What value is there in simply being able to move quickly? The thought crossed my mind as the memory of a friend sitting around the table with me scoffing through their nose surfaced in my mind.
Let’s see if he can take the experience I’ve been through and still look down on action points.
The clang of metal against metal rang out nearby, sparks scattering as they illuminated the dim arena in vivid detail. In my peripheral vision, I could see the Undead swinging an absurdly massive sword like a twig, and it had just executed a flawless follow-through.
I wish they would go easy on me.
Action points are a numeric system implemented in many role-playing games, but at its core, it comes down to “who gets to move first.”
Unless you’re playing some particularly broken or high-level system, characters typically only get one move per turn. At the appropriate level, taking a single hit usually doesn’t result in death, which often leads to underappreciating this crucial number.
Ah, I remember now. That guy was mostly absent from high-level tables, preferring instead pro-wrestling style systems with resurrection mechanics.
Conversely, in situations like the one I’m in now—where getting hit with a fatal blow means it’s all over—speed alone is a serious threat.
Almost immediately after letting out a spirited roar, the Undead swung at me. With no flourish, just a simple step and diagonal slash, I was sent flying with ease.
I never saw it coming. The enemy was far too fast, and the blow was devastating.
It wasn’t by chance that I survived. It was the unmistakable brush of sheer murderous intent running down my spine and the foreboding aura of death that signaled the incoming strike. It must be the fault of that cursed sword—a weapon that never brings anything good.
Hence why, avoiding a direct hit, I jumped back and diffused the force of the blow mid-air. Had I hesitated, or if this “Sending Wolf” sword were dull, I would have been torn asunder, my insides scattered across the floor. As it was, my body tumbled gracelessly through the room thanks to my poorly-planned evasion.
Still, it’s ironic how this sword, taken from its original owner in defeat, now serves its new wielder so diligently.
I activated multiple layers of “Invisible Hands,” softly cushioning my landing as I repositioned and tightened my grip on my sword. Realizing that I could no longer afford to hold back, I summoned every ounce of mana I could muster. I pushed myself beyond limits, my vision turning a dull red, my frontal lobe feeling compressed, and a dull ache radiating from the back of my head.
My brain was clearly protesting the overuse of magical energy. The body tries to protect itself from overexertion by flooding the mind—softly housed within the skull—with waves of pain. Our impulsive nature, always chasing that rush of satisfaction, makes it impossible to resist. It’s the reason eating feels good and relieving oneself brings relief.
But that’s not what I need right now.
Suppressing the pain through sheer willpower and berating my survival instincts, I completed the spell. Seven arms emerged, picking up the weapons previously wielded by the Undead. Each weapon assumed perfect stances guided by the “Battlefield Swordsmanship” technique.
The sight of swords, greatswords, spears, daggers, and curved blades all pointing at their former master was almost comical, tinged with irony. After all, these weapons had been clutched in the hands of a corpse. And now, they’ve risen to strike at their dead owner. Surely, I couldn’t complain if someone called me overworked, could I?
Despite the spear’s requirement for two hands, the number of weapons at my disposal was effectively sevenfold. Against ordinary adversaries, this would feel overwhelming and almost amusing, but facing this calm Undead? I couldn’t afford any lapses.
With a kick that made the floor explode and a stomp that left a crater, the Undead charged forward. The mummy-like frame, which looked fragile, unleashed slashes far beyond what seemed possible, deflecting all seven of my blades with a single movement. Then, using the momentum from this clearing, the Undead twisted and aimed directly for me.
The greatsword, heavy and unwieldy at a glance, was used with astonishing speed. Swinging in a circular motion—starting from an overhead strike, transitioning into a rising cut, followed by yet another roundhouse slash—showcased an unshakable mastery. The deflection of all blades pointed at the Undead’s body highlighted the skill of this former adventurer.
Clearly, they must’ve been a famous adventurer, one who excelled not in battles amidst armies but as a singular force capable of overwhelming individuals or groups. This was a technique born from that kind of experience, something only the eccentric adventurers possess.
How unexpected, to receive lessons from a master hidden deep within this hellish dungeon!
Attempting to counter its overwhelming vertical chop with the three weapons, it was met with resistance from a clever pivot using the blade. My thrust with the spear and curved blade was stopped effortlessly. Adding insult to injury, the short sword aiming at its ankle was crushed under the force of what looked like a calculated stomp.
Some things are just not humanly possible! How many more times is it going to dodge my finishing blow?!
In a final attempt to reset the battlefield, I disengaged all six arms at once and pushed off with great force, creating distance and retrieving another weapon mid-air. Quickly, I established a defensive wall in front of me.
The Undead, having been pushed back, landed gracefully and readied their weapon. Bits of metal from the opposing blades flew off as they were swatted away, glittering like shards of light.
Looking over my collection of weapons now, most had their edges chipped or jagged, resembling nothing more than saws—an alarming sight.
Heavy, sharp, nearly indestructible; if you’re looking solely at stats, it’s a desirable weapon. But no matter how powerful it might be, I would never willingly pick it up. Such cursed blades always come with massive disadvantages. Imagine something like a prince’s cursed sword, killing loved ones and friends alike—it’s not something one wants to endure.
Though, all these worries are meaningless unless you survive this encounter.
Breathless from the ferocious sword exchange, I tightened my grip on the “Sending Wolf” and took a deep breath. The headache worsened; my shoulders felt heavy despite the deep inhalation, and the dry air tasted strange, slightly metallic.
