There Is No World For ■■-Chapter 185: The Road to Sampo (9)
The World Tree is just a big tree.
The moment that single phrase—written in the blood and tears of every elf in the world—rippled through the air, Demerond released his jin-ui into the void.
Cold hatred crushed the space around them, and the air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Even the wind avoided him. Amidst that stillness, Demerond watched Yeomyeong’s reaction.
From his experience, humans on Earth typically responded in one of two ways when confronted with his true intent.
Hypocritical sympathy, or vague fear.
But Yeomyeong’s reaction was neither.
He merely flinched slightly. No other changes.
No—that wasn’t quite true. One thing had changed completely.
His eyes had gone cold.
Those golden eyes were cautiously gauging Demerond’s jin-ui. Like a hunter lowering his stance and drawing his bow after encountering a predator.
...He's thinking about how to fight.
Arrogant—but a pleasing attitude.
Far better than the pathetic sympathy from the Holy Sword or the Maker.
Demerond let out a faint chuckle and withdrew his jin-ui.
Whether it had left a strong impression or not, Yeomyeong remained silent for a moment. Then, after a short pause, he carefully opened his mouth.
“...Can any emotion be turned into jin-ui? Something like... a thirst for revenge, for example.”
“....”
Revenge, huh. At the blatant word, Demerond made a strange expression.
“It’s possible. If that emotion can shackle your entire life.”
“....”
“But... well, it sounds ridiculous coming from me, but it's better not to base your jin-ui on emotion.”
Why? Before Yeomyeong could even ask, Demerond answered preemptively.
“For the same reason most people don’t set emotions as the goal of their life.”
“....”
“This is going to be a long story. Would you mind sitting down for a bit?”
With that, Demerond leaned against a tree and sank to the ground. Yeomyeong calmly approached and sat down on the dirt across from him.
As stars began peeking out overhead, the elf finally spoke.
“Yeomyeong, how much do you know about the war the United States waged against our people?”
“...Only what’s written in the history books.”
The Human-Elf War.
It began when the U.S. attacked the elven forests under pretenses like “the Forest Dweller Liberation Movement” or “the Second Western Expansion.”
Setting aside the empty justifications and propaganda, the real reason for the war was no different from any other in human history.
Wealth and resources.
Eight-tenths of the elixirs from beyond the dimensional gates were buried in the forests controlled by the elves, and America wanted a monopoly.
Just like how Stalin monopolized the mana metal from the Dwarf Mountains.
But elves were not like dwarves.
Unlike dwarves, who clustered in mountain ranges, the elven forests sprawled far and wide—and elves were born guerrillas.
They used the forests as shields, hunting U.S. soldiers, forest dwellers, and even shamans. And they didn’t stop there—they crossed dimensional gates to assassinate key American figures.
Of course, such fierce resistance only provoked fiercer retaliation.
Defoliants, napalm blanketing the forests, massacres... and nuclear bombs.
As Yeomyeong recalled the image of the World Tree in flames, he fell silent.
Come to think of it, everything he knew had been recorded from a human perspective. Earth’s perspective. Biased knowledge.
Textbooks. Documentaries. That’s all he had.
From Demerond’s perspective—an elf and a participant in the war—those kinds of facts might seem deeply offensive.
Realizing that, Yeomyeong glanced cautiously at the elf...
But Demerond seemed fixated on something else.
“History books? You learned about elves from history books?”
When Yeomyeong nodded, Demerond immediately asked,
“You're around the same age as the Saint, right?”
“Yes, not much of an age gap.”
Just a few years. Demerond let out a hollow laugh, covering his mouth.
“Well... I guess for humans, a few decades is enough time to write off their sins as mere history.”
Muttering to himself, Demerond stared at Yeomyeong for a moment—then smirked.
“Well, I don’t blame you. It’s not your fault you were born human... Anyway, let’s get back to the point.”
Demerond licked his dry lips and continued in a serious tone.
“In any case, if you understand our history, then you must understand why I harbor this hatred. But regardless of how much you know... my hatred goes beyond that.”
“....”
“If I hadn’t anchored it as my jin-ui, I wouldn’t have been able to control it.”
Yeomyeong had no doubt he meant every word.
That hatred—so sharp it felt like it could pierce skin—had been as terrifying as Jugashvili’s murderous aura.
Then Demerond fixed his gaze on Yeomyeong and asked,
“Yeomyeong. Is your thirst for revenge that strong? Strong enough to bind your entire will and purpose in life to it?”
“That’s...”
“Let me ask it this way: could you torture or sacrifice innocent people—like those girls next to you—for the sake of revenge?”
Yeomyeong couldn’t answer.
