Displaying a nihilistic smile, I think there’s an undying allure in the classic trope of boasting about wounds as mere scratches.
Still, if I were asked to pull off the same trick, I’d be hard-pressed to do it. Above all, I’m alone here.
With every step, I bear wounds that throb incessantly as I make my way through the waterways in search of escape. A modest magical light source illuminates the ground before me—nothing more than a simple spell powered by raw mana—and I choose paths where the filth is more prominent than usual, walking carefully.
It’s to leave as little trace as possible for any pursuers. In the dirtier areas, the hardworking viscous masses, tirelessly laboring without regard for day or night, will likely clean up any evidence before long. And if I stick to the streets where they’re working, even the most elite of hunters would have difficulty traversing.
Even so… yeah, hunters. They’re the kind that, from a distance, can strike without the faintest hint of hostility and deliver devastating blows. Normal people might expect them to climb walls or ceilings for a pursuit… There’s no way I can afford to be overly confident.
“Tch… not again.”
As I turn a corner, I’m met with one such mass of viscous substance hard at work. A section of the waterway is entirely consumed by one of its split forms, as it processes dirt stuck on the walls, mud and debris accumulated in the waterways, and even harmful creatures.
Through its semi-transparent body, I can see a rat struggling, its form slowly being dissolved by the highly alkaline consistency of the viscous substance, squeezing my stomach tight. It feels eerily like a suggestion of my own fate if I were to slip up, and it makes my heart distinctly uneasy.
If you pay attention, you’ll likely survive, but make a single mistake and it could be deadly. How reliable is this as public infrastructure? Either way, the sooner I leave this place, the better.
“But… this isn’t good.”
With this path blocked, my options are to retrace my steps or head downwards along an alternative route. I chose this path, thinking it would be faster, but my luck’s run out today. Last week, when I came here to scatter bait, the route seemed clear so I thought it would be safe.
I scratch my head a few times to distract myself from the frustration, ultimately deciding to head deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels. Though I could use my power to create stepping stones across the viscous masses, the risk of failure is considerable, so I can’t bring myself to do it. I have no interest in picking a fight with some rich guy dressed up like a clown.
“Mm…”
After turning a few corners, a feeling of unease washes over me. It’s as if every path I want to take is inconveniently blocked.
Is someone guiding me this way? Who? And more importantly, why?
If they’re trying to capture me, they wouldn’t need to go through all this trouble. If they knew my location, they could simply send elite hunters after me.
As I turn to head back, an unsettling sound echoes through the waterways. Ah, this sound is bad. It’s not the sound of the viscous liquid flowing but rather writhing.
A particularly huge mass is scraping the surface of the waterway, creating a sound that makes my skin crawl.
Yeah, this is bad news.
Through countless stories of dire enemies, I’ve encountered many terrifying descriptions, but this sound surpasses even the imagination of a game master with plenty of enthusiasm for his craft. Just hearing it conjures up images of immense mass in my mind, transforming the word “despair” into something that flickers with new meaning and form.
Listen, whatever you do, don’t pick a fight. Got it? Absolutely not. I thought I heard a voice emphasizing this point, though I’ve gleefully disregarded similar warnings in the past, multiple times. That kind of playful adventurer spirit of provoking anything that moves is fun, sure…
But this, this is something else. It’s impossible to face. No way. Instinctively, my legs moved forward, advancing down a path I began to suspect was a trap.
I emerge into a vast antechamber. I don’t know what it was originally built for—though later I learned it was designed to contain flood-level rains. The expansive underground space, lined with countless columns, is eerily lit by magical lights spaced at regular intervals as if for some unknown purpose.
Every carefully muted step creates a disquieting echo and resonance within the cavern-like space. The unsettling indigo light gives the entire area an eerie and distrustful ambiance. The unnatural atmosphere makes me reluctant to take another step, but with no clear way back, I push forward.
Counting roughly thirty trees-like columns I pass with a distance of about five meters between each, the sense of traversing a significant distance becomes clear, when a shadow appears from behind one of them.
