Chapter 112: The Amateur

Kup pressed his hand against the door latch, a flattened wooden strip loosely wedged into a wooden catch; such a door likely served only to alert the owner when easily broken, symbolically signaling "do not enter without permission."

In other words, there was no such thing as holding the door against attackers, for this door had nothing to do with the word "sturdy."

His feet felt as though they had just been pulled from water and then blown on by the winter sea breeze all day, now hung with solid ice blocks, so heavy that every step felt burdensome. The time dragged out was insufficient to devise a better plan; opening the door was inevitable, the only difference being whether it was done actively or passively.

A middle-aged woman's voice urged from outside, sounding like someone with no experience in masking her emotions. Even if she tried to act as though she had merely returned normally to fetch some firewood, from Kup's perspective, dominated by his nervous state, the urgency seemed unnaturally conspicuous.

But speaking truly, disturbing someone in the middle of the night just to fetch some firewood hardly counts as "normal," does it?

He leaned against the wall, stepping out of the door's swing range to ensure he wouldn't be struck by a violent push from the outside, then reached out to withdraw the bolt. "Please come in."

He deliberately propped the bolt against the wall, making enough noise for the person outside to hear.

The person outside moved; it was the sound of straw-soled shoes scraping against dust, which eased his mind slightly. At least he couldn't imagine any non-human thing would obediently wear woven artificial objects and still manage to respond.

The landlady did not answer. If she had been standing before the door, she would have pushed it open immediately, rather than needing to take a few more steps.

"What's wrong?" His fingers touched the doorknob, pulling it open just a crack, enough for the indoor lamp light to form a distinct bright line at the threshold, releasing a signal of "no defenses here."

The effect... was quite significant.

Almost simultaneously, the heavy tread of footwear different from before approached rapidly within a few steps; it was a man of considerable weight.

【He is taking a running start】

No need for further thought; the moment this thought arose, his hand recoiled as if stung.

In the next instant, the door slammed open, and a figure crashed into the room.

His shirt was little better than a holey sack, exposing shoulders still holding the posture of a ram; beneath matted hair clumped with grime lay a rough, wrinkled local face, his ferocious expression carving the lines deep into his skin, as weathered by cave life as the mining pick in his hand.

In his imagination, a completely unprepared victim should have been standing behind the door, about to be smashed with a bleeding head, so he had used his maximum strength.

However, this collision only knocked open the unsupported door; inertia caused him to lose balance, and he lunged inward, head-heavy and feet-light, his expression shifting from ferocity to the confusion of weightlessness as his whole body smashed onto the gravel-paved ground.

Small sharp edges everywhere abraded his skin; blood mixed with sand and dirt irritated the exposed wounds. The man rolled over in a cry of pain, reaching for the mining pick he had dropped.

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His response was the falling page-weight.

Following what he had learned in training, Kup swung the page-weight down onto the man who was still dazed on the ground. In the emergency, there was no time to hesitate; he only knew this was a signal, like a command given by Kraft, forming a conditioned reflex through repetition, allowing for a swift counterattack once the enemy's location was clear.

Coming in the middle of the night with a mining pick to ram a door; surely he wasn't here to chip stone, was he?

Unconsciously using more strength than usual in his fright, Kup felt that at this moment he was not controlling the weapon, but rather the metal hammer body was moving him.

His steps moved with the swing, stepping onto the bloody, blurred upper arm. The immense pain made his breath lose control; the latter half of his sound was like a large chunk of gravel stuck in a spasming throat, his bloodshot eyeballs bulging.

Even so, the man was still reaching with his other hand toward the calf that had stepped down, trying to pull Kup to the ground. But he had no chance; a dangerous shadow covered his vision, and the cold gleam of the page-shaped iron weapon pressed right before his eyes.

The single-wing design effectively reduced the striking area, concentrating the force onto one hammer ridge, giving the hammer, which should have been a blunt weapon, some properties of a sharp one. Especially since the metal plates of this weapon also bore sharp corners, the malicious intent was obvious.

The toughness of soft tissue was insignificant before it; the metal embedded into the skin without resistance. Before the user could perceive where he had struck, ignoring that negligible elasticity, it contacted the bone plate beneath.

There seemed to be a muffled, indistinct crisp sound, conducted along the metal and the hammer handle, recognized by the tightly gripping finger bones as the echo of a kindred's destruction, evoking an instinctive repulsion.

But the cruel atrocity did not cease there. After that layer of bone plate, designed by the Creator not to bear force, shattered and pierced the cheek, a water-ball-like object was squeezed flat like a grasped fish bladder, and a jelly-like transparent substance flowed from the rupture.

This sphere had once been intricately structured, composed of several layers of membranes with different functions and various appendages, enabling it to achieve a series of transformations from light to things Kup could not understand, as Kraft had described when he first rose.

But not anymore; these things had become substances one could not bear to look at, smashed and mixed together with the complex bony labyrinth behind them, becoming a visible death of solid and liquid mixture.

Half of the man's face collapsed inward; mixed-colored things hung from the hollows, smearing the other half where the features were deformed and displaced. The dry, sandy ground sucked up the moisture that had lost its containment.