Demerond looked up at the night sky and spoke.
“I could.”
“....”
“If it meant killing Americans, I could do anything. I broke my mother’s dying wish, killed my own people, abandoned my wife...”
The stars above said nothing. No judgment, no criticism—only silence as they listened to the elf speak.
“They were all foolish mistakes... ah, damn, this is embarrassing. Yeomyeong, do you know why I’m telling you all this?”
“...Because I’m friends with Ssoemi—no, Meridis? I’m not entirely sure.”
“Honestly, you’re teetering too close to the edge.”
“....”
Teetering? Yeomyeong wanted to deny it—but stopped, realizing that he hadn’t chosen between Seti and his thirst for revenge.
“Revenge is a means. A tool to clear your resentment and return to a happy life. It should never be the goal.”
Demerond’s voice was dry.
Like a failed adult telling children not to follow in his footsteps.
“In my experience... people who can’t distinguish that line either go mad with emptiness after their revenge... or destroy themselves.”
“....”
“I’m not saying this just because you’re my daughter’s friend. I really hope you won’t end up like that.”
For some reason, Demerond’s words reminded Yeomyeong of the old janitors from his cleaning days and their tired, bitter ramblings.
He lowered his head, forcing a wry smile.
“...Thank you for the lesson.”
Demerond gave a soft chuckle.
“A lesson? Please. The real path to forming your own jin-ui starts now.”
Now? Yeomyeong’s expression grew more serious.
“What should I do first?”
Should he think up some elegant idiom, or a profound philosophical phrase, like most martial arts required?
While Yeomyeong cautiously searched his mind—
Demerond said something unexpected.
“Sum up your life... in a single sentence.”
****
The Saint crossed her arms as she watched everyone gather around the dragon.
It wasn’t that she felt left out. Even she would’ve gone to see a dragon cook meat over watching revolver tricks.
And more than anything, that bumpy-scaled reptile’s cooking skills were no joke.
She thought he’d just incinerate everything—but no. He was rotating the meat with his claws, gently blowing on it with short bursts of breath.
It wasn’t exactly a surprising sight.
The dragon had spent ages with dwarves, after all.
Putting on a show like "dragon-breath barbecue" for his small companions wasn’t all that strange.
If anything, it was stranger that such a dragon had once declared he would destroy Manchuria and raised hell about it.
The Saint, who had once shot a bullet into his eye, felt a strange emotion rise within her—then turned away.
She had just been thinking of snatching a piece of meat when she spotted Seti a few steps away.
Not “When did she get here?”—her body moved before her thoughts did.
She tiptoed toward her, planning to sneak in a hug from behind—but Neti, noticing her approach, jumped and threw up an X with her fingers.
No pranks.
Even someone clueless about social cues could read that loud and clear.
Normally, the Saint would have ignored that kind of warning—but the sight of Seti’s slumped shoulders drained her of any desire to tease.
She gave Neti a small nod and quietly turned away.
“Corvus, what are you doing?”
Her next stop was the campfire, where a massive raven sat silently, staring deep into the forest.
“On watch, Lady Saint.”
Corvus, the raven beastkin, didn’t take her eyes off the trees.
“On watch? Are there beasts out there?”
“I wish it were beasts. It’s worse.”
“...What?”
“Some humans are closing in on the camp. At least thirty of them.”
The Saint instinctively turned toward the forest. But all she saw was the thick darkness unique to nighttime woods—not a trace of humans approaching.
If she could at least sense one or two, that’d be something.
But she couldn’t feel a single one.
Which meant... whoever was surrounding the camp was far more dangerous than she could’ve imagined.
The Saint swallowed hard.
“...Why now?”
“Maybe the mercenaries earlier called for reinforcements... or maybe it’s just bad luck. One of the two.”
Click.
Corvus’s beak clicked sharply, her voice filled with tension.
The Saint suddenly remembered the French Foreign Legion insignia on the dead mercenaries’ phones—and felt her drowsiness vanish.
She immediately looked for Yeomyeong.
But even after scouring the camp and expanding her mana, she couldn’t find him anywhere.
“Um... Corvus? I can’t find Yeomyeong.”
“....”
“Corvus?”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
The Saint felt a chill of dread. She hadn’t used foresight, but she could already guess what had happened.
“Don’t tell me... he went into the forest alone?”
Corvus didn’t respond. Silence—confirmation.
The Saint pressed her forehead and let out a deep sigh. Unbelievable. What kind of mess is he getting into this time?
“...We’re going after him. Now.”
“You mustn’t.”
“What do you mean, mustn’t?! Yeomyeong is your disciple, Corvus! You’re just going to leave him out th—”
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She was about to scream when Corvus interrupted her.
