Reincarnated as a Duck: A beast progression litrpg isekai-Chapter 290 Book Six Interlude: Moving on

Interlude: Moving on

Razmund wasn't fleeing for his life. He simply accepted the way he carried out his missteps, his life, and this world, and no longer hoped for the best. The living conditions kept changing, and he would never have a simple life again.

He lacked direction in his lost steps. However, what he could be, or couldn't be, wasn't gutless or cheap. He found new goals everywhere, and one was taken from him. The one he vowed to, held, and lacked since gods know when.

He didn't believe in them. The Gods, that is. The paths as well. Destiny was a total rubbish, and fate was just a cement to pour over a coffin. For a while, everything was shit, and the moment he got involved with Centralis Kingdom, things were…. well, kind of whacky and political. He shouldn't be fine with it, since he was born into this world, like all the Blessed were. He grew up in it bit by bit, slowly falling into the depravity of a different adulthood.

His mind was adult, different, and foreign, so that meant nothing was natural from the start, all the way to today.

Since all Blessed held memories of their lost life, a factor of incredible babies and potentially unstable teenagers was a problem on its own. He kind of understood that part over time.

It wasn't bizarre. It was meant to be an utterly broken system, and no paradise. Looking at them as children wasn't normal. Thus, most Blessed were barely considered one, and social norms twisted as a result.

In the Centralis Kingdom, this norm was even worse, with common children becoming adults by the age of fifteen. Sometimes even earlier.

Razmund was thinking about the accursed Blessed lives, where teenagers had already experienced Dungeon Delves by that age, with better ones no less accomplished than many standard Delvers.

Razmund was born into that as a gutless, wretched fool. This was a crazy world; much crazier than anything he had seen before, and that was telling a lot, or very little. It was almost laughable. After all, he knew of no magic before.

Even science was limited. The insanity wasn't.

He knew of death and how humans lived their shitty lives all the freaking time. Here, this idea, mixed with crazy races and fuels for abnormal powers and energies, truly eclipsed anything humans could imagine.

And it was like a candy, or soil, or rocks scattered around nothing. It was so cheap, yet mastering magical spells wasn't like that at all. What was better? Had he fantasized about it after his death and seen nothing but a white, cushioned room in an asylum?

No. The pain and everything about this life were more alive and kicking him in all directions.

He never wanted much. Time was precious, often concealing and obscuring things. He called them mistakes, even though they brought opportunities, new connections, and attacks.

He grew for those connections and changed so he wouldn't become a lost cause. It moved well when he decided to focus on his new needs, so he would rather forfeit some marks than get lost.

Not the memories. He pursued a New Beginning with gradually elevated methods and new interpretations. That turned a little weird when one lived in the Centralis Kingdom with a certain set of expectations on their heads.

He became one of the few fools who managed to stay and learn from a brother of a bloody king. That wasn't a petty expectation, but a very prominent and fucked position.

And there, he expected something other than a jungle of possibilities when the powerful and expectant Blessed developed in the middle of the City of Chaos. The entire kingdom was full of Blessed and general revolutions spanning thousands of years.

There was just one hierarchy. Reputation. Not raw power, links, or aristocracy. A dude couldn't fuck his way up, and the same goes for chicks. One had to have the ability and reputation to stay put.

Still, these factors were somewhat interconnected, and hierarchy and reputation came with power and choices. In the end, fairness didn't exist, and only the ability to get ahead of others made true sense.

It was savage, but Razmund became part of it because of his potential and age, and, as a human, he had perks and a duty to represent his bloodline.

Age couldn't lie. No human child could become an Extreme. No teenager, either.

The best could close to a Level 50, and that was already quite an overwhelming prospect. Those were ridiculously talented souls in barely grown bodies, so they were either insane, stupid, or aware of what they were doing.

Razmund wasn't that, nor was he a beast marked by a distinct bloodline and eventful opportunities. Race was everything, and he got stronger due to a single dive into a rather dangerous Remnant Dungeon right when he became an adult.

It was a distant realm at this point. Now, what was behind him or around him? No kingdom was here. No people. Just him and his ideas. Not his... well, calamity. He was forced into this cowardly, spineless hunt against something that had seen his naked soul, and he watched something he would never dare to explain. He ought to kill it, but he wasn't sure if he could do it.

He tolerated this chance given by no lord or devil of this world.

The side of his pact was still alive, even though he had failed it twice already.

Around him, there was no ridiculous Chaos Space that was screaming at his mind and soul. He was feeling something more normal: a simple air and flight through bright, chaotic snap that spat him to the Hellscape.

Perhaps it shouldn't be feeling good, considering he had no wings. The Void was nastier. He didn't remember Death, let alone the fabled Afterlife. It snapped and gnawed at him like tiny little crabs. He felt the outskirts of these places, yet they felt deadly enough to shudder his soul when one ride already determined his route.

Not that he complained. Dangers felt stimulating, and he learned a lot about them in this life. Not before, as there were different kinds of dangers, torments, and fears. It was welcoming for a good reason.

The Void Shift ended quickly, unlike the activity of portals and cuts through Chaos Space. Like a snap and crisp dance of lightning, he disappeared and reappeared somewhere in the Hellscape and escaped the wretched situation against Ceila, that stupid sun with her stupid paladins.

It wasn't a good solution. The loss of half of the potential Hell Points was a very rotten payment that few ever considered. It was more like a hidden choice; the kind that could save one's life if everything worst happened.

It was more like a joke. One needed consent, and there were delays and shit.

Before Razmund knew it, he was in a bright place, falling through the air, looking at a random location in the Hellscape.

He was falling fast, so he was about to crash into the dark plains if he let it happen.

