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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 22
Chapter Title: Your Name Is.
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When a fight breaks out between one and many...
Few would call it a battle.
A battle, by definition, is a clash between armies.
You can't call a lone enemy an army, nor can you label a one-sided massacre or suppression by the many as a battle.
From that perspective...
What was unfolding at the Blue House wasn't a battle.
But at the same time, it was more battle-like—more like a war—than any war before it.
Du-du-du-du-du!
Tens of thousands of bullets scraped across the ground.
Kwaaang!
A Humvee firing a machine gun flipped over.
"Uwaaaak!"
"Medic! Medic!"
"Fuck! When are the reinforcements coming?!"
Blood, screams, and curses filled the air.
It was a hellish scene straight out of a desperate war for the nation's fate—something you'd only see on the front lines of the true battlefield.
There were three problems, though.
This was a fight against a single individual.
It was a one-sided slaughter.
And the one doing the slaughtering wasn't the many—it was the one.
"Die, just die already!"
A white-haired man strolled leisurely through the heart of the warzone, as if taking a walk in the garden.
Someone screamed hysterically at Rimon, unloading their rifle like a madman.
But the result was the same as before.
No matter how wildly they fired, the bullets only gouged the ground. They couldn't kill Rimon, or even graze his clothes.
"Why the hell won't you get hit?!"
It was a cry that spoke for every soldier and cop here, regardless of rank or ability.
If he'd used some skill,
or dodged the bullets at blinding speed,
or bounced them off his body,
they might have understood.
In this Iron Age overflowing with players, superhumans immune to guns weren't rare.
The problem was that Rimon wasn't using any skills. He wasn't even trying to dodge or block the bullets.
The bullets just veered away from him, flying off into weird directions.
To them, it felt like he'd cursed them or something.
Especially those who prided themselves on their marksmanship—they looked ready to lose their minds.
Kurururung.
"Reinforcements!"
When three tanks rumbled into view, shaking the earth,
their cheers, like they'd met a savior, made sense.
At least a tank's shell had enough power to blow a person away, even if it missed slightly like the bullets.
But Rimon didn't even twitch an eyebrow at the hulking tanks.
He just gave them a pitiful look.
"You pathetic idiots..."
The three tanks blocked his path and swiveled their barrels toward him.
Rimon watched impassively until they fired.
Only then did he slowly swing his sword.
It was an agonizingly slow strike.
So slow it couldn't block or cut anything—not even a caterpillar could miss dodging it.
But once the sword path was complete...
The result was astonishing.
Plip, plip.
"...What the hell is that?"
"D-Duds?"
"All three? No, even duds—blocking them like that doesn't make sense..."
They gawked at the three shells delicately balanced on Rimon's sword tip.
Not a butterfly on a flower,
but supersonic shells caught like that.
It defied their common sense—they couldn't believe their eyes.
"Here, take 'em back."
Bam! Bam! Bam!
No one knew how he did it.
But when Rimon casually flicked his sword,
the shells flew back the way they'd come—without exploding—and slammed precisely into the tanks' turrets.
As the tanks were neutralized the moment they arrived, Rimon clicked his tongue at the stunned onlookers.
"You morons, use your brains for once. If these scrap heaps can't even handle high-level players, how could they handle me?"
They were speechless.
It was a sharp point.
High-level players were superhumans who could smash tanks barehanded.
That's why each one was treated as an irreplaceable asymmetric asset, a national treasure.
But Rimon was a PAB agent who specialized in hunting high-level players.
Hell, just here today, several high-level players who'd attacked him with skills lay unconscious.
A few tanks were no threat to him.
"H-How can a mere 'normal person' do this...?"
"Damn it! I never heard Rimon Asfelder was a high-level player!"
That was why.
The more they fought Rimon,
the more insane they went.
They couldn't comprehend how a non-player could pull this off.
In their minds, a Sword Master was just a normal person who was 'pretty good' with a sword.
Kaang!
"Is that all you got?"
But Rimon didn't bother explaining what a Sword Master really was.
He just casually deflected a sniper round from somewhere and asked flatly.
"You're traitors who made it to the nation's heart, and this is the best you can do?"
No one answered.
The hail of bullets was their reply.