“Lady Saint. There are superhumans and even a dragon in this camp. And still, the enemy is approaching. That means... they believe they can win.”
“....”
“I trust my disciple. No matter what happens, I believe he’s more than capable of getting himself out of danger.”
Corvus looked her dead in the eye and added,
“If Miss Seti or Lady Saint were to be injured while searching for him in the forest... how could I ever face my disciple again?”
The Saint had no rebuttal. So she just pouted her lips, then reached for foresight.
Screw it. I’ll just see the future.
The sight would’ve horrified any archbishop or high priest, but Corvus wasn’t one of the Five Gods’ faithful.
Whether divine blessings were wasted or not, the raven simply stood beside the Saint as if to guard her.
Under the eye patch, the Saint’s vision flickered into the future. The campfire flickered, spitting sparks, and then—
She snapped back to the present, clenched her fists, and trembled all over.
“What did you see, Lady Saint?”
Corvus asked carefully.
The Saint whipped her head toward Seti.
“Did something happen to Miss Seti?”
Her tone was full of worry, but the Saint’s reaction... was theatrical.
Worry, disappointment—and fury. She looked like Caesar betrayed by Brutus.
Finally sensing something was off, Corvus tilted her head.
“Um... Lady Saint?”
“Th-that shameless... harlot!”
“...Shameless?”
The Saint jabbed a finger toward Seti’s back and shouted,
“Seti was planning to sleep in the same tent as Yeomyeong tonight!”
“...Excuse me?”
“She was going to sneak in! In the middle of the night! To his tent! And—and! Kiss him and everything!”
“....”
“D-do you have any idea what kind of situation we’re in?! If I hadn’t used foresight, I’d be the only one who didn’t know!”
Corvus’s brain worked overtime to comprehend the situation. Fortunately, being a mage, her brain made the most rational choice.
Ignore it.
With that decision made, the raven calmly asked a more pressing question, pointedly ignoring the Saint’s now-blazing red face.
“Then, Lady Saint... the enemies approaching the camp...”
It was arguably the most important issue—but the Saint’s response was apathetic.
“We don’t need to worry about them.”
What?
Unable to see the future, Corvus swallowed her frustration and asked again.
“...What do you mean, we don’t need to worry?”
“They’re not here for us. They came for the communist.”
“...The communist?”
“Yeah. Demerond Ip Marx.”
Demerond? The elven leader? Why was that name coming up now?
Was this some sort of metaphor?
Corvus was just about to ask when—
Fwooosh—!
A signal flare exploded across the night sky from the other side of the forest.
The red light bathed the sky for an instant.
The dragon—who, like Corvus, had sensed the incoming enemies—rose abruptly.
He wrapped /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ his tail protectively around the merchants and workers nearby and aimed the fire building in his mouth toward the source of the flare.
He aimed, but—
“AAAAAAH!!”
The battle had already begun in the forest.
The only visible signs were shaking leaves, but the sounds told the story.
Gunfire, explosions, spell chants—and screams.
Merchants screamed and scrambled to hide behind the dragon, but both the dragon and Corvus began drawing mana, entering full alert.
Thanks to her mage’s senses, Corvus could faintly read the battle unfolding beyond the trees.
The attackers were professionals, armed with the latest weapons and gear. Among them, at least twenty were superhumans.
Compared to the ragtag bandits from Dodon’s Brotherhood earlier, the difference was like that between a regular army and street thugs.
And yet—
“Circle—aaaugh!!”
“Go for the legs! Get the—ghk!”
They were being slaughtered. Literally massacred.
Whoever was fighting them wielded cruelty beyond measure; the screams of the dying echoed through the forest like a funeral dirge.
Corvus narrowed her eyes.
Yeomyeong? No. It wasn’t him.
Her disciple could be ruthless with enemies, but this wasn’t just ruthless—it was butchery.
Then could it really be...?
Before she could finish the thought, the screams stopped.
An awful, suffocating silence.
Even the drunk workers and the superhumans in camp understood what that silence meant.
The battle was over. Just like that. Quick. Brutal.
Then, the sound of two sets of footsteps broke through the stillness from beyond the trees.
Step. Step.
The merchants held their breath. Even the dragon tensed.
Two figures emerged under the camp’s torchlight.
One wore a hood. The other—Yeomyeong.
Not a drop of blood on either of them. They calmly stepped into the camp and sat at a table.
No one dared speak.
But the moment Yeomyeong approached the table where the Seti sisters were sitting—
The Saint shattered the silence.
“Hey! Yeomyeong! You’re sleeping outside tonight!”
