Cameraman Never Dies-Chapter 251: At last, the man got his smoke

Gereon laughed like a maniac, the kind of laugh that made you wonder if his sanity had gone on vacation and forgotten to come back. He clutched his chest in a grand, theatrical gesture, as though he were a final boss in the middle of a cutscene, pausing dramatically before unleashing Phase 2. All he was missing was ominous music and a health bar that suddenly doubled in size.

"Admirable!" He declared, with the cheerful curiosity of a man rediscovering an old hobby. "Truly delightful, how long has it been since I bled?"

The trio froze. Their fingers tightened around their weapons, every muscle pulled taut like bowstrings.

They did truly deserve this moment — watching their enemy bleed was like finally getting dessert after being force-fed nothing but pain and disappointment. A glorious, terrible feast for their eyes. And yet, the aftertaste was all wrong. Something about Gereon’s smile suggested that dessert was poisoned.

Their instincts screamed at them like unpaid landlords. Something bad was coming, and it wasn’t the "stub your toe on the coffee table" kind of bad. It was the "your intuition was right for once, congratulations, now enjoy imminent doom" kind.

Of course, trusting their intuition hadn’t gone well last time. That little gut feeling had led them straight into Gereon’s trap and nearly got them minced into heroic confetti. But this time felt different.

This wasn’t subtle dread. This was the kind of looming danger that even the village idiot could spot from across the continent. It hung in the air like a bad smell, heavy, obvious, impossible to ignore.

Even a novice could smell the trouble — though if they were being honest, this was less "smell" and more "choking hazard."

"The power of words," Gereon’s voice slipped back into its natural register, smooth and unbothered, as if the gaping wound in his chest was a minor wardrobe malfunction. "You are more than just a Neophyte."

May’s throat tightened, but she wasn’t about to let her pride curl up and die. Swallowing her fear like it was bitter medicine, she stepped forward. "I do not need your remarks, wyvern."

Predictably, that only made Gereon laugh. A deep, resonant laugh that rattled against the walls of the battlefield like a drumroll before something catastrophic. "Wyvern, ehh? I guess you can call me that."

The sound cut off at once. His laughter collapsed into silence, and his face became a blank mask, calm and cold enough to make the trio’s blood chill. "But a beginner is all you are."

The air itself thickened. At first, it was subtle, like the heaviness before a storm, but then the weight grew unbearable. Something unseen pressed down on them — merciless, crushing.

May was the first to buckle, her knees slamming the ground, but Quill and Luther weren’t spared either. Gereon had loosed his will.

Normally, revealing one’s will in battle was the mark of desperation. It was a bluff that only worked if the enemy had fear in their bones, and fear could be resisted if one had courage — or at least stubborn denial.

But Gereon wasn’t "normal." Normal was the last word you’d use for someone who could casually weaponize existence itself. A dragon’s will didn’t politely ask for compliance. It demanded it. Even without fear, even without hesitation, it forced obedience.

May’s palms dug into the dirt, her head forced down as if the ground itself wanted to devour her. Every breath was like drowning, like sinking in an ocean when you didn’t even know how to float. Her body screamed, joints locking, lungs refusing to fill. She couldn’t lift her head. She couldn’t even form words. Her own mouth betrayed her, clamping shut as if to say, don’t even try.

And for a moment, she almost listened. For a moment, surrender seemed... sweet. What was the point of struggling when she could just let the current pull her under? Death whispered like a lullaby, promising rest, promising release. All she had to do was stop clawing upward, and the weight would stop hurting.

But the thought didn’t last. The sweetness soured, and May’s heart snarled back at the temptation. Why should she die here, in the dirt, when she hadn’t lived enough to deserve a grave?

She still had things to hold onto — her parents’ warmth, her brother’s embrace, and the thought of that one stubbornly charming man who made the storms bearable. No, she wasn’t about to collapse now.

Her vision blurred, her body trembled, but her spirit sharpened like a blade refusing to dull. She knelt, but she knelt with all her might.

The invisible pressure loosened just enough for her lungs to wheeze in air, and Gereon, as if bored with his own theatrics, began to float upward. His arms stretched wide in a mockery of welcome. "Now now, don’t die with just this," he drawled, like a host scolding guests for fainting before dessert.

Then the world itself broke.

The battlefield around them cracked like a poorly made stage prop, fragments of sky and stone crumbling into nothing. "Welcome back to the real world..." Gereon announced, because apparently, shattering realities wasn’t dramatic enough without narration.

The illusion fell apart like a mirror hurled against the floor. The false mountains, the false wind, the false sky—all shards now, leaving behind the truth: the cathedral.

And the truth was ugly.

They were standing in carnage. Corpses sprawled across the marble in heaps, a grotesque carpet of flesh and steel. The smell hit May like a slap to the face: coppery, sour, thick enough to taste. Her stomach threatened to stage a rebellion, but at least she could breathe again. Small mercies.

At the center of the slaughter sat Gereon. Relaxed. Almost casual. A cigar hung from his lips, trailing smoke into the suffocating air as if he were taking a break between murders. The gaping wound in his chest still glistened, golden blood spilling freely like some kind of arrogant fashion statement.

He didn’t look like a warrior in pain. He looked like a man enjoying a post-battle smoke break, only missing a newspaper and maybe a cup of coffee to really sell the absurdity.