His Claymore hadn't gone missing. He grasped the handle first, before viewing his Token and Destiny Dice that kept lingering in his life. Everything was where it should be, unlike Lint, who was nowhere to be seen, but that Guide was not very important right now. Razmund had a new goal and didn't give a shit about anything else after his second failure.

Sector 73. Lurr's Mansion, eh? he thought, and instead of softening the blow, let the landing up to fate. He could change his trajectory and even fly with highly stressed Flying Steps, but he didn't need to.

He had no idea where he was or which direction he should assume. The walls of this cave weren't special, and the tightness and length of it were tricky, thanks to his unknown standing.

The ground was more reasonable, albeit barren. That indicated multiple sectors throughout Provinces 2 and 8, yet there were only two directions to mind.

Landing didn't hurt, even if it caused a large dust storm and tremors. He got to his knees, felt the soil, its density and depth, and determined this land.

The smell was cold, metallic, and fine. Light. Darkness. Rocks and soil had their reasons for existence as they told a story of endurance. This one stunk of blood-drenched soil, full of dusted bones, bits of rocks of all kinds, and occasional pieces of bone.

"Province 6?" Razmund guessed, glancing upwards. The dust hadn't settled just yet, and many noises irritated his ears. He ignored them, estimating this wasn't the air, his landing, or nature itself.

Shouts, grunts, thuds, and sharp noises of weapons weren't natural, and he sure as hell wasn't dreaming about the past or present at the moment.

Dust settled and revealed the surroundings. Bright yet softer in heat, the large artificial sun was small and far away. It was a simple one, followed by others of the same kind every five kilometers in various perimeters of the ceiling.

They were amongst the smallest since they didn't need to do much in these barren regions. They were good enough for night and day cycles.

"Well, this is good," Razmund said when loose bastards bumped into him from behind. There was a battle going on when he landed, and he was so out of his freaking mind that he hadn't even registered them before the landing.

Unfortunate beings, Razmund thought. There is no pity. The fate and randomness of this act are why they are sorry figures.

Razmund barely moved and sucker punched a demon in armor away like a fly with his left hand. Dice screeched, feeling this action for the first time in forever, and cherished the impending run that should be quite thrilling on its own.

Then, things were about to get much worse, and it was all here for it.

His action settled the remaining dust, revealing the war plains in greater detail.

Wars and other disputes had specially designed lands for them. This one was flat, filled with curving rocky terrain, and had no city in sight. But it still had several important landmarks and treasures hidden underground, or, in rarer cases, on the surface. There were hills, and occasional trees made of rocks and minerals were even bigger, making a maze of rocky forests the size of cities and mountains.

Battles in such places could range from great positions to useful points of interest. Winners and losers depended on who owned such areas, or whether one controlled or butchered the rest.

Usually, large-scale battles formed straight on, with flat regions and battalions of soldiers facing one another. That was how Levandis liked it. The war. The potential thrill and death! Everyone important in the Battleworld knew what war entailed and how everything was done with them, or for them.

Or against everything and everyone.

There was a massive military influence clamping down on the audacity of these societies. It wasn't just the Hells doing it. Individuals could become tossed pebbles of less coherent force put into a very brutal ideology.

Razmund knew all about it, as he knew about the power and weakness of men and numbers. There were many soldiers around him, though most weren't fighting after noticing his sudden, ominous crash.

Demons and armored figures held distinct banners and wore battle armor. Squads fought against one another, making the chaos of battles limited in scope. But what if stronger squads went with more overall formations? The situation could get very overwhelming, but expecting meaningful control from Chaos or Hells wasn't adequate.

The most shocking fact was that no deaths were happening.

This must be the militia, or gangs set against them, and… shit. Things aren't looking good. How are these shitheads even like this? Razmund thought, noting no big powerhouse was present, so that wasn't a bad thing.

"Yeah," He whispered to himself, as if reassuring his choice. "This much is fine to see in the eighties, but the curvature of the cave is not it. This shouldn't be far from Lurrs, so in which direction is Sector 73?" He squinted when a curious squad approached him.

Unsurprisingly, they recognized him and realized that this insane human Blessed had come and fallen from their little cranked-up sky. The farther ones formed a dense, defensive formation and brandished their weapons.

Most were simple soldiers with weapons, lacking magic and even shields. Overall, there wasn't much cohesion in their actions.

Razmund assumed he had fallen into a training ground or a minor skirmish where newbies clashed with rebellious gangs. This should include rules, training regimens, and the methodology of Mindarch's care.

"Blessed shithead!" one of the squad leaders, a middle-aged devil, shouted. He was holding a long javelin and aimed at Razmund, who was clearly not bothered by his weapon closing in on his head.

Then it moved and missed by a thread, or because of Razmund's mild dodge, close to a blink-fast reversal. He quickly counted half a hundred opponents in his proximity, though only a handful directed their open hostility at him.

The brazen Token wasn't helping anything, frankly.

"Hey," Razmund said, waving with his soft pink colored palm and Token before his chest. "Which Sector is this? Tell me. I kind of fell here, and if you say it, I won't kill you first."

The squad with the devil at the front attacked straight away, so Razmund swung his claymore to make a point and drew it in a heartbeat.

This squad held more than a dozen soldiers, so they weren't killed straight away. Their formation was wide, with four at the front and the rest hiding behind them, ready to attack from the sides or from above.

The front line directed their weapon at Razmund, who swung his claymore, stumbling left ones first, before turning, changing grip, and hitting legs across the whole formation.

Thanks to his lengthy claymore and quick motion, the whole action was fast and clean. He dodged their weapons and javelins by swaying his body downwards, and finished an unnatural Move under his Path Manual.

It had nearly hundreds of potential Moves, yet only a few of them truly mattered to him at this stage. As for those he had mastered over the years, or a long time ago, they weren't perfect. It was all about preferences and options, and what was ideal. Efficiency was the most precise

law Razmund cultivated, as it was honest and simple. Being perfect, that is, but not flawless.

