even call the irregular attacks that appeared here and there?

They easily bypassed the defensive wall called Breaker. If Balrok had broken through it with force, Enkrid could have accepted that. But Balrok bypassed it with technique rather than power.

'His feet.'

Balrok used his feet in a way that did not suit his size. At the same time, a whip that moved as though alive drew the eye. Balrok's attacks were a complex whole.

'Harmony.'

That was exactly how it felt. Everything was in perfect harmony, so no matter what technique emerged from that body, Enkrid could only nod.

Enkrid moved in sudden bursts, swinging Duskforge to knock aside his opponent's sword, then sharply closing the distance to headbutt or hook a leg.

Enkrid used quick wits to bait Balrok into a Dogfight, and each time, Balrok let go of his sword and immediately engaged in close-quarters combat.

Balrok struck with Hand Blade, punched, grabbed, and tried to twist Enkrid apart. During those moments, even the whip did not interfere.

The fire serpent stood off to one side with its head raised, watching. Of course, Enkrid did not have the spare attention to watch it.

He was busy blocking the hands, feet, knees, and elbows coming at him while desperately looking for a gap to drive in a fist or finger.

Crack.

During that close-quarters combat, three fingers on Enkrid's left hand broke.

His hand was caught for a moment before he quickly pulled it free, but in that instant, Balrok twisted his own fingers and wrist, snapping three of Enkrid's fingers. Just before that, a blow to the ribs had already made breathing a little difficult.

His injuries piled up. Even so, Enkrid endured and fought to the end.

And now, the entire process could be summarized in one word.

'I'm losing.'

Balrok had seen openings to strike Enkrid's neck, yet sometimes gave him time to evade, as though allowing Enkrid to take back a move in chess.

This had already happened several times. Balrok asked mentally, almost as if reciting the words.

-You can fight a little longer, can't you?

Having finally met someone worth fighting after so long, Balrok toyed with Enkrid.

'The difference in ability.'

From swordsmanship to Pressure Manifestation.

Could Enkrid become like Balrok if he honed every skill he possessed to its limit? His instincts told him that nothing could give him a definite answer.

Balrok loomed before him as a wall, high and solid.

A game could not last forever. In the end, the blade called Urtran, made of black flame, tore through Enkrid's insides.

Before that, three fingers and two ribs had already broken, his knee joint had twisted, and his hip joint had begun to creak. In a completely one-sided fight, the sword entered his abdomen as the final blow.

At that moment, Enkrid's Duskforge drew a single line. Balrok had apparently not expected it, because part of his horn was cleanly sliced away.

"That was close."

Balrok merely spoke calmly.

His insides began burning, and fire spread throughout his entire body. The black flame was fire from a hell that would not go out until its target died.

That, too, was one of Balrok's Divine Powers.

Enkrid had to bite his tongue to endure the pain. His tongue should have torn and bled, but the flames had already burned the inside of his mouth. Instead of blood, only the smell of char spread through it. It felt as though the odor had filled his head.

-You will be reborn in my Labyrinth. Let us fight and play together forever.

Balrok's mental intent reached him in that state.

It would be more accurate to say it barely reached him. Even after experiencing death countless times, he could not grow accustomed to pain, so hearing it at all was purely a matter of mental strength.

Balrok looked into Enkrid's burning eyes. The blue eyes did not go out even as he died.

It was as though blue flames burned within them. Balrok liked that immensely as well.

-See you again.

Balrok showed his delight at the thought that this was not the end. Enkrid reached a moment he had experienced an insane number of times before. When the world darkened, he passed through a dark cave without a single point of light. Death. He had died again.

And then.

-You've got to be kidding.

At the end of the cave, Enkrid heard another being convey its intent mentally. The ferryman.

It was the ferryman's answer to what Balrok had said, delivered at the moment of death. Of course, those words would not reach Balrok.

This was something only the dead Enkrid could hear.

Footnotes:

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