Rem’s body wasn’t in perfect condition, and he had the burden named Ragna on his back. But did that mean he had to obediently take the hit?

'As if.'

He didn’t have a single thought of doing so. He had already burst through the roof. Facing his opponent, Rem jumped backward—yet still moved as fast as someone sprinting at full power. It was a skill that originated from a game every child raised in the West had played: running backward.

“If you’re caught, you die. If you resist, you die. The choice is yours.”

The one chasing him wore thick armor, held a shield and sword, and tried to close the distance—but it was hopeless. His legs weren’t fast. They were simply steadfast.

He knew that one day, this game of tag would end. That’s why he just kept stepping forward.

If the enemy threw something?

'So what.'

A hand axe or whatever wouldn’t be able to pierce his armor or shield. He knew that.

So even just wearing Rem down like this was a gain. Confidence was in each armored step.

Thud.

His massive frame, the armor suited to that frame, his sword and shield, and all the weight of his gear—every step he took made the ground tremble.

If stamina was a weapon, then the one flitting around like that would tire out faster. Of course, the one moving more would use more energy.

All he had to do was close the distance, moving in the shortest line possible.

Once he got close, it would be easy.

His tactic was to close in and crush his opponent. It was a tactic that only mattered if the enemy resisted—and with time, things would go his way. He believed that.

But Rem didn’t think that at all.

From the moment he crashed through the roof with Ragna slung over his shoulder, his thoughts hadn’t changed.

'There’s no reason to insist on close combat.'

None.

That’s why he burst out of the house. Even if the environment had suddenly changed dramatically, there was still enough space to run and move. That alone was enough for now.

Reasons and situational analysis could come later.

If the enemy had challenged Rem to a duel over Ragna, he wouldn’t have gone this far.

If it were a fight for honor, Rem would’ve accepted—it was still Rem, after all.

But the opponent hadn’t done that. The man with messy, curly blond hair smirked.

His sneering mouth asked:

“So, choose. Are you going to abandon your burden and run? Or are you going to die with it?”

He kept trying to force a choice, and Rem responded with a bored expression and raised his middle finger with his free hand.

It was an ancient insult passed down across the continent.

“...You truly don’t know your place.”

The man’s smile remained, but his tone betrayed irritation. Rem circled the broad area, distancing himself from the unfavorable terrain. He moved in a circular pattern around the opponent. As long as he could move faster whenever the opponent shifted, he figured he’d never get caught.

The place they were in had turned into an open field—originally a vegetable garden cultivated by the villagers.

The armored man applied pressure by drawing an imaginary line between himself and Rem. He deliberately adjusted his route to make Rem move more.

One circle was large, the other small. The one who ran more would obviously tire faster.

The heavy-armored knight made only the bare minimum of movements, preserving stamina. That alone was enough. What’s more, this was inside the labyrinth. He wouldn’t tire easily here.

“Are you going to keep running until you die? Or are you going to test your strength while you still have it?”

The armored knight enjoyed breaking his opponent’s will by forcing them into a decision. He did as he always did, and the barbarian from the West cheerfully ignored everything.

In truth, it was more accurate to say he wasn’t even listening, because he was imagining whether he could throw the lazy bastard he carried like a projectile.

'Take this, Demon Sword Slacker. Or maybe, Demon Sword Lostboy?'

He wanted to throw him, but of course, he couldn’t. It remained a fantasy. The poor directionless bastard seemed to be conserving his stamina like he was preparing for some massive fight.

'You’ve got a bad feeling too, huh?'

So do I, you punk.

Rem saw no need to just curse in his head, so he opened his mouth.

“Let’s talk when you wake up, you lazy bastard.”

With that mutter, Rem nimbly pulled out a sling from his belt with one hand. With that same hand, he reached into his pouch and grabbed a pellet infused with spell power.

There were a little over ten pellets, but he doubted he’d need them all here.