It appears abruptly but moves with undeniable grace, and with a soft click, a beautifully tailored boot strikes the ground, the sound resonating like an epic poem spreading through the space.
The perfectly poised silhouette stands out even against the eerie indigo light. Clad in a formal evening gown of black silk, exuding an effortless elegance that defies description, there’s a figure of impeccable nobility.
However, the refined face is obscured by an opulent mask, marking him unmistakably as a pervert. I’ve seen something like this in a morning rerun of an old anime.
This eccentric, or rather nobleman who screams “pervert,” removes his mask to perform a perfect, theatrical bow, revealing truly elegant manners. Then he snaps his fingers.
And suddenly, the elegant, silk-covered hand that was previously empty now holds a staff. Not the ceremonial kind traditionally carried by nobility. The staff’s tip is crowned with a bead so sinisterly red it cannot be mistaken for anything but a powerful magical focus. The kind used by professors with wealth and power, designed to enhance the casting of powerful spells.
My instincts and experience kick into overdrive, ringing alarms at the highest level of alertness. Without wasting time trying to process unnecessary thoughts, I dive behind one of the columns just as the space where I was standing explodes. The sudden pressure wave hurls me off balance, and I land painfully elsewhere.
What just happened!? It wasn’t a fire-based spell, nor was it an ordinary explosion. It felt like… like the space itself collapsed. What kind of sorcery is this!?
For a moment, as my mind struggles to comprehend what just happened, I let go of my bewilderment, blaming insufficient magical knowledge for my failed assessment. As I roll and take the impact, I immediately call upon the “Invisible Hands” spell, creating multiple floating ‘hands’ to manage my landing.
I have my hands toss me around in a series of controlled movements to avoid colliding with the columns, gradually decelerating my motion to avoid disorientation and internal damage. Slow and steady is key here—mistakes are costly.
Once sufficiently slowed, I have a hand-sized platform catch me gently, then immediately create more floating platforms mid-air, leaping from one to the next with fierce determination, crossing the distance between five columns within a single breath.
“Indeed…”
Ignoring the exclamation of appreciation, I raise my empty hands high. Knowing full well I’m out of optimal range, and that the target likely has an impenetrable magical barrier, I summon the name of the accursed sword.
“～～～～～～～～!!”
The sound of the materializing blade seems to screech in exultation. It produces an ear-splitting, almost harmonious howl as it materializes within my grasp—a formidable Magic Sword. The Sword of Desire has answered my call, transcending the confines of space.
The sword slashes through the air with jubilant abandon, and as I leap, I unleash a full-force attack downwards—what could be perceived as an overzealous downward strike. The coordination of my whole body transfers the force seamlessly to the tip, amplified by gravity, creating a devastating blow.
An attack of this nature could effortlessly bisect a human body, hard yet pliable enough to avoid resistance—a satisfying impact that strikes at the heartline. Yet, this glorious strike finds itself meeting nothing but air, only producing sparks mid-space.
“What!?”
The sharp sensation of cutting through something very hard repeats once, twice, thrice, four times, before interrupting mid-fifth, where my attack and I are frozen mid-air.
“Hmm, capable enough to shatter over half of my seven physical barriers.” A melodious voice, suited for opera, casually mentions an incomprehensible number, but there’s no time for pondering. Stopping for a second means retaliation.
So I channel magic once again. Invisible Hands aren’t just for movement and defense. They have broader applications.
“Oho!”
The six hands I’ve expanded to their maximum size form fists and deliver a series of powerful strikes in quick succession.
I’m not doing anything fancy—just leveraging the principle of increasing the pressure on an object embedded in something solid by applying weight. It’s like using momentum and force to split a pumpkin stuck on a knife. Except here, the knife is a colossal magic sword and my fists are driven by relentless willpower.
Attempting to dodge at this point is too late. Whether the blade enters through the skull or the neck, the outcome remains the same.
Besides, I have no intention of holding back against someone who starts fights with “certain death” tactics. I’m not that polite or refined a person. Securing the “First Blood” achievement right off the bat seems entirely reasonable. They’re the ones who are clearly wrong for instigating a fight with a life-or-death level of hostility, and let’s not even compare their magic with the likes of someone like me, who fights on the same terms as an ordinary swordsman. There’s no need for that.