Moves in the Martial Art Manuals were defined, learned, and mastered over a long period of time and experiences, and some of them could be worthy of their distinct name and reputations. Especially the one under his belt, a conglomeration of sword heretics, saints, and kings spanning many eras.

Razmund didn't think much about that, since he didn't care for a specific direction or legacies. He just has to kill and reform what was right. Like a good soldier. His Manual was full of these ideas, and to become one with the Sword Sage under its vision, it had its perks.

Of course, it had an insane amount of worth, but most of it went to main Dances and overall potential filled with several Classes and Moves, which were less of an issue at his current stage.

But eventually, they could turn better and better. Complexity aside, the comprehension or mastery of Dances was legitimate. They could fiddle with one another, create new powers, and sweep lives away. Then, using them however he liked would be as if he breathed and moved the arts of Sword Sage.

As Razmund ended his first confrontation by halting the squad's momentum, he jumped, kicked a bunch of the quicker responders, and swung his body towards their leader.

Snatching his shield was easy, and even if he took his javelin head-on, a simple push of his claymore deflected it away. Slashing him with a quick turn left the devil in two pieces.

Just in time. The remaining fools grew bolder, and so did their

attacks. Razmund landed and smacked them with a wide swing, using flat pieces of his claymore to force them away, rather than to pieces. That wouldn't kill them, so he went for a compromise.

He dealt with them without any mana. Most of the squad was on the ground, legs either broken or their lungs breathless.

Nothing worth expecting from Level 50s. Their leader was the only concern, yet he is still within my Level, so he was a nuisance. I might have walked a bad path. My fights... This is not a fight. This is madness.

Among the breathless soldiers, there were angry demons who couldn't bear the murder of their leader. One of the burly ones, wielding an axe and a large shield barely in his grasp, got up regardless.

He shouted, then grunted when Razmund forced his shield away and kicked him in the face, cutting his weapon-armed arm off. Then he grasped his neck and crashed him behind with a loud slam, making a simple move of shifting weight. He barely moved, yet a hundreds-of-kilograms-heavy warrior crashed aside.

Martial Arts were infinite. Even without a sword, Razmund had extensive training and surpassed the feats of the average human. He had the Level for it; he could wipe them out with his Physique alone, but it was not a weapon. There was a contrast between talents and freaks.

There were swordless Dances and Moves in his Path, and he considered them interesting, albeit kind of boring and raw.

So yeah, he kind of liked them from time to time because wielding his claymore often came with terrible intentions and moods.

Razmund patted the practically unconscious soldier. "Now, with the leader gone, which direction is Lurr's Mansion, my dear friend?" he asked, a pink color on his palm enlightening his face, with murmurs and voices of Fate coming off the Dice.

The soldier didn't like it and pointed behind him, towards the depths of the Hellscape.

Razmund wasn't sure if it was the right direction, so he hoped this fool didn't lie to him.

Softly, the soldier cursed, feeling no remorse for saying the truth. If this fool asked for a Lurr Mansion, he shall have it. In fact, if he could, he would gladly lead him there and watch him die a dog's death. No one messed with Lurrs here. Absolutely nobody!

Razmund stood up and went ahead, posing with his claymore, which rippled with hues of red as a new tide of brave soldiers passed by. He crushed their morale when one squad turned into pieces under a single swing, even though they held massive shields and considerable spears.

None reached their targets, unfortunately. Even if they did, nothing much would happen to Razmund, who might still be under various debuff conditions, but he was still himself.

"Wishful thinking," Razmund heard those words from somewhere, followed by a cluttering noise of bones. A Guide flew toward him and appeared out of nowhere.

"Got you! Don't trouble me with measly skirmishes! Don't you have a head on your shoulders!?" Lint panicked and scolded Razmund, but recognized this little greeting was fair. Razmund hadn't attacked anyone. It was self-defense, though he was too bothered to even mention it.

Razmund didn't give a fuck either way. "The Paradise or this. Choose, Guide. I bet your Lady and Mindarch know what is good for them, but I don't. I can be much nastier. Much more." Razmund declared and smirked.

Lint didn't refute him and barked at the soldiers to get lost. Most had to listen to him, as seeing a Guide with their own eyes was very intimidating.

"Why is there a Guide?"

"What is happening?"

"That fucker! His Token is before us! If we storm him in bodies, no matter what he does, we can steal it."

Clutter of voices developed wishes and marked them with doom.

It didn't change anything, noticeably by their reluctant faces in their helmets and hesitant hearts. All of them were above fodder fighters, with leaders being at the same level as Razmund.

Unfortunately, the level wasn't everything. Without a position, power was challenging, equating to having rules and limited actions and reactions. Who can manage what, or how, was determined by the dynamics, and often manageable, seized, and taught. Razmund could crash everyone here unless their leaders band together and use their heads.

Which they wouldn't do, since he wouldn't let them, but even in this case, Razmund was bothered to waste time.

"You sick man, go on and don't regret what she gave up on you! Not killing you, eh… Fucking hell," Lint said to Razmund, waving a hand toward Lurr's Mansion. He accepted whatever was about to happen, be that a terrible time or a simple mistake.

Mindarch said that if the worst situation arose, then any concept or resemblance to simplicity would be dealt with by characters from the Lurr Family, the one bloodline sitting at the peak of the Somalis Hell.

That didn't mean just Levandis, obviously. Her significance spanned all sorts of important clans, and as a Rank 1 God, she had a lot under her belt. Families. Acquaintances. Old friends or enemies. With a massive timespan, things could change and grow, or never truly change.

She didn't, for example.