What he did next was a feat of skill—though perhaps it was only a feat to others. To Rem, it was just business as usual.

While running, he tossed a pellet into the air and swung his sling to snatch it mid-flight. Tap! With a crisp sound, the pellet landed cleanly in the leather pouch. He accelerated the spin as he caught it.

The string tightly connected to the leather pouch was fixed to a handle that Rem gripped firmly.

With Rem’s hand as the pivot, the pouch holding the pellet traced a circle. Even before full centrifugal force was applied, the sling’s rotation was perfectly smooth, without a single wobble.

Whoosh—

The air-splitting sound was clean and sharp. As he continued to spin the leather string, the slicing wind began to echo around him.

The sound changed from whoosh to fwoosh.

The man in armor watched Rem’s tricks.

'Projectile?'

Seeing him use a sling, that had to be it. Still, it wasn’t something to panic over. The knight trusted his shield and his armor.

Before meeting Balrog, his invincible armor had never once been broken.

Rem still looked indifferent on the outside, but he was busy on the inside. He had to run, gauge distance to his opponent, and spin the sling—all while transferring spell power into the pellet.

The pellet, created using secret Western techniques and refined by Rem’s personal training, easily accepted the spell. Then, like casting a curse, he imbued the pellet with magic.

'Fire Howl.'

That was the spell’s name.

It was said that when the god of the West raged, fire would burst from His voice.

The transferred spell flowed into the pellet, and the accelerating leather cord shifted its sound from fwoosh-fwoosh to vreeeeeeeeen.

The sharp, smooth sound now carried an air of dread and unease. The circular motion that began in Rem’s hand could end at any moment, and even if he had perfect control over it, the threat it posed was far beyond that of any idle blade.

It was a disc far more threatening than watching a fully drawn bowstring ready to snap. Rem didn’t bother with any warning. Using the sense honed from decades of handling it, he poured power into the spinning disc.

The pellet within the sling turned into light and shot forth. The armored man never even perceived the beginning or the end. It was a speed beyond a knight’s reflexes. He could only rely on instinct, like a turtle hiding inside its shell, bringing his shield forward to brace.

As he launched the projectile, Rem reflexively twisted the spell to protect his eardrums.

Kwa—

The sound cut off.

...KWAANG!

The silenced blast then returned as a thunderous roar. The projectile Rem fired pierced the air and triggered three shockwaves mid-flight, then exploded upon impact with the target. The explosion’s pressure whipped into a storm. Even the sound of the detonation itself was terrifying.

KWAaaaAAAAAH—

Following the thunder, the wind whipped violently, stirred by the blast’s pressure, clawing out in all directions. Several villagers in the distance bowed their heads and trembled.

Naturally, no one had dared come close. Rem had lured the enemy here for this very reason.

As the pellet exploded, dust surged up and quickly settled. The dirt on the edge of the Demon Realm felt strangely heavy.

Rem, crouched with arms crossed to guard himself, had dropped the burden he’d been carrying onto the ground behind him.

Even with magical protection, several shards pierced Rem’s forearms. If this was the result despite magical defense, then what would it be like for the one who took the shot head-on?

“...You bastard.”

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

The man, now missing half his armor, glared at Rem while holding a dented and torn shield.

His kite shield had become a broken wreck. Shattered, tattered, barely recognizable.

“You...”

The opponent, unable to hide his shock, opened his mouth.

“What?”

Rem lowered the arm that had shielded him and began spinning the sling again, loading the second pellet. Since the opponent wasn’t particularly fast, there was no way he could catch Rem while he was carrying Ragna. Rem had created as much distance as he needed—and long-range combat was one of his strengths.

“You bastard.”

Even within Balrog’s labyrinth, a top-tier fighter had just met his natural predator and was being torn apart. From Rem’s perspective, this ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ wasn’t anything special.

***

Enkrid had forgotten the flow of time and even the situation. He simply swung his sword, endured, and fought.

