Reincarnated as a Duck: A beast progression litrpg isekai-Chapter 283 - 274: Reaping Death

Bagus was lost in words, hopes, and even a common basic understanding of humans. He lost it all. The world must not be spinning right, after all, and everything stood still.

Even the sky might be already red, and Depths and Surfaces turned to lakes and were invaded by bees. It wasn't as if this was unexpected. He was delirious, craving the ends of all things.

He hoped he had crushed this madman enough, thinking he deserved something better in the End of everything.

He wasn't any Believer, however. No religion or ideas about the Afterlife were close to his heart, since his species wasn't particularly special or convinced about it, like most others in this world. Bagus was more living in the moment, with his friends, colleagues, or... well, where did it end?

In a shaft, deep under the ground, and away from the sun and air, where he belonged.

At least it was no cage, so he found it satisfactory. Good. There was at least something positive in those pools of blood and shredded dreams closing on his feathers.

The punishment didn't seem to be enough, or was he close or far from Razmund and this whole fight? He did push it further, bled, and battled this maniac.

Bagus was aware of it, but was he even the one fighting him or himself? Bagus wasn't sure. He could never be certain, but he wished he were. In any way. Somewhat. That he knew he had done well for himself and felt proud that he clashed against someone this insane. That alone should make anyone prouder.

What was there at the end of this idea or the very start? Was he alone, trying to lift his paws and head to do what? Could he share it with someone? Death was kind of lonely when he thought about it, but he wasn't feeling alone.

Dying alone was one of his least wishful thoughts. He never wanted to pass like that. It sounded like a terrible idea, even though many judged a clean End like a cleansing of the Afterlife.

A gruesome one would lead to a bumpy End, so being surrounded by loving family and children sounded fun, even if it was melodramatic.

Bagus didn't want any of that.

He wanted to be content and know there was something in this life worth living for and dying for. In the end, he got one answer.

And further doubts as he found a wish to continue. The worst choice was right there, hovering over him like a shadow, and another one was scraping the floor.

A figure stood close, a claymore clutched, its blade glinting towards the floor. Fingers trembled, blood dripped from them, bathing the steel and giving mana another crazy hues.

Bones tried to move the flesh; the clutch could be stronger for sure, yet strength was faltering like sound and rugged breaths that were slow and harsh.

They weren't heavy. They sounded every five seconds, echoing with numerous blood drops into the silent mines. Well, that was wrong; there was still Bagus's rough breathing that made up for Razmund's eerie stillness.

Razmund was utterly drained and not just because of those droplets. His breath wasn't as noticeable, while his features were harsh like the ground of this cave—both broken and bloodied. He wasn't in a severe condition like Bagus, which was weird.

His clothes were haggard, skin exposed, and mood unstable, yet his movements were unnaturally incoherent yet stable. Most strength was weaker, but in noticeable ways, his flesh kept mending, and clothes could be bought again.

"We fought like maniacs... and for what? Insignificant." Razmund said, speaking better than he thought. "I... never expected this from this place and beast such as you, Bagus, or maybe I haven't looked enough. It is... respectable. I am very stupid, after.... everything."

Bagus wished for a laugh; he doubted Razmund even learned his name. He ended up being wrong, so that might be yet another strange mark of this time, or was it rather right?

The Centralis Kingdom was the epitome of human sovereignty. They thought of most beasts as animals, regardless of whether they spoke, laid the foundation of upper societies, or were even more powerful than them.

On the very opposing side, they regarded beastfolk and various other races walking on two legs as inferior and used them for slavery and menial tasks. In that regard, perhaps beasts had it better.

It was wrong again.

It was a terrible prospect in every freaking land, as power was absolute, and be it Order or Chaos, there weren't many places to hide from the truth of power.

As far as Bagus knew from his experience, being unhinged and true was a vision. Hells were much more honest, which was kind of poetic, given the many stories from the Surface.

At least, some things deserved laughs and jokes, becoming stories and tales depending on context and what one meant or wanted. It was a strict and teasing adaptation and strange propaganda.

In the end, the winners were choosers, and the weaklings and beggars were losers.

Bagus found himself in a similar situation: silent, deadly still, wet, and weary in his mind. He wasn't old or young. Beasts had weird perceptions of time and age anyway, while the End was coming to them one way or another—especially to those close to slaughter and death.

He couldn't judge Razmund anymore, as there was no point.

"At last..." Bagus said, "Right? Is that right?"

"No fear? No dreams..." Razmund cracked his fingers, pushing his bones back in place. It took dozens of agonizing seconds, creating terrible clicking noises and nerve-wracking sensations.