From that, he knew.
No more reinforcements, support, missiles, or airstrikes were coming anytime soon.
'These bastards didn't even call for backup properly.'
Rimon chuckled dryly.
Yeah, he got it.
They couldn't mobilize the whole army or beg private guilds for help over one guy.
It'd be too embarrassing.
Even if the nation fell, they'd cling to face until the end.
So very modern of them.
'Too much peace has made them soft.'
Dodging the endless bullets just by walking leisurely, Rimon sighed inwardly.
Pure military might?
This country was stronger than before.
Latest rifles replaced the old junk that broke constantly—that was baseline.
Most soldiers were players now, far beyond old-school grunts.
And some private guilds even outpowered the national army.
But more than they'd grown externally, they'd grown complacent.
An army with no real combat experience.
Commanders prioritizing face over country.
Guilds that only moved for profit.
And citizens crowding high-rise windows, filming like it was a show as the Blue House crumbled.
Was this progress?
Or decline?
'An era without war ends up like this, huh.'
Rimon smirked.
From the Bronze Age to the Heroes Age,
when blood and violence never stopped, peace was everyone's dream.
So why did this hard-won peace feel so hollow?
Pondering something he couldn't answer himself, Rimon stepped into the Blue House main building, leaving the bullets behind.
"Block him! If you can't, buy time!"
"Iyaaap!"
The last line of defense, maybe.
Suit-wearing agents barricaded the stairs, unleashing every skill they had at Rimon.
Mind attacks with illusions.
Targeting hearts by manipulating blood flow.
Petriying light beams nonstop.
Fitting for presidential guards, they were all high-level players—their skills were potent.
Even a level 90+ top-tier player would die instantly if caught off-guard.
One problem.
Their opponent was Rimon.
Chwaak!
"What...?!"
"H-He cut the skill?"
Feeling their skills severed as Rimon's sword sliced the air, they recoiled in shock.
Rimon gave them no time to gape.
He just smacked them down lightly with the flat of his blade and climbed the stairs calmly.
But when he reached his goal...
Rimon had to stop dead.
He'd made it to the president's office, but only an empty desk greeted him.
The big cheese was gone.
"This guy's really bolted."
Rimon tsked.
His men fighting to the death to defend the place, and he slips away alone.
Smart move, though.
The top commander sticking around for face would just be a liability.
'No dignity, but...'
Still, the pathetic escape felt undignified. Was it because Rimon was from the old era?
Or because he'd snuck off only after Rimon entered the building?
"Idiot. If you were gonna run, do it sooner instead of dithering."
With a smirk,
Rimon walked to the center of the office and muttered softly.
"End result's the same anyway."
Gauging something invisible,
he narrowed his eyes, scanning the air for a moment.
Then gripped his sword with both hands, slowly raising it overhead.
He aimed at a spot in the void and slashed straight down.
Chaenggrang!
"...?!"
Right then.
The empty air split left and right.
Through the rift appeared an elderly man about to board a bulletproof limo—and his aides' shocked faces.
They froze like they'd seen a ghost.
Before they could recover, Rimon reached in.
He grabbed the elderly man's collar and yanked him through the gap in one pull.
Thud!
"Kuhuk...!"
Like a fish flung onto ice after ice fishing, the old man tumbled pathetically across the floor.
Even in his panic, President Han asked,
"H-How? You can't use space movement skills, can you?"
A fair question.
If Rimon could teleport, they wouldn't have assigned Yuna Kyung, a precious space mover, to his team.
"Didn't you know?"
Whether he couldn't accept it,
or was in full panic,
Rimon snickered at the president prioritizing questions even now.
He squatted to eye level and grinned.
"No one escapes a Sword Master, kiddo."
Despite the kind answer,
President Han looked even more baffled, not grasping it.
But Rimon didn't explain.
What a Sword Master was...
Those who didn't know wouldn't get it no matter how much you told them.
Besides, Rimon had priority business with this screwloose national leader.
"Alright, to celebrate our meeting, mind doing me a few favors...?"
Mid-sentence, with a cold smile,
Rimon shut his mouth.
As if remembering something,
he rolled his eyes, scratched his cheek, and asked,
"Wait, what's your name again?"
"..."