"Good," Razmund said, stretching his arms and legs. Checking his vitals, wounds, and legs, he figured his overall health was far from perfect. If it weren't for that sick Raving, he almost regretted his decisions and dealings with Ceila.

There was no time to waste. He would go into the maw of a monster and planned to work just fine with what he had.

For now, he couldn't even desire to touch his common potions or any sustain-style brews. His mana was at a passable number, thanks to the overall Mana Flow, and the intensity of this deep Gate was also helpful. He was effective in taking this chaos, for there were no innate rejections. Thanks to that, his body was able to move better then it should.

The hard stress came from unleashing his potential, which was around 80% of his maximum output, thanks to that sick daring Griffhart. In fact, approaching this sort of point might crumble him bit by bit because of how much stuff he had consumed over the past week.

Flying Steps wouldn't hurt him in his speed-run, so he bent it to his will, left his claymore in a pouch, and charged ahead, leaving Lint in dust.

It didn't take that long for Lint to follow; the Guides were essentially limitless in their flight, though their source was their soul. Flying was just a basic perk of their being, and Razmund didn't need to follow his talking, clattering bones.

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He knew the Sectors and had experienced Hellscape several times, which was why he still couldn't get behind that large portal and place hiding deep in the ruined blood of the Sun God himself.

Getting stable clarity and understanding of where he was going had taken over an hour. Lurr's Mansion stood in the usual spot, and finding Sector 73 was less than hard. Nobody and nothing stopped him, and thanks to many intersecting places and Void Shift that hadn't spat him too far from his goal, he was fine with these results.

Lint lied if he liked the use of this sub-optimal content of their temple, but it was what it was. He flew, his single arm pointing forward, right behind Razmund, who was running and using Flying Steps every once in a while, often opting to jump dozens of meters from tall places. It drained stamina and mana, emptying his Physique and Steps, yet he never stopped.

It was a quick

trip. Every hundred meters lasted a couple of leaps, and without stopping, his journey was closing to its end. Especially with cliffs in the following lands, which allowed him to jump off quite far.

He passed through the warring zones and reached forests and more defined, cherished landscapes. Nothing dared to stop him, and he made no trouble for anyone either, even when he was reaching a large Sector solely organized into a little paradise for demons and devils. It wasn't like the next Gate, of course, but more in desire and authority.

Stopping on top of a tall cliff, he watched the scenery down below, and also forward. A large Pivotal City lay before him, surrounded by cliffs on all sides, as if this place were in the middle of a volcano or a massive crater resembling a hand.

It wasn't hot or uncomfortable in the slightest. On the contrary, greenery was everywhere, with gardens and a properly tended city. The surroundings featured lush, well-groomed forests, and many roads were of high quality, even within the cliffs lining the edges.

At first glance, it was as if this region were barren and lost, but that wasn't the case. Tunnels were cut into the cliffs, creating a path to the forests and the heart of this sector and city.

Razmund was kind of impressed at how reasonable this city looked. One could not see it from afar, as the surrounding forest hid it, before reaching the streets of a city twice as big as Helltrim City.

This was fitting for their image. The leading devils weren't hegemonic for a reason. The Lurr Family's line was here, living for so long, the generational wealth was more like a reputable note, or a straight-up broken idea.

Lurr City, named by Levandis herself, was a large, round city made into curved blocks, with the middle being the main quarters of the Lurr Family. Large castle structures and mansions had a long history, looking majestic and rich, overlooking the smaller marks of the city.

There were many towers with intricate details, mostly red-tiled roofs, grey bricks, and black reinforcements. Many windows gleamed from afar, making it seem as if the middle portion of this city were a rich pagoda. Mansions and castles set them apart, reaching up and expanding the Lurr passion and pride.

"Never been there," Razmund said just when Lint appeared behind him, looking haggard since he flew through multiple forests. Leaves and branches were inside him, and even in his skull. Fixing it was annoying since he had just one freaking hand.

"Don't do it," Lint said, palm pointing forward, and his voice urged for peace, but this Blessed wasn't one. He was of chaos.

"What?" Razmund asked.

"Don't joke at my appearance. Don't!"

Razmund turned, and then turned back. "I thought there would be a bird's nest in your head. Would be funny. Shame."

Lint cursed and moved forward. "Lurrs don't take such an approach lightly. Think twice about your approach, but your case is yours. The portal is in the middle of this city, mainly acting as a personal door to various levels of all the gates."

"Yet I never heard many Challengers having this location," he said curiously. "Why?"

"Are you complaining? YOU!?" Lint felt as tough as irritable. "Tell it to yourself. Ask yourself! This is your third time, and you mess with the wrong kind of gate."

"If you know what is good for you, Guide, or Mindarch does that behind the scenes, then not many troubles will come at me. Everything

is going to hurt us all. Wanna try me?" He offered the claymore in its pouch beside his hip without drawing it. His hand rested on the hilt, and his intention was clean.

Lint had no care about such implications; he wasn't even aware how Lurrs were supposed to be dealt with, or how many of them would come to Razmund before his portal and arena.

Perhaps they planned a simple Guardian and call it a day, or use a branch member, or someone from the core family who might test their strength against this madman with carefully devised rules. Considering this place, that might be possible. Logically, it might be very wrong.

For now, Lint wondered who was in charge of decisions and why Mindarch didn't give him any details. Lurrs could be misled, or Mindarch might simply test them, since Levandis didn't care whether they died.

And this involved Razmund, who pestered her with improbable scenarios. So yeah, unexpected things might happen, and Levandis might forget any causes or regulations.

She was the Patriarch, yet not one in a dutiful sense. There were numerous acts when one saw the Gods and their family. Levandis wasn't sorry to think of them poorly, as her bloodline was deep, and she let her blood come into this world, allowing it to develop and mature for a very long time.