His physique took a shit ton of damage. That ravaging, quivering strike pushed thousands of needle-like shakes into him and almost stopped his core.

Bagus couldn't do much but angle his head to see him better.

Stoic, straight, and tall—now that Bagus was lying down—Razmund felt like a Hero from many stories he had heard rising from the Surface. Stories and legends described eras, and eras described passing people and further tales.

A Hero was supposed to be outlandish in ideas, stoic and reliable to anyone, and never lose their composure. They were a one-man army, or so it was said. Nowadays, becoming a Hero evolved into a prestigious title all over the Somali continent. For as far as they could last and deviate in this era, they had a place in this world.

They described potent individuals serving kingdoms who named these fools, while the actions of Heroes came at an individual level of talent or abnormal individuality.

In the end, it was just a title. Many places had theirs, while the world gifted further order, marking them and letting them live such lives for as long as it was fine.

Then, Gods might change it on a whim or influence this whole prospect. Bagus knew that gifts and opportunities could be granted at any time and to anyone. It was essentially a game of rules and achievement, offering options that were either nothing or something achievable.

Bagus wondered if there was ever a beast with a Hero title. He wished to know at least one, yet he doubted Gods allowed it.

Razmund's left hand was open, revealing glinting pink light around a peculiar Dice.

"Fate, eh?" Bagus asked.

Razmund put that arm up, groaning and feeling his heart and terribly wretched chest tensing up. He watched the Dice wincing as it wrapped itself around his bloody arm.

[Hateful...] It whispered. [But brave.]

It didn't seem to like his blood, which was far from anything surprising. He was still a man. This thing was so petty in its meals that he wondered if it could even taste something.

"Yes..." Razmund said simply, unsure of how to even address it at this point. He angled his claymore, thinking of killing Bagus to show him his own take on mercy. It was the least he could do.

He was no Hero.

But right as he attempted it, Razmund changed his mind, cut to the ground, and walked behind him.

"Wait..." Bagus groaned.

With heavy and lead-like legs, Razmund wasn't quick, so he grabbed a scalding hot potion from his pouch, which had survived this ordeal and failure for as long as it could. The potion was a handful, and even when closed, it was sizzling and looking like a slime made of blood and flames.

"You are unlucky to me. To see me. That's the best cause and answer to your unfinished and unfilial dreams, beast," Razmund said, shattering the potion over his chest.

Sounding and looking like a small explosion, the glass itself turned to mist, leaking its contents out as if it weren't for drinking.

It was invasive like a poison, and before the content turned free, it turned into sizzling, slimy tendrils, wincing and charging to his flesh.

In an instant, the mist transformed, turning into white tendrils. Then, it all sizzled away and became a fine restorative and almost living medicine, consisting of precious Slimerak, a creature living on the edges of the continent and waters.

Slimy in appearance, it was said to be immortal because of lacking flesh and infinite vitality. It was true. It fed on other creatures and depths of water, giving it nearly enough satisfaction, so it often sought out the land.

But they were too much of an exquisite treasure to arouse their existence. Level? Fame? They were near extinction due to excessive hunting and human needs. They were also dangerous, as no matter what, they wanted to devour strong Vitality while not being very brutal.

They were like pests and a gruesome, poisonous tide. Thus, acts of alchemy were required, transforming them into fine, vitality-based treasures, creating one of the quickest ways to recover from external wounds at minimal cost.

Overall, Vitality Attribute might lose effectiveness, yet as long as the individual didn't carry poisons, Laws, or elements, they wouldn't pose a threat to the user.

Razmund had no such thing as troubled Vitality or sloppy elements, so Slimerak Potion found its way to his Physique, empowering it and giving him Extreme Regeneration that mended and fixed his absent preferences.

It was a low-grade one, yet it cost him 50,000 Hell Points, as it was one of a couple of gifts he had bought in this whole dive. It was worth every penny since such treasures were most satisfactory when used—not hoarded and wasted.

Everything flowed to his chest wounds and even cuts from those sharp feathers. Sizzling skin came with closing and cleaning, and that happened quicker than the swing of a sword, before it moved to his shoulders, closing and vitalizing his bones and muscles.

It didn't relieve the stress or tension of every little problem of this man. It made Razmund better at walking and handling that claymore, while he still looked impaired and broken because he missed the issue of sensitivity.

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It made him feel as if he was in flames and devoured bit by bit. Mana was rapidly consumed, and the balance between strength and weakness was waning. He had consumed far too many things over the past week, and his mana and stamina were reaching a state of decay.