—Good.

From time to time, Balrog transmitted his will through Will. Enkrid felt the same.

No matter what Balrog did, he blocked, deflected, and countered. Some of the irregular attacks—how should he put it? They bypassed the Wavebreaker defenses with ease. If Balrog had broken through by brute force, it would’ve made sense. But Balrog had circumvented them with technique, not strength.

Footwork.

Balrog used his feet in ways that didn’t suit his bulk. At the same time, his living whip drew the eye. Balrog’s attacks were multifaceted.

'Harmony.'

That’s what it felt like. Perfectly harmonious. Whatever technique emerged from that body, one couldn’t help but acknowledge it.

Enkrid, with sudden bursts of movement, swung Dawn Tempering to parry Balrog’s blade, closed the distance, and headbutted or tripped him.

He was using brute improvisation to drag things into a brawl. Each time, Balrog abandoned his sword and engaged in close quarters.

He struck with knife-hands, punched, grabbed, twisted. At such moments, even the whip didn’t interfere.

The fire serpent kept its head raised, watching from the side. Of course, Enkrid had no capacity to spare a glance at it.

While blocking the oncoming hands, feet, knees, elbows, he desperately searched for any opening—trying to stab in a fist or fingers.

Crack.

During that exchange, three of Enkrid’s left fingers were broken.

His hand had been caught for just a moment, but Balrog used that to twist and snap his wrist, breaking three fingers. Right before that, he’d been struck in the ribs and was now having trouble breathing.

The injuries piled up. Even so, Enkrid endured and kept fighting.

And now, everything could be summed up in one phrase.

'I’m losing.'

Balrog had several chances to strike Enkrid’s neck but instead gave him time to retreat, like offering a retreat in chess.

It had already happened multiple times. And then, as if musing aloud in his mind, Balrog asked:

—Can’t you fight a little longer?

Having met a worthy opponent after so long, Balrog toyed with Enkrid.

'The difference in skill.'

From sword handling, to the manifestation of pressure—еven if one polished every technique to its limit, could they become Balrog?

Instinct said: No one could answer that with certainty.

Balrog approached like a massive, immovable wall.

But games could not last forever. At last, the blade named Surtr, made of black flame, tore into Enkrid’s intestines.

By then, three of his fingers had already broken, two ribs cracked, one knee joint twisted, and even his hip was grinding. In a completely one-sided fight, the final blow struck his stomach.

At that moment, Enkrid’s Dawn Tempering drew a line. Apparently even Balrog hadn’t anticipated it—part of his horn was cleanly sliced.

“A pity.”

Balrog said calmly.

His guts were seared first, then fire spread across his whole body. The black flame—drawn from hell—didn’t extinguish until its target died. This, too, was one of Balrog’s authorities.

Enkrid bit down on his tongue to endure the pain. His tongue should’ve been sliced and bleeding—but the flames had already scorched the inside of his mouth. Instead of blood, only the stench of burning filled the air. That scent seemed to fill even his skull.

—You will be reborn in my labyrinth. Let’s fight and play forever.

At that moment, Balrog transmitted his will again.

It would be generous to say Enkrid even heard it. No matter how many deaths he experienced, pain was something he could never get used to. This was something he heard purely through willpower.

Balrog looked into Enkrid’s burning eyes. Those blue eyes didn’t fade, even in death.

It was as if they held a blue fire within.

Balrog liked that. He truly did.

—See you again.

As if to declare this wasn’t the end, Balrog expressed his joy.

Enkrid now faced a moment he had experienced countless times before. As everything darkened, he passed through a pitch-black cave. Death. He died again.

And then—

—What a joke.

From the end of the cave, Enkrid heard another being’s will. It was the Ferryman.

It was the answer to what Balrog had said at the moment of death. Of course, those words would never reach Balrog.

They were meant only for the dead Enkrid to hear.