So what if it diluted, changed, and marked this land with insanity among various races?

At a certain level, it was inadequate for Gods to think far, but compared to the rest of the universe, maybe it wasn't inadequate.

The current Lurrs could be viewed as a passable generation, but in truth, they weren't bad, nor good.

"Anyway," Razmund grasped a little Stimulant Potion from his pouch and gulped it down. This thing had mild side effects, and he needed to push focus to get this started. Stimulating his brain and body, he was ready for erratic steps.

Then he jumped, obviously aware that Lint could do nothing but watch him invade this city because he wasn't welcome.

If nothing came to him on the way here, it was evident this city had changed. It was as Lint said; he should be careful and not argue against this shitty hell.

He flew for less than a few seconds, sliding from an agled edge and landing in a forest of wealth and care.

He would gladly cut the trees apart, but he went forward and reached the gates, where he was… well, there was absolutely nobody. Not even soldiers or denizens.

It was a ghost town.

By this point, Lint caught up to him from behind and felt confused. He expected many things, but this exceeded his beliefs. Wasn't it a bit excessive for this sort of place to fear a single Blessed? True, Razmund had a lot under his belt, but so did this city!

Unbeknownst to them, this was just an aftereffect of everything that had happened over the past week, and it was mainly induced by Lurrs. Many sought this city because of a lack of rules, so the general population went into hiding, hence the deserted look.

Lint noticed a couple of movements in buildings, or curious eyes in the windows, but that was it.

"Unexpected welcome. What do they expect?! What of this bustling city?! Mindarch?" Lint whimpered above, but no message arrived. There was no point in that anymore.

Razmund thought little about such an odd, inviting door. No one bothered him on his way inside, exactly like the first sight suggested. Not only were the outskirts barren, but all the major blocks were sealed, including shops and businesses.

Even gangs and various members of societies ceased their activities out of fear for Lurrs, or because of a potential issue with everybody else.

It was good to be cautious, even though no one was certain if hideous masters were willing to betray their hopes and wage everything for a heavenly opportunity, or accursed feasibility.

It wasn't as if Lurrs were the epitome of stability. Their position was the highest, so many were seeking their wealth and reputation, risking their lives on their behalf. It was the good ol' story of power and gods. And the best way to get anything was to get it by force, or dedicate everything, freedom, or soul included.

Razmund walked deeper into the city and took Lint for air. According to the Centralis Kingdom's intel, this portal was in the most bothersome place he could ask for, and not because of the general population. This was about a Challenger, while the Hunted and Hunters weren't really a problem. It was more like another flavor to this chaos, and Razmund wasn't sweet at all.

He quickly made his way toward those huge towers, which were as easy as caring about the ceiling.

Lint flew around, wondering if Lurrs made traps for him. He hoped it would be appropriate, but since he had seen the failure of Razmund's hunt and the situation all over those mines, he had his doubts about Razmund's recent condition. Caring about injuries was normal, and so was watching out for potions.

Normally, one would never use them so much, especially in excess and such potent exertion. There were always issues with heavy uses, be it poorer leveling speed, or even loss of attributes, or diminished potion efficiency. The normal aftereffects, such as fatigue, were normal, while the mind and mana were another major concern.

As in the last Gate, Razmund could end up losing his sanity, and, as in many cases before, he would be in for a surprise that would no longer be a gradual recovery. He bore sacrifices, like the price of walking and breathing this sick air.

It didn't make a difference to him. Not after it took days to reclaim his lost vigor after failing to catch his target, finishing almost a hundred Islands, and then, his Voice stopped working.

Lint was worried and bet he was very angry at how late he arrived at the secret under the Ip'ur Mountain.

He wasted a lot of time beforehand anyway, since Murai and his hunt had become an important event because of this Gate. They mixed the terrible with the overall politics and potential threats.

It wasn't clever or bad; Razmund could have focused on one task and found Murai, yet those Helpers, Ceila, and this whole Gate impeded his every step.

Until he failed.

Then failed again, and again.

Now, where was Ozeki in all of this? Razmund forgot about that devil the moment he had seen those Paladins alive and relatively unharmed. It was no surprise. Razmund hadn't expected Dukes to come with Ceila into this temple, and even Ozeki and his cloned senses couldn't take these Paladins for such a force.

For Razmund, it wasn't even important if they were close or far. Their force was deadly, and Ozeki wasn't even around to deal with anything.

The worst of the matter was that Paladins had also gone ahead, and Ceila, who was so forceful with him, even let him go. They wanted to handle and influence his Hell Party, or knew of it, or deal a much different blow.

Ceila had it on her face. Razmund expected the bad outcome and knew better not to be

weak. He had to show up there and do it fast!

It was essentially a running gamble where speed and time became trickier the more time had passed. He hoped the Hell Party wouldn't change too much with Ceila's incoming party, but completely dispelling his worries was impossible.

The problem was he didn't have any assurances, since… well, her point was foreign, invasive, and terrible. His own Helpers had their task and risks. The moment Murai arrived there, they would forget everything and secure the objective, even without Razmund in sight. It was repulsive to Razmund's hunt, but it was still part of the Encounter's policies and charms.

He soon reached the middle portions of the city. There were fewer walls around the luxurious and lofty palaces. Thin poles served as fences, revealing glimpses of luxury and the reputations of many eras.

The gate to the main complex was open, with a butler standing in the middle of it, who clearly waited for Razmund.

"I welcome you," the butler said. The middle-aged human had impeccable manners and a deep voice, and his suit was a vivid red. His face was barren of hair, but he wasn't old. He had his experience and looked like a hunter eying the prey.

Razmund was no different. He approached this sorry figure and swore his claymore itched for a fight. "Is there a Welcoming Party?" he asked. "If so, get lost."