"Can I... one... better?" Bagus tried to haggle, but he wasn't very good at it.

Razmund took a sharp breath and felt this potion of magma rushing over his life. It was very internal and conflicting, which wasn't very good, as there were many layers of damage hiding everywhere.

Some were unnecessary, yet guiding this low-grade version was inconceivable. He needed better treatment—or time—so it was a moment to go further into his pouch. He wished he could care, but at this point, hesitating was a poison that he had to dissipate.

He found a round glass bottle, which he flicked open right above Bagus.

"Don't feel wrong," he said, "for I will catch your little master and there is nothing you can do about it. It is not... personal."

Bagus dropped his head. "Lies. I do... wonder about that. Luck is a haggler, and I am not very lucky, am I?"

He whimpered. As expected, he has no clue about the portal under the mines. He didn't find out about it, so he must think Murai fled because of him and him alone. That means... confidence. Hunters always described it like that. A panicking target is the half-death target, so he doesn't think much about my stalling. Too bad; I wasn't really stalling, or was I?

Bagus delayed this madman for a while. He bet his life on that.

But he would doubt all Hells on everything physical and wet if it meant certainty. And Murai and Lisa couldn't deal with this guy, so did he do enough?

It was no longer a false assumption. Bagus's part was accomplished because Razmund was confident that nothing would stop him from then on. No Beast. No mines. No Hunters. Time might.

So he slurped the yellowish potion next, giving him a temporary solution to his internal issues and stamina. It was like a better version of Adrenalin Shot, an injection-based drug that would cause sleepless nights and intensity for a day in exchange for a quick increase in attributes and physiques. It might get shitty later on, but oh well...

Adrenalin Shot's issue muddled the brain and lowered the overall perception of someone weak in multiple non-physical departments. Unkin Potion was a bit different, though variants of Adrenalin Shot were better or worse thanks to overall Alchemy.

It was like the magic of cooking, ingredients, crafting, nature, and living things. It was always changing, thanks to new discoveries being made all the time, so depending on the place and ingredients, no one knew if something was a glorious treasure or rubbish.

Therefore, in Battleworld, alchemy was a reputable profession that mages valued and needed. The whole world needed it, but that was secondary.

In weirder cases, curious or mixed bags of mages were borderline psychotic in such ways, or absolutely godlike.

Razmund held a high opinion of alchemy. The Centralis Kingdom invested considerable research and effort into this profession. It was no wonder; it was an official and well-behaved profession with lessons and worldly cues.

There were academies for it, and many alchemists in the Somalis continent sought a better reputation, ingredients, and standing all the freaking time. It was time-consuming, expensive, and talent-based. If money could move it forth, then riches would flow.

From guilds to royalty, to adventurers and regular dives to dungeons, there was a resolved balance in the status quo.

It was common everywhere, let alone in this secular world.

The moment Razmund drank Unkin Potion, he felt a rushing feeling as if there was a raging storm in his stomach, clutching his lungs and mixing with the previous thing.

A breathless side-effect was starting before the painful tempest hauled everything else upside down.

Unkins were rare, passing creatures, cluttering in thousands of little beings around many mountains, caves, or many Depths. In a sense, they were like bees, but smaller, and liked flowers rich in mana properties or natural essences. Many beings used them for treasure hunting, though training them was impossible.

They preferred looking for food with idyllic, healing, and vigorous properties, giving them more life, numbers, and speed. Unkin's nectar was quite valuable because of that, acting as one of the rarest substances since very few drops came from a single colony in a year.

Like many little yet meaningful things, it had hideous or surprising repercussions. This potion lasted roughly an hour, and even then, depending on the severity of the wounds, the body's vigor, or the nature of the battle, it could last much less and even reverse. How and why it occurred was a problem of mixing bodies and mana.

Many living beings were unable to cope with Unkins, who were poisonous thanks to their too-rich nectars. Diluting it could cause issues when brewing, so alchemists have to be experts unless one looks for nastier repercussions like diarrhea, vastly decreasing mana, or various changes in mana because Unkins loved all sorts of things.

Effects or more mighty aftereffects could assemble flexibility or poison, or touch elements or quality of mana.

At the most alarming practices and with enough lacking compromises, worsening the body and wounds was simple, but not every bad thing was terrible for every user. Knowing where one bought it, or what one drank and where, was important.

Bagus watched him drink yet another drug with indifference, unlike his previous comment to have some for himself. It was exactly as he said.

