Shadowed Gaze: The Highserk War Saga - Chapter 122

Walm, having fended off a troublesome horde of monsters and survived the lower layers’ welcoming committee, finally reached the break room. It was so desolate that even the cicadas seemed louder, yet it was not entirely his private haven.

In one corner, a party of five, including the seasoned adventurer Faust, whom he had spoken to recently, was resting. They hadn’t reached this floor without effort; despite their tidy appearance, signs of battle such as dirt and fresh wounds were evident.

“To come this far alone, all the way to the 30th floor. I welcome you,” Faust remarked.

Noticing Walm’s entrance, Faust stood up from his resting position and approached him, accompanied by his party members, as if they were about to hold a reception.

“As you can see, I’m in this state,” Walm replied, his words reflecting his genuine feelings rather than modesty. The journey here had been fraught with challenging opponents, forcing him to expend his mana without reserve.

“We’re five, and it’s not much different. If there were four more of you, you might conquer the labyrinth,” Faust replied.

It had been about five days since Walm entered the labyrinth, and he hadn’t spoken to anyone during that time. His usually tight lips loosened, producing a rare jest.

“Unfortunately, though I had brothers, I wasn’t a part of quintuplets.”

“That’s a relief to hear,” Faust said with a hearty laugh.

Right after, Walm’s senses picked up a faint sound of breeze from the side—a rapidly approaching sense of death. He thrust the butt of his weapon to intercept.

The impact numbed his hand. His halberd clashed with a longsword. One of Faust’s party members, who had slipped into Walm’s blind spot, had slashed at him.

“…Too bad,” muttered Walm unconsciously, not so much to himself but as a reflection of the moment. The good-natured smile disappeared from his face, replaced by an expression as emotionless as a mask. Such eyes were rare, even among the northern soldiers adept at killing. Eyes that showed no emotion, treating humans as mere weeds to be cut down.

Walm realized that the attack was not accidental but meticulously planned. There was no time for questions like “why” or “how.” Raised in wartime and regaining his past thoughts and senses in the labyrinth, Walm’s mental shift was swift.

The attackers, shedding their pretense, launched an all-out assault. Faust’s spear aimed at Walm’s throat from below. Walm leaned back and dodged, only to be forced into another dodge by a mace from the side. As he retreated, a longsword awaited his path.

The longsword, aimed to hamstring him, struck his shin guard, sparing him a cut but sending a dull ache through his bones and causing a slight stumble. Despite the numbing pain, Walm braced himself, but a shield-bearer closed in.

With no room to escape, Walm leaped backward to cushion the impact, rolling on the floor and springing up, only to feel a burning pain in his shoulder.

“Ugh…” he groaned.

In the brief moments of vulnerability, an archer, positioned beyond the frontline fighters, had shot an arrow through the gaps. Without time to pull it out, Walm endured the relentless onslaught, aiming to disrupt his attackers by casting a fireball into the ground.

“Push on, Riro, Hounzen, don’t let him escape,” Faust commanded.

The five attackers switched tactics, now maintaining their distance and attacking with wind and water magic, extinguishing the flames. They were a well-prepared party, equipped with a magic user. Deprived of his fiery barrier, Walm faced Faust, who used a spear, the mace wielder, and the longsword adventurer flanking him.

Walm accelerated using wind magic, targeting the longsword wielder, but was obstructed by the shield-bearer and the archer. The shield-bearer, like Walm, possessed wind magic, launching a shield bash enhanced by wind magic if Walm tried to distance himself.

“Quite skillful,” Walm muttered.

At a glance, one or two seemed easy to isolate, but it was a clever trap in a deadly scenario. Ignoring them would lead to a fatal strike from a blind spot.

Even fleeing was impossible; the paths to the transfer room or other floors were blocked. Forced to break through, he would expose his back to deadly strikes. To reach the 30th floor Walm had repeatedly used his magic power, and Demon Fire would deplete his last remaining powers even faster.

Moreover, the adventurers’ gear made him hesitate to use it. All were well-trained with above-average magic power reserves and had fire-resistant equipment. Using Demon Fire recklessly could backfire, impairing his vision and causing excruciating eye pain, making him an easy target.

To escape, he needed to incapacitate at least one or two. Walm was cornered. His mask, sensing its owner’s plight, seemed to revel in the imminent bloodshed. Those the mask was interested in were never ordinary people, he regretted.

Walm deflected attacks with his halberd, stepping finely as if dancing to evade. Even magic used to gain a counterattack opportunity was expended just to delay defeat. His limbs were gradually worn down, blood soaking through his clothes. His magic barrier, acting as a second skin, pressed against his wounds to staunch the bleeding.

Cold shivers ran down his spine, his guts felt unsteady. The palpable sense of death allowed no blinking. Injured and fatigued, surrounded by formidable foes, Walm stood in the ultimate deadlock. Though the labyrinth had no audience, he had to keep dancing with the talented performers.

“Hah, huff, hah…” he panted, pushing his exhausted legs. He entwined and thrust his halberd, converting near-fatal strikes into severe but non-lethal injuries. Despite the relentless pressure, his movements remained sharp. The labyrinth battles he had experienced reawakened his old instincts. The lethargy of a year soaked in alcohol peeled away. Ironically, the death-defying environment perfectly suited Walm’s return.

Unconsciously, Walm smiled. He stomped on a longsword aimed at his legs, pinning it to the ground. Twisting his body, he brought his halberd down on the swordsman, who abandoned his sword to shield his neck with both hands.

The blade cut through the gauntlet, shattering bone and flesh but was halted. A mace struck Walm’s side, and Faust’s spear deeply nicked his throat, but none were fatal.

“Retreat!” Faust ordered the swordsman, but it was slightly late. Despite a broken rib screaming in protest and blood mixing in his windpipe, Walm’s movements didn’t falter. He pulled the swordsman close like a lover, swapping positions.

The swordsman, now a meat shield, tried to cling to Walm with his broken arm. Recognizing the attackers’ determination, Walm saw the shield as useless. He incinerated the swordsman’s throat with a burst of fire and pushed him onto the spear and mace’s paths. The sounds of burning flesh and boiling blood filled the room. The soundless scream of a man with his vocal cords seared delighted Walm.

“…Four left.”

Though the psychological tactic of using a human shield failed, the attackers, now short on numbers, hesitated amid the chaos. Walm yanked the arrow from his shoulder through the collapsing corpse. It wasn’t enough; he spat the blood accumulating in his mouth into the air.

The blood mist distorted vision, increasing the attackers’ confusion. Prepared, Walm compressed the air and shot the arrow.

“Release.”

The arrow pierced through the defender’s arm and eye, embedding in his brain.

“Three more.”

Walm faced the remaining three with his halberd. Despite exhaustion, dwindling magical power, and numerous injuries, his mind was clear. He knew exactly what to do.

“…We’ve taken too much time. No, perhaps there isn’t enough time for a resolution. How frustrating.”
Faust spoke for the first time since the battle began.
The closed door creaked open, signaling the arrival of a new party. The previously audience-less room was about to receive visitors.

Translator – Lyxxna