"No such thing is here," the butler said. "But we can come to a proposition and do even worse stuff, dear Blessed guest. Your situation is aware for us. For Lurrs.

Some state their business well and show desire behind and onwards. What to do with all of that weight, you might ask?"

"I didn't ask shit," Razmund refused. "Get me to the portal without a hitch and call it a day. Sounds perfect. Yeah; how about we do that? That is a good idea. It won't cost you a thing. No blood of your masters, or bloody renovations. I mean, this shit looks expensive." Razmund looked around and waved his hand to make a point.

The butler kept his face sharp and tone firm.

"Apologies, but I would like to misjudge it. Lurrs are Lurrs. They are seekers of no justice but bonds and power. Challengers of your caliber are something else, and the Hunt is on and here. Your Token is a signature to a rule. You are the prey coming to this place that hasn't had a share of very vicious challenges for a while. Mind you, the difficulty is variable, the knowledge is not. You can die any moment, and this portal of yours is nothing but a part of a large collective. It has been waiting for you."

"Stopping me is stupid, right, Lint?" Razmund said to the Guide, drawing a bit of his claymore up.

Lint nodded. "Right. Don't trouble him, but don't be weak at him either. Guardian is still a fitting choice. Nothing more, so why not make it simple? I don't know the details because Mindarch does it instead."

"Guardian, eh?" The butler seemed intrigued by such concepts. "There was a vote in the family regarding this rare occasion of a target. Our portal is satisfactory, but it has a couple of activation keys. Find them and..."

A claymore glinted, and the butler backed, yet the claymore's length still hit him. He caught it in his arm, twisting and flexing it, and barely bled. At least he hadn't lost his arm or his head.

"Stop this bullshit," Razmund cursed. "I will gladly do it the hard way, while you want my head yourself. Wants this?" he offered him his Token before snatching it away and pinning it to his shirt.

By this point, he couldn't bother about any armor or finer clothing. He was glad not to fight naked as he used to.

The butler swung his arm and forced the claymore aside. He adjusted his suit and carried on his talk, as if nearly losing his arm was just a mild inconvenience.

"Let me not oppose it anymore, Challenger. You might come in at your own discretion, but this is Lurr's domain. They are the rulers, whether you gain access to it or not. Whatever happens next is not my problem. Portal is...well, it might be different when I think of it."

Then he clapped his hands and backed even further. "Oh, this is awkward. I think there is an intruder in our abode."

Behind him, a cluttering noise spread, and a bunch of red-clothes figures walked from the shadows and beside colorful trees. All wearing masks, each was fashionable in their armor, dresses, or uniforms. Of course, everyone was carrying weapons, Catalysts, or whatever means of extermination directed their hearts.

"Lurr Shadows?" Razmund picked up his claymore and rested it on his shoulder. "This much is just a stretch."

The butler bowed lightly and walked aside.

"It is what you deserve. This place is no normal stake, Challenger. Kill or not, this is what our Lady demands and does best. Crashing you is within the rules, since this is your location. Everyone is watching!" He clapped again, and the Shadows moved, storming at Razmund like an angry, yet silent mob.

Razmund let his mana lose a lot this day. Not in a strained way, but in a way that flowed by a simple ordeal; to kill the desired stress and his failure by quenching his heart in a way to nullify his failures.

It was still following him. That sick stench.

He was angry about many things, though he hadn't shown it all.

Ceila diminished it, making him understand he was just a small fish in a vast pond. Razmund knew it all too well already, so he didn't buy into her appeal to break his spirit, make a deal, or care about those kids.

He had seen Extremes and Sages fight, and even worse. He had seen what Holy and Divine Wars could do and cause. Mortals were nothing in comparison, but he could be deadly in them anyway and try his luck. He dipped to it already.

It was fair. Nobody will stop him today.

His claymore skipped a beat, and a red storm came off it when he swung it, letting waves of Sharpness behind, and forcing a couple of Shadows away. They moved quickly onward and down, dodging and finding angles to unleash their attacks.

Magic flew. Most had quick weapons, ranging from flying daggers to various magic spells. Others had swords or spears, which represented Vanguard Shadows focused on direct combat. Everyone was quick, as expected of the assassination organization, which was accustomed to dealing with human military forces and direct conflict.

Every one of them was master in the making, though the most ridiculous ones weren't here, and Razmund couldn't blame them. Lurrs shouldn't expect terrible losses tossed at him like a feed.

Razmund unleashed his fury and stepped forward, grunting and picking his targets with Wide Steps. The ground shattered, and in a moment, he arrived with his knee to an unprepared Shadow.

Razmund kicked so hard that his enemy flew and crashed into the wall in pieces, even with a prepared barrier and a weapon in the way. Then Razmund turned and swung his claymore around him, leaving sharp noises behind. A few daggers remained in his abdomen, with blood falling, but it was nothing meaningful, let alone something that should stop him.

He cut into a few limbs, leaving shallow or leaking wounds. Yet, dozens of them were all around them, trained and ready to die alongside him, or do the most damage before perishing.

Well, this is how claymore goes and does its thing. No way it is bad, but... Razmund thought and anticipated that when dozens of foes went against him, the shortcomings of this weapon began to drag him down. He hated it with passion. They dodged his attacks and always hit back, no matter how he injured them.

And even if they were below the Laws, they held experiences and knew how to deal with his magic.

So he did what he hadn't done in a while. He charged his claymore with a swirling mass of red lines and let it go, leaving a red whirlwind of cutting, rotating madness fly away. Unfortunate Shadows turned to bloody pieces, though many still jumped away in time.