And the person who had wrought all this felt himself boiling; nameless emotions heated every signal. Fear, guilt, and loathing presented themselves in turn like a stew bubbling on a hot stove. This association made him nauseous, and he struggled to shift his gaze away from his own handiwork.

【That guy is dead】

Kup realized he had completed the first step; no one could survive such injuries. So what should be done now?

Turn around. Yes, he should turn around and execute the next step. The experience taught by Kraft, originating from that baron he had never met, solidified through repetitive training. When no enemy is in front, one must turn around immediately to check.

This was truly excellent, naturally saving his consciousness from that unbearable scene.

Lifting the page-weight, he turned toward the door. The woman who had knocked was being held and dragged aside. In the shadows outside, figures swarmed; beneath the torchlight were faces interwoven with ferocity and terror, along with illuminated iron weapons.

From the moment the door opened to losing a companion, only two breaths had passed. Their reaction was much slower than Kup's, a quick-made amateur, even leaving Kup room to adjust. After staring at each other for a few seconds, emboldened by their numerical advantage, they rushed forward in a swarm.

The lead man, with a fearless posture, swung his mining pick toward the page-weight, forcing Kup to cross the hammer handle to block, the sharp, long pick head jumping before his eyes.

The narrow space at the doorway prevented them from exploiting their numerical advantage for the moment. That man increased his force, trying to force Kup back into the room to open up space. But the long life of a miner brought not only strength but also increasingly severe lung disease.

In the struggle, Kup unexpectedly found he still held the upper hand. Faced with this situation, the Wood family always had a method to break the deadlock.

The side outside poured all their strength and attention onto the mining pick, delighted to feel the opposing force slightly lessen. Just as they thought they were about to succeed, a cool breeze blew through their trouser legs, and intense pain surged.

The hardest, most lethal part of the lower limb collided with the most vulnerable part of the groin. Fire-like pain erupted from there, spreading instantly along the inguinal region and engulfing the entire lower abdomen. His will collapsed, and his limbs uncontrollably lost strength, causing him to kneel.

The page-weight struck down again. This time it was much better; in the chaos, he could barely see what was happening. Kup only felt something else shatter. His mind grew numb, simply executing the simple movements of daily training. These guys were never as fast as Kraft's wooden sword.

Before he could kick this guy away, a second one lunged. The hammer, not yet raised again, lacked space to generate force, but the usage of this weapon was far richer than that of a pick.

The hammer head thrust straight out, the metal tip heavily pressing against the ribs, interrupting the opponent before he could complete his slow, heavy swing, and adding a kick that temporarily, or perhaps permanently, deprived him of all combat capability.

The third attacker, not expecting such a situation, after a brief daze, reacted by turning his head behind him, calling out a name with a thick dialect accent.

Kup then noticed there was still a small figure wrapped in a cloak who had not followed in sync, lagging behind.

This did not stop him from seizing this opening. He swung a hammer blow at the side of the distracted opponent facing him. Several ribs snapped horizontally; the softened ribcage rose and fell like a flail, bulging and collapsing, each breath bringing tearing pain to the chest wall.

The injured man clutched the struck area, stumbled back a few steps, and collapsed helplessly.

Only the last enemy remained, who had reacted much slower than the others. He had not noticed the activities of his companions at all until his name was called, at which point he moved as if waking from a dream.

Like a marionette lacking self-awareness, he crossed the blocking limbs with an extremely awkward walking posture and stepped into the light.

His figure, noticeably shorter than normal people, was caused by his strange hunched movements. His clothing was not some cloak but a patchwork of different fabrics, covering his head, face, and back; not a single inch of his body was exposed, and even the lower half of his face was wrapped in cloth strips.

Similar to the outcome of certain malignant diseases in childhood, causing joint contraction and movement restriction, he always maintained a posture of a hunched back and bent limbs. In his hand was a small iron weapon unlike the others.

Kup watched him run, confused—if that could be called running. The inability to straighten his legs meant their movement contradicted normal habits, contracting and then springing up. It was as if a disease-caused restricted position was being driven in an unreasonable manner.

The speed of this strange movement was not slow. He closed in on the murderer who had just knocked down several of his companions. The iron weapon in his hand could finally be seen clearly: a rust-covered dagger.

Poorly maintained, but indeed the only true weapon they had seen in their hands.

This made Kup alert. He cautiously masked his movements, and upon closing in, reversed his previous attack style, feigning a weak strike. Although he had never fooled Kraft since he learned it, and used it clumsily, it might still be worth a try here.

The hammer rose from below; the hunched figure did not dodge or evade, instead subtly rotating the wrist controlling the dagger. Considering the length of the weapon and his arm, Kraft was certain this strange man could not injure him before dying.

He added more force—the hammer would strike the shoulder or side of the chest; barring any accident, his first battle should end now.

Nothing. Nothing at all. A void pierced the otherwise certain strike; Kraft did not even brush against a scrap of fluttering cloth, and within the scene split between fire and shadow, something went awry.

That dislocation spread from the hunched figure, like tearing a canvas, replacing one section with another layer of blankness.

A familiar yet alien sensation—dislocation, transformation—the target vanished from view, and a sharp pain surged against his lower back.