Luck was a peculiar concept, representing opportunities and efforts that could either spread blessings or bring pain. It was almost as if it were Fate, a bizarre yet endless belief that many followed yet never knew existed. It was a blind belief.

For Bagus, it was bogus. He didn't like how it sounded, as it was similar to 'luck'. It stank of predetermined causes, while life was all about a moment and a time. It shouldn't be superficial, as the complexity of living has come through so many sacrifices; it would be unwise to waste it. 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

Razmund sharply stomped the ground, his chest convulsed, and wounds reopened, but Slimerak Potion still prevailed, as it was more potent. Unkin Potion let blood ooze out of his eyes, mouth, and ears, leaving a terrific force grasping his internals and wounding his Mana Core.

"Ah," Razmund grunted, standing straight and with eyes open. He looked at Bagus again. "Luck or Fate, it doesn't matter when power runs supreme. Some view it as fuel: so when it runs out, what does it matter? Too much? Too little? Can it be bought, borrowed, or stolen? I say it's the most ridiculous joke. Agreed?"

Bagus was uncertain if he should agree. He was looking at him in doubt because he had never seen such an effective yet harmful recovery.

He wasn't sure what was even recovering, as that body was about as broken as that shitty mind. Just how much humanity had he lost because of it, or what came and led to this point? In a way, Bagus felt sorry for the man.

Sure, he was familiar with many treasures around Hellscape and this temple, thanks to the high supply and demand of such tools, but some matters were out of his pocket. David was never stingy with them. Bagus was fine with what he owned and bore with his flesh and wings.

But this speed and recovery and stinking senseless clash of riches weren't common to see, let alone feel, even when he considered Hell or this whole Temple.

Just what kind of Physique allows this rage? What fuels it, or... let this man breathe without breaking? Humans... people... Bagus wondered if humans could be like those depicted in ancient legends.

Does it have some repercussions to be this mad? The downsides are in many rules, yet this doesn't seem to be the case. It is... something not obvious and malicious, since he is worse yet doesn't seem to stop, no matter what. What fuels him? How?

Many experts look far and beyond for their most suitable aspects and great combinations that could work well together.

Energy and fueling bodies to this extent is one big specialty, so... is this the fabled tale of ancient alchemy and transmutation? This man concocted the body of gods... or demons.

Potions help, and they do boundless lines. Mana allows it, or is it about food, or... is he this fast and quick because of something hidden? Blood does wonderful things. Bloodlines and abilities and... Statutes. How human, indeed.

Bagus didn't know a whole lot about the heights of people or rare resources and treasures in all sorts of plateaus of existence. He heard of studies and grand Paths, and how mana fueled countless manners and pacts.

Considering the Depths, lack of suns, and the usual nature of the underground, many ideas were odd in this place. Where he belonged. When he was brought up.

Hence, Bagus never had many treasures because he didn't prefer their dependency. That was why he was so keen on his feathers and defenses, which made him quite maddening since he was very inflicting and depended on the closest options. To be a beast. Kill or be killed. Do it or not? That sort of thing carried his simple life.

There would be no betraying there. It was confidence and trust.

A life and End could be decided quickly, through various wounds, factors, or moves. Any wound could be critical with poison or good enough angles and strength, yet... typical sense was subjective, and expectations could become very inaccurate.

This was exactly that kind of situation. Bagus lost and didn't complain. Before him was someone ridiculous, relying on himself and items and everything. What made Razmund wrong?

Maybe nothing; he was no abomination.

Perhaps Bagus was wrong about his practice. He should've looked at it from a different perspective, or his experience wasn't enough. The world was so vast. Perhaps he should dream of vaster plateaus and directions.

Razmund was aiming at him, the claymore rattling and scraping the floor. He didn't care for the sizzling sounds over his chest and shoulder. He even let his Raging Bull scatter since both of these potions messed up his mana, revealing tattered and exposed crisp yet disordered muscles.

Bloodstained, yet clear under the hues of his skin and color of blood, Bagus had seen more impressive bodies in humans, yet this one was weirder.

Both dense and collected, churning in Vitality and regeneration, he guessed that considering him slender wasn't too much of a deal when clothed. Still, Razmund's back was broad like his shoulders, while his arms were bulkier for his overall frame.

Such ideas stemmed from altering his Physique and his pursuit of a perfect body, fueled by nature, vigor, and a desire to overcome battles, which pushed him into a strange state.

"You are insane..." Bagus was right to assume that he did give Razmund a challenge. It would be wrong to call it otherwise. Razmund was an idiot for underestimating him like a moron.

And he paid the price, yet still won.

