Death Guns In Another World-Chapter 2048: Night Celebration

The battlefield finally quieted, save for the sound of falling gravel and the ragged breaths of the survivors. The colossal beast’s remains had already dissolved into motes of light, leaving behind only a blackened crater and the lingering scent of scorched stone.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then—

"W-we won...?"

"It’s dead. The monster... it’s really dead!"

Voices cracked the heavy stillness, hesitant at first, then growing into a wave.

"Alex!!" someone shouted.

"The Black Gun-Sword Hero!" another cried.

Cheers burst from the surviving adventurers, rising higher and louder, echoing through the broken mountain. They raised their weapons in salute, some clanging their swords together, others collapsing in relief.

"Alex! Alex! Alex!"

The chant spread, raw and unrestrained, until the mountain itself seemed to tremble with their voices.

Alex stood still, letting the roar of his name wash over him. He turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded, hiding the smirk tugging at his lips.

So predictable. He hadn’t sought their admiration—but he had expected it. Humans always clung to strength, especially after despair. They wanted something—or someone—to believe in. And tonight, they had chosen him.

His gaze swept over the survivors. Many were battered, bloodied, clinging to comrades for support. He could see who would be useful in the future—the promising warriors whose eyes still burned with determination, even after such horror. Others trembled, broken by the experience, shadows of fear already festering in their hearts.

And then there were the dead.

Four adventurers lay still upon the ground, covered with cloaks hastily pulled from packs. Their faces were calm now, as if asleep, but the sight carried weight.

The vice guild leader, knelt before them. Her hands trembled slightly as she clasped them in silent prayer.

Alex watched, silent, his smirk fading into a neutral mask. He wasn’t indifferent to their loss—but he had long since accepted that death was the price of power.

He murmured under his breath. "Four sacrifices for the birth of legends. History won’t even remember their names."

Still, when the vice guild leader stood and looked his way, her expression grim but grateful, he inclined his head ever so slightly.

"They died for something worthy," Alex said aloud, his voice carrying. "Their deaths won’t be forgotten. Not by me."

That earned him more than cheers. It earned him trust. He saw it in the survivors’ eyes. Some teared up, others pressed hands over their hearts. They would follow him—not just respect him.

And that was exactly what he wanted.

Once the battlefield was cleared, the adventurers began the slow, painful process of recovery.

Teams moved efficiently, collecting the monster’s remains—crystallized veins of mana, chunks of obsidian-like hide, fragments of the dungeon core. Priceless materials that would fetch immense value in any city. Alex kept an eye on the process, but didn’t intervene. He had no need. They would make sure he received his share—probably a bigger one than anyone else—without him having to say a word.

Those gravely injured were tended by healers. Hands glowed faintly as wounds closed, bones were set, and burns cooled.

It wasn’t long before everything was confirmed safe: no lingering dungeon energy, no hidden threats, no signs of the monster’s return. The mountain, though scarred and cracked, would not collapse further.

The vice guild leader finally gathered everyone, her voice hoarse but firm.

"It’s done. The dungeon has been neutralized. We’ve lost comrades, but we’ve also gained victory."

She turned toward Alex, her expression softening. "Thanks to him."

Another cheer erupted. Alex gave a small nod, accepting it like a king receiving homage.

Then the vice guild leader smiled faintly despite her exhaustion.

"...And since we’re all alive, I propose we celebrate."

There was a pause—then laughter broke out. Nervous at first, then genuine. Relief turned into excitement. Someone pulled out a flask. Another shouted about finding an inn once they descended.

The survivors, even the weary, needed it. A celebration. Not only for victory, but to drown grief in wine and laughter.

Alex didn’t object. In fact, the idea pleased him.

By evening, they had made their way back down the mountain to a fortified town at its base—Avila’s outermost settlement. It was a place of adventurers, mercenaries, and opportunists, and the taverns were always ready for stories of battle.

That night, one tavern became theirs.

The common hall was alive with noise. Lanterns glowed warmly, shadows dancing across wooden beams. Tables were crowded with mugs of ale, plates of roasted meat, and bowls of steaming stew. Bards strummed lutes in the corner, adapting their songs to the victorious mood.

The adventurers filled the space with laughter, voices loud and overlapping. They toasted, shouted, and sang. The fallen were remembered with solemn silence for a moment, then honored with raised mugs. Afterward, the mood surged back into life.

At the center of it all sat Alex.

He leaned back in his chair, mug in hand, his torn coat replaced with a fresh shirt someone had tossed him. His wounds were mostly healed by now, though bruises still painted his skin. His black hair caught the glow of lanterns, and his sharp gaze swept the room lazily, though nothing escaped his notice. Every detail was carefully planned, he could have healed completely but it would not serve his purpose.

Adventurers came to him one by one, some shyly, some boldly.

"Sir Alex, allow me to thank you!"

"Your fighting style—it was incredible! Could you... train me someday?"

"Here, drink with me!"

He humored them. A sip here, a nod there, a sharp quip that made them laugh harder than they expected. He was careful—not overly friendly, but not cold either. Just enough to seem approachable, yet untouchable.

And in that subtle balance, he sowed seeds.

He noted the ambitious swordsman with scarred arms, the archer with sharp eyes, the healer whose magic never faltered even when exhausted. Promising talents, each of them. Useful, later, when his plans reached the guild.

He set his eyes on them, chatted just enough to spark their interest, and moved on.

At one point, the vice guild leader approached him. She was flushed from drink, but her smile was sincere. 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚

"You were... magnificent out there," she admitted, settling into the chair opposite him. "Not even the guild master could’ve taken down that monster so cleanly."

Alex smirked faintly, sipping his drink.

"Cleanly, huh? Felt messy to me. Four died."

Her smile faltered, then steadied. "...We lose people in this line of work. But thanks to you, the rest of us survived. I’ll never forget that."

He tilted his mug in acknowledgment.

"Then don’t. Memories are good leverage."

She blinked, then laughed softly, shaking her head. "You’re strange, Alex. Dangerous, but strange."

"Dangerous usually works better than safe."

They drank together after that, not as equals, but as allies bound by victory.

The night rolled on. Music grew louder, laughter brighter, mugs emptier. Alex found himself at the center of it all, but always slightly apart—watching, measuring, planning.

When he laughed, it was genuine enough to fool them. When he clinked mugs, his grin was sharp enough to inspire respect. And when he finally leaned back, letting the noise wash over him, he allowed himself a small thought:

So easy. They’ll follow me willingly when the time comes.

For now, though, he raised his mug once more, joining in their cheers.

"To victory!" someone shouted.

"To Alex!" another cried.

The tavern erupted.

"To Alex!"

And in the warmth of firelight and wine, the night of victory stretched on—half celebration, half beginning of a darker design.