Razmund wasn't slow after discarding his heavy weapon. He went at them with his bare fists, but not before he recalled one part of his manual that held very tasty moves and ideas. Sharpness could be numerous things, and for his Shaper quality, mana was the Sharpness itself, so he wasn't lacking in methods.

He lacked mind and true devotion to those magical bits, as he truly loved his weapon. He wasn't a mage.

His fingers turned into sharp weapons. His fist became a globe of spiked, fluttering mana, or a powerful fist letting Sharpness onward, whether he hit a target or scraped it off. His kicks could leave a line of Sharpness behind, cutting things from afar or even up close.

Unfortunately, he didn't excel in this style. He was brawling like an idiot, but he had his preferences. The fingers were his favorite, and even if he was no master, he hadn't grown stupid enough to forget his claymore. It was his choice to let it go, and it was done.

Razmund attacked every close Shadow with everything he had. He broke their weapons with powerful punches or palm slices. Even some kicks left many Shadows surprised, and his fingers aimed at eyes, noses, and even necks and limbs.

Every finger ended up bloody after using a large amount of his Sharpness and his physical prowess, and if they didn't work well, he kicked them deeper or several times.

Throughout this madness, his Revolving Core did its job, leaving a constant flow to every one of his acting principles and actions. Mastery didn't matter much, thanks to his overall Shaping and the use of Sharpness, which was one of his strongest tools. It was his priority, but his redness was much crazier than right and sharp, giving it more potential, flow, intent, and violence.

Sword Fingers stabbed and cut left and right, slicing into flesh and clattering against their weapons. Razmund went up really close to them, with many wounds locking to his flesh, yet he kept going. Since he left his weapon aside, deeply driven into a corner, he wasn't fine with anything but a steep winning landslide.

In five minutes, he killed them all and left Lint speechless before a terrific bloody front yard.

Razmund huffed a breath, looking around and then at his hands. Wet with blood, even a couple of his fingers were broken, and his wounds were hot yet charming. Not a single one of them was a problem.

In fact, he liked the feeling thanks to the Stimulant and how his Physique and core worked in tandem. It made his mind wild, sharp, and his body hot and ready.

"That... wasn't how I thought it would go," Lint said, almost laughing because it worked quite well on whatever duty they had.

"Whatever," Razmund shook his hands, and on the way to his claymore, which was in a debris, cracked his fingers back together.

Then he turned to the front door of a mansion, where the butler was watching everything while maintaining a consistent expression.

"Most defining, Challenger. Shadows wanted your pieces, yet they lost theirs instead. Most welcoming. You proved yourself," he said before walking inside the main castle while leaving the door open.

Razmund didn't like obvious traps; he just knew where to go and knew that the portal was inside. The pink hoes followed, regardless of whether there was a trap or a feast.

Lint helplessly followed him from behind.

The moment Razmund reached inside, the flow of mana wavered, and blood seemed to flow quicker from his wounds. Then, the world went still, and colors dried from the blood itself. It was like walking into a shade, but the shade was everything.

There were two staircases at the front of the entrance, creating two ways to the upper floor. It was how general palaces handled their entrances, with lofty grandeur and golden details and shiny, marbled floors. Those were easy to crack. He learned that the hard way.

But here, it was darker, yet still fabulous in vision and style. It was a true estate with many ancient artifacts, paintings, and who knew what else.

Above the staircases, a substantial symbol of Lurrs stood there in all of her glory.

It was Villan, an Overlord with plentiful experiences and a specific position in the Lurr Family. She was the second in line to become the current Patriarch-in-name, yet her position was more in line with this boastful temple. She worked for her Lady, not her family, yet overlooking the blood and history wasn't acceptable.

Family had to be there, because if it weren't, the future would lose all meaning.

It was a weird reflection, since this was a chaotic, hellish, yet kind of ironic topic for this land. No one would expect such bonds to work here, in Chaos, but they did.

"Well," Razmund looked around, seeing nobody and nothing beside her. Not even that butler was around. "Haven't expected an Overlord, so..."

"You have no idea what sort of mistakes and things you've caused, human," Villan said in a demanding tone, acting lofty, as if she were a God before an ant.

In a way, the disparity was fairly close to that point, since Razmund was young and still growing up compared to the races around the hells.

Around Villan, the redness and hues of light bend, leaving her colorless beside the red of her eyes, now-obvious wings, and ravishing clothes. She wasn't barren in that regard anymore.

She wore a flirtatious, neat gown. The cut was lengthy, making her vicious, rather than vigorous and seductive. The latter part might be part of her aura and eyes, or a mere aftereffect of her frustration ever since this man came here.

So she let her dormant, and right power flow onwards, ranging from her control over the Blood and mana, and particularly her Domain. The last one wasn't very obvious, as her Domain was like the air, huffing the sounds and colors without breaking anything because that was her will.

If it hadn't been for this damned, cursed Blessed, what would have happened? Murai would have a better time, and her deal with things would be so much better; it wouldn't even be funny or painful.

However, Levandis scolded her, killed her once, and sent her back. Now, there was no time to waste, even if it was a wonderful thought process full of grudges.

Now, everything was stranded around this Encounter, the world shook, and interruptions were disturbing gods and mortals alike. Coupled with her own failure and her dealings with Levandis, Villan felt disheartened but not rejected.

This temple still lived and stood for a long, long time, and its rules had to work. She had assignments to fulfill, and so did her family, which was all about individuality and derision of knowing there was a hierarchy and matters to attend to.

Razmund had seen this kind of towering being before. She won't touch him. Her kin was far too proud for that.

He cut to the chase. "Wanna show me the way to my portal?"

Villan wished to refute him, but she was here because it was one of the few possibilities Levandis and Mindarch gave her.

She refused it, obviously fond of other things, because this human was like salt to her eyes. She decided to do this the hard way, which Levandis preferred, among other choices.