That didn't sound fair.

Could these potions be a fine excuse?

Bagus felt shocked. So much damage cracked that flesh, yet he walked and talked fine next.

That's... cheating. He thought, without knowing he could do similar things.

David gave him some treasures, but he was too tired and fed up to consider them. It wouldn't mingle with his heart, swell his pride, or make his life better. Not anymore, and maybe not ever.

Razmund would laugh at that since what pride was there in wretched death? If one fought and had things left, why not use them? It wasn't about pride.

Razmund didn't care for his current appearance. Stopping right below his lying head, Razmund stayed straight and looked at his sharp yet reluctant eyes.

They were still alive, with dreams within them, and who knew what else. Bagus surprised him at least three times. That tail, Brittleness, and Beak Shattering were unexpected and hard to deal with.

A little bit more distance and care to Raging Bull would have solved it sooner. Razmund assessed his choices and the waste of resources.

I still need a lot to learn, I suppose. It ranges from needs, enemies, and situations. What is rightfully used is another owner. What is right or wrong, or too much? Perhaps this is what I deserve after underestimating Lawful Beast? Griffins are...well, this is simple and wrong. I was wrong.

As he contemplated over the fallen foe, Bagus winced and talked, trying to appear dangerous and failing successfully. "What are you looking at?"

"You are quite something to force me this far," Razmund said, sighing. It sounded somewhat passionate, trying to be sincere or caring. Yet his next action described something else. He swung his claymore, penetrating neck and feathers with a quick slash.

It traveled deep, but something sturdy stopped his act. Was it the bones or the continuity of that long and stubby beak? He wasn't sure how beasts looked in skeletons, but this beak was vigorous.

That was for others to consider. Razmund preferred flesh. And blood.

Blood spilled when Razmund pulled his claymore out, letting red out, while the wound was clean and slowly building up to a quicker End. Bagus wasn't surprised. He was dying, yet he still kept living, feeling the heat, wetness, and heavy weight on his neck.

What was that weight? Trust or something else? Pride? He... though he dislodged it long ago, yet he kept some pride about his acts, or his species, or his simple desires closer?

Razmund snorted, flickering his claymore in the air and painting the distant wall with bloody droplets. He didn't attack again.

"Too hard. Perhaps you will live through this until I find what you've protected. Well, maybe. Perhaps the Hunters come and say hello and kill you to make their point. You might even see your little kitten. She shouldn't be too far; this place is full of weirdoes, you see, and I saw them a lot. Many look for easy prey; the one who came here alone, asking for it. That is my piece for your wish, I suppose. Slow End too... is a gift."

Then, he walked away, aiming at the opening where Murai had disappeared roughly ten minutes ago. It wasn't a lot of time; Razmund was certain he could catch up before his potions would snap him apart.

A couple of steps in, he was still far, but something heavy clutched his feet, stopping him.

Stopping, sighing, and looking down, Razmund gripped his claymore and reconsidered his mercy.

Bagus struggled to move with every fiber of his body, yet his neck still moved, pushing forward. He opened his beak, clutching Razmund by his feet and hindering this madman by his sheer unwillingness and the last strand of his Will. Pride, dream, wish, or simple desires be damned.

He had his duty.

Razmund grimaced, preparing to storm this mistake to its proper demise. He despised loose stubbornness that had no ground based on anything but disturbing his steps.

It was even living in the last strands between death and wishes. It was futile to think about it further or take any action. Why suffer more?

It didn't make sense, so he tapped his claymore with his fingers and barely aimed. A simple thrust to the eye or side of the head above the eyes might be fatal even to lofty Griffins.

With both hands, a sure kill would cleave the head off. A simple chop. Like Zao. Razmund knew it would do a fine job.

Claymore sliced the air, weight carrying nothing but his arm. It was closing fast, glinting against Bagus's still living eyes.

Until it stopped, crashing against a sudden wave, sounds, and the shakes of his arms. Razmund missed the spot and hit the beak, rebounding his chop aside and hitting the ground.

He looked at what was wrong. Sure, there was an anomaly. Dust and wind moved with strange power, and he discovered new throbs and cuts to his pride.

A deep cut spread along his shoulder, neck, and deep one, almost severing his left arm completely, almost cripled his chop. They spread further, appeared over his healing body, and crashed against the ongoing efforts of his kill.

What terrible timing, and he shall soon regret even more mistakes.

After all, he wasn't feeling alone in this cave. Not anymore, for Itrosh returned, shaking, and feeling she was about to die.

It was sinful. Razmund severely underestimated this situation.