Yet, the Undead’s composure was impressive—no sign of fatigue, no unsteadiness, just cold, calculated swordsmanship awaiting the next strike.
“How truly unfair… I’ll never understand how you’re not tired!”
The skill of being unaffected by fatigue is truly enviable—a feature unattainable by regular humans.
Here it comes. A monster with limitless stamina preparing to crush me with unmatched stats.
The continuous circular motion produced high-speed slashes coming at me like rain. A downward strike, which I evaded by grazing its blade’s flat surface. A rising cut, deflected with the shaft of my spear held like a shield. A mighty diagonal strike, dodged using multiple blades as cover.
I’m alive, barely.
Every dangerous strike, each narrow miss, the split-second exhaustion—it all results in shallow cuts across my skin, with thin rivulets of blood trickling down. Strangely, the feel of blood sliding from my cheek to my lips was oddly comforting.
I’ll drink water. If I survive this, I’ll drink gallons of water. It’s said that drinking when you’re wobbly feels good, but drinking when you’re on the verge of death must be the best feeling imaginable.
My spear broke. Unable to withstand the constant slashes, it splintered like a used-up chopstick the moment I thrust it forward.
My greatsword collapsed. After using it as a shield repeatedly, it was warped beyond repair.
My curved blade fractured. My dagger shattered. My overused sword snapped in half.
Every weapon I had enchanted and depended upon, all were destroyed by the enemy’s overwhelming offense.
Expectedly, only the lone surviving sword remains. Even though my hand tingles and I’m unsure if I fully grip it, it’s all I have left.
I have no idea how many times we’ve clashed at this point. I fought as hard as I could. Bruised, cut, and bleeding profusely from cuts I don’t even notice, I managed to deliver several slashes of my own, though none landed deep enough to matter, merely marking the worn-out cloth and armor covering the Undead.
Yeah, you really shouldn’t fight a boss one-on-one.
With deliberate slowness, the Undead readied their weapon. A stance familiar from countless previous encounters—preparing their signature diagonal slash, the cold and deadly technique of swinging the sword with centrifugal force.
I see. That’s their next target, and if I don’t stop it, I’m as good as dead.
I’ve exhausted all tricks, all clever moves. My mind, oddly sharp despite my body’s exhaustion and dwindling mana reserves, stays surprisingly clear, perhaps thanks to wiping my face with the last remnants of magical energy.
Until now, you’ve been so silent, but please, give me at least one miracle. Show me your beloved six-sided eyes.
If nothing happens, this might be the end for me.
The sound of a dice rolling echoed, but surely it’s just a hallucination. Someone rolling dice outside? The thought alone strikes terror into me. Back off, I’m the one making the judgment now, and I’ll do it without interference.
The success or failure is up to me, so I pray for at least one critical hit… just one…
…Ah, it’s over. This is definitely fatal.
Amidst the absurdity, as I hoped for a critical hit, the dice showed not the two sixes I desired but two red dots.
Misfortunate! I slipped on my own blood, my footing ruined, leading to my grand plan of dodging an underhand rising strike by attacking first completely failing.
Even if I could recover, the briefest of moments would be more than enough for the greatsword to carve me in half. I wonder, what happens if I’m struck by that sword, based on its menacing appearance and its previous wielder’s fate? Chances are it won’t end well.
Ah, screw this, I don’t care about deus ex machina or anything else—I just wish for a miracle that could save me.
No, expecting miracles in such a critical moment is a sign of bad luck, not good fortune. It’s clear my dice rolls have been unfavorable all along.
“Friend… I will protect you.”
Just as I was about to close my eyes in resignation, a voice—my friend’s voice—rang out.
The mighty swing of the blade, so terrifying that it seemed to cut through the air itself, feels impossibly slow. The faint glimmers of light reflecting off the sword, caught by a subtle light source, what could they possibly be?
No, there’s no time to wonder. When a blade slows down, it’s the moment when death transforms into life.
Without breaking the momentum of my rising strike, I switched my grip on the Sending Wolf and reversed its direction. Instead of an upward slash, the blade met the incoming strike and deflected it harmlessly toward the ground.
Seizing the fleeting opportunity, I lunged through the shock and slick, blood-slicked floor, desperate to close the distance. With Send Wolf reversed in one hand, I thrust the Fairy’s dagger upward and deep into the right flank of the Undead.
The knife, which could sever the material connections of the living dead, did so with unfailing precision, cutting through dried sinews and brittle bone like aged twigs. There was no need for a complete bisect, as the Undead’s sensory network was mechanical, not biological. The motion of limbs, however, still relied on these connections.
The very force of my strike severed its sinews, causing the arm to detach. With a final clatter, the sword, radiating an eerie glow, rolled and crashed to the ground.
“Mi…Go…To……”
With a sound akin to brittle twigs snapping or glass being rubbed together, the Undead emitted what could only be described as a groan…
【Tips】 A Fanblow: An absolute failure. The system’s judgment gone awry. In a d6 roll, it manifests as a double one. In a d100 roll, it could be 95-100. These unlucky rolls, no matter how simple the action—reciting a poem or tossing a tissue into a nearby bin—can bring about failure. Sometimes even breathing becomes impossible. And in rare cases, it might lead to an ironic miracle.
Sorry for the delay; it’s not out of malice but simply due to exceeding my capacity, all for monetary reasons.
Next time, we’ll push through the dungeon and proceed to the ending and debriefing.
The joy is in receiving the ticket for the game and contemplating its many possible uses.