Levandis just let Villan deal with it, so it wasn't about fairness, but responsibility.

"I will lead you to the course of madness and suffering..." Villan said, and put her arms aside, acknowledging nothing but pointing to each set of stairs. "One choice. Both lead to the portal, but each has its enemy. Do you want a person from Lurrs, or do you prefer branches to be your enemy? Or do you want a Guardian and clean ways? They are all waiting for—"

Razmund jumped up, skipping both choices, and landed straight before her. Crouching and standing on the railing, he didn't care for her ideas, or his leaking blood, or creaking legs that were truly reaching their limits.

Instead of breaking, he clutched his muscles and cared for Villan and her obvious Domain. He smiled, showing her the vision of the person he was. "Show me whoever wants to be cut, and I will cut them,"

Villan got a headache and wished to slap this madman back where he belonged, but just looking at his condition, proximity, and leaking blood, she stopped herself.

"Whatever. Just don't screw this further," she waved a hand and turned on the spot.

Suddenly, Razmund moved his hand, even if he was barely colorful, mana was slow, and his blood leaked quicker, as if it wanted to escape on its own. His wounds were impossible to close, and he felt his Physique had a terrible time coping with this Overlord's Presence.

Yet, he still went and cut at her, exposing his Sword Intent that was intangible and hard to read. He wanted to test it, so he did.

Villan caught his claymore with her fingers and accepted this Intent for the puppy's bark. "Test me next time, and the result will be your arm bathed in a one-of-a-kind painting. You will break in layer by layer, I fear," she said angrily before flicking the blade away.

Razmund dropped to the ground and laughed, feeling no regrets when his test came as expected, and something inside of him shuddered. "Apologies. Never had a chance to carry my Intent to your kind."

"I doubt this idea has a valid point. In fact, it marks your doom and fucked up head. Drop dead; is what I wish to say, but it tickles me in the funny spot instead. Anyway," Villan wished to leave this to others, but knew she couldn't.

Razmund had all the time to test his Sword Intent in the Ip'ur Mountain. It was true he was close to his target, yet he didn't reach that far, or... close, or at all.

It was terrible, but not for his power. Every use of his Sword Intent was a test and training on its own. Unleashing it either had to be done carefully or required specific conditions and near-death experiences.

He had plenty of them, even with his sturdy body, mindset, or odd manners.

On its own, Sword Intent demanded clarity and care, and it had to follow the intent of a sword while mixing various ideologies into one simple vision. That was the biggest issue Razmund had learned after getting it not that long ago.

Finding that flow state and where it could go was like anger management and a calm lake of an unknown destination. Not everything would just stick and land, or work at the same time.

Against Lookish or Ceila, or those paladins, what would these tests do? Nothing but validate his instability or failures, he knew.

He needed every point to realize what it could do and move. That included enemies. Armies of enemies, both bad and good. Against this Overlord, he found a choice and spent it without a second thought.

His Sword Intent became nothing worth mentioning against her weight class, or it was the general spirit issue, or sheer volume of her Presence that made it not work.

Lint slapped Razmund's head and feared the upcoming consequences that this shitty human hadn't assumed. Razmund turned to him, clearly bothered to cause this Guide any meaningful harm.

"Shut the fuck up, bone. This is a shortcut..." Razmund whispered and patted his legs while hoping they moved enough. "And you won't change my mind. Test or a mistake, what I did was just a greeting that I HAD to handle like MY steps!"

There was no doubt in Lint's mind that Villan heard him. She was keen on gossip and hated this type.

Lint was more speechless than angry, so he pointed at him, willing to argue, but Razmund left him quicker than his voice escaped his eyes.

Razmund got up on his hurt legs, stumbled onwards, and used his Claymore as a walking stick as he followed Villan. Soon, they reached a large hall with many pillars. It resembled an arena, its edges lined with balconies that reached into unknown levels of space above. Many figures lurked in them, looking out for the arrivals and waiting for entertainment or blood to follow.

Razmund didn't care about them. Why would he? He looked at the end of this arena, where a massive open gate revealed a room with his darn portal.

Smiling, he wished to cut to the chase again and went straight in. With his Token, he had easy excuses for a challenge since his key was throbbing with activity.

Villan walked towards the middle and turned.

"Kill this man and deal with him however you wish, and you shall be rewarded or killed, or sacrificed for your own ways. There are no prayers ahead. There is a reputation to be told, so deal and heed your calls. There is no choice. It is a mere rumble." She flicked her arm, letting her gown shine, Domain to drop, and only then did she step away.

Razmund whistled and cut the claymore deeper into the ground. Looking up and around, he liked this arena and ambiance. His blood also stopped surging like a silly aching wound, and then he felt a new kind of challenge.

Many whispers echoed, followed by steps passing around this arena. There were dozens of them; some heavy, barely tolerable, and pretty darn impressive.

Devils and succubuses made up the majority of the incoming enemies, but those neat-looking demons created a pleasant contrast. Then, rare beasts for pets made the rest of the picture, including a few human slaves. That went on until every last one of them looked at him, and the ambiance in the arena changed.

"Alright, so many customers today, yet I am not a shopkeeper," Razmund cracked his fingers and Stepped forward, swinging his claymore, and aiming at new targets.

There were no rules. Not trials. No rewards.

Pain, blood, and death were in this arena. Exactly how he loved it.

Everyone was his enemy. There was no exception to this rule, so he didn't have to do anything but cut and then cut some more. Maybe he will fall asleep while cutting, but even closed eyes wouldn't stop him.

Only the still darkness would, where things stopped being borderline evil and wrong, even if Death would bring him joy. It was wrong. He had to find a way. Any form to win and not turn into a loser.

At least he couldn't run away. They should do it instead, since he was no longer holding back. Not anymore.