With a satisfying sensation akin to slicing through meat and bone, the Sword of Desire enters through the nobleman’s shoulder and exits through his groin, encountering no resistance at all from his split-open body.
Holding back the after-attack momentum from striking the ground proves quite challenging, but my concentration keeps the blow contained.
Aiming to avoid openings after attack, I leap backward just in time to narrowly avoid the staff’s base swinging upward. The shockwave it creates sends heat up my nose, plucking out a few strands of hair. The blow is powerful enough to momentarily shrink my testicular region. If I had been hit directly, I’d have been condemned to months of porridge eating.
“Mm, interesting…”
However, the nobleman stands effortlessly on one leg, as if nothing extraordinary has occurred, despite having his entire left side cleaved off. The severed portion, with no visible means of support, simply reattaches itself, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Though this form is far from my expectations, it isn’t bad. Your spell-casting sequence is exemplary. A grade of A, I’d say. However, it’s somewhat straightforward. Efficient, of course, but overly so, lacking a degree of art that makes it open to interference. A young man like you might get his spells interrupted too easily. Thus, I must regretfully award only a C+ in this aspect.”
Here’s this man, who eerily resembles a teacher, calmly grading my performance…
Damn it! Is it just me, or does everyone I encounter lean towards the categories of “pervert” and “completely insane hybrid”? I’ve had enough. Please, stop increasing exponentially, you weirdoes.
The severed half of the nobleman stands back up on one leg and one hand, attaching itself seamlessly as if it has the utmost entitlement to do so. I’m starting to get tired of this absurdity of perpetual repair. Meanwhile, my own body requires constant maintenance and reassemblage.
“And so, let’s carry on with the lecture.”
The staff’s head strikes the ground with a heavy thud, and two shadows crawl out from the columns on either side of the nobleman.
Their bodies glisten with wet fur that reflects the magical light. Beneath the surface, muscles ripple with untamed energy, hinting at explosive potential not achievable by humans. Their lithe yet fearsome bodies radiate primal strength.
The most terrifying part? The “three-headed hounds” extending from these perfectly sculpted bodies. They are not wild beasts but possess evident signs of disciplined training and intelligence.
The triple-headed hunting hounds I’ve encountered several times around the cities are nothing like these specimens. Their impressive size surpasses the average large dogs, boasting lion-like physiques instead.
The remarkable creatures under his command, the gentleman remarks, with a bow.
“These are my prized ones, you see. Don’t they have a splendid coat? They’re well-loved in the neighborhood for their charm.”
It’s unsettling to picture these creatures, capable of devouring whole limbs in one bite, being introduced as cute little dogs. How on earth do his neighbors endure such things?
And by the way, who exactly are you? I’m growing dizzy trying to guess what your actual purpose here is. It seems less like capture and more like an odd performance, complete with elaborate staging. You’re starting to resemble a particularly pesky comrade who prioritizes the entertainment value of their exploits above all else.
“Then, boy, remain on your guard!”
Oh, come on already! Stop doing random things and convincing yourself it’s enough for the scene! It feels like being stuck in a game session with a GM obsessed with excessive role-playing!!
While my wounds, strained further by overexertion, throb with pain, I engage my “Multi-layered Simultaneous Thought” to its fullest extent, evading the pounce of the triple-headed hunting hounds…
【Tips】 The triple-headed hounds are part of the magical constructs developed by the Threefold Empire. Highly intelligent, a well-trained one can understand and follow human commands even without the ability to speak. They are utilized across a range of roles in urban settings, including patrol and security, and are sometimes employed as auxiliary scouts.
Since these beings are artificial creations of pure magic, unable to reproduce naturally without a Mage’s intercession, they can be likened to descendants of familiars.
Though the typhoon didn’t turn out to be as serious as expected, this gives me a small sense of relief. But the enforced tapping continues, as far as I can see.
It’s strange, isn’t it? Face-up untapping is only supposed to occur once per turn.
Could my job actually be Eternal Blue…?
