Chapter 225: Chapter 225

The eastern reaches of the Lillian Kingdom, at the border of the Demon Capital, were known as Snake Canyon, named for its endless winding ravines. The terrain stretched on in near-identical twists and turns, making it all too easy to lose one’s way. Even worse, monsters from the Demon Realm that could rip Masters apart roamed around. Because of that, no traces of human life could be found here. However...

White smoke rose from deep within the forest. Billows puffing upward in a steady rhythm were evidence that someone had made a campfire.

Above the campfire, skewered meat blackened over the flames. A man sat before it, eyes fixed on the charred lump. He looked like a wild man. His gray hair, roughly cut, jutted out like a wolf’s pelt, and the crude clothes sewn from animal hides made him seem even more feral.

“It’s done,” he muttered, lifting the skewer.

It used to be a rabbit, but now, it was no more than a shriveled, blackened, screaming cinder ball. The man bit into it with a crunch.

It sounded nothing like meat. It might as well have been charcoal snapping between his teeth.

Crunch, snap, grind...

The man who was savagely chewing noisily with unsettling noises, suddenly turned. From the dense thicket, a man emerged without the slightest sign of presence.

The wild man threw a punch from where he sat. A compressed blast of fist-wind roared toward the newcomer.

The man blocked it with his forearms, but the impact told another story. Unable to withstand the shockwave, he was blown backward, smashing through a tree as he was hurled away.

Keter, hurled away by the force of the fist-wind, glanced down at his arms. His skin was torn and bleeding, bones cracked beneath. He boasted exceptional toughness even among the extremely powerful; at the Sword of the South Tournament, he had even taken aura head-on.

But now, he had been injured by nothing more than the compressed pressure of wind. The shock had pierced his skin and ravaged his insides. If a fist like that landed cleanly, no matter the spot, his body wouldn’t hold together.

“Ugh, I need to get up.”

Keter, who had regeneration speed like a troll, dusted himself off and stood up.

“Perfect timing. You’re not a Prime yet.”

From what he felt, Hyperion stood at the very peak of a six-star Grandmaster, just shy of stepping into the realm of seven-star Prime.

Warriors who have just reached Prime are the best to face. They’re not used to their Authority yet, but they also blindly trust it too. This is the best opportunity.

Hyperion, who hadn’t yet reached seven-star Prime, was actually stronger. That was why Keter said it was better timing—he would be able to test his true strength. However, that didn’t mean he thought he could win.

“No chance,” Keter said.

One exchange was enough for him to realize that if they fought now, he would absolutely lose. It wasn’t guesswork. Even as he was blown back, he simulated hundreds of scenarios in his head, and not one ended in victory.

However, that didn’t mean Keter was going to give up. If there was no way, he would find one. If he couldn't find one, he would make one. For the first time in ages, Keter felt his fighting spirit roar to life.

Striding back toward the campfire, he called out.

“If you’re here to get me to join this Syndicate crap, forget it. Stick around and I’ll really kill you,” Hyperion muttered irritably, soot smudged at the corners of his mouth.

“My name’s Keter. I’ve got nothing to do with the Syndicate. I came here for my own reasons, Hyperion.”

“What, you want me to take you on as a student? You’re good for surviving my fist-wind and getting, sure, but no thanks.”

“You’ve had plenty of people hounding you, huh? Don’t worry. I’m not here to recruit you or beg to be your student.”

“Then what the hell do you want?” ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ novel(ꜰ)ire.net

“I came here to kill you.”

Hyperion stopped picking his teeth with a bone and stood. Just standing made it feel like a mountain had risen before Keter.

He stopped in front of Keter, looking down. Even as tall as Keter was, he seemed small beside Hyperion.

Hyperion’s voice was like a beast’s growl, killing intent seeping from every pore.

“I’m killing you,” Keter replied calmly, staring back at Hyperion.

“You’re... pretty scrawny for someone who says he’s going to kill me. Honestly, that guy over there looks more interesting.”

Hyperion shot a glance at Decameron. Keter only shrugged.

“That reminds me: what’s your weakness?”

“Your weakness. A flaw in your technique, a physical one, maybe something in your head. Anything. Care to share?”

Hyperion chuckled in disbelief.

“My weakness? And you expect me to say it out loud?”

“A strong man’s generosity. A weak man’s courtesy. That’s all I’m asking.”

“So you admit you’re weak?”

“I can’t stop you from thinking of me that way, so, if you see me as weak, show some mercy and tell me your weakness.”

Hyperion glared at Keter. Keter was utterly serious, which only made him grimace harder.

“What kind of lunatic are you?”

“Are you telling me or not?”

“So, petty then. Got it.”

Hyperion raised his fist. That same fist-wind had injured Keter with nothing but pressure. If that punch hit him straight in the head, best case, he would be in pieces. Worst case, he would be vaporized. Yet Keter didn’t move. No block, no dodge. Just stood there.

“Hey! You said you’d kill me, so fight. What’s with the standing around?”

Hyperion’s pride balked. To strike a defenseless man first was beneath him.

“You really think waiting will help you win?” Hyperion asked.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to win against you right now, so I’m going to fight a bit later.”

“You think I’ll give you that chance? Draw your weapon. I’ll kill you here.”

He drew his shoulder back and then thrust his fist forward in a simple punching motion. Yet somehow, that single strike tore through the air with a sound like it was being ripped apart. That strike wasn’t just death; it was obliteration.

But Keter didn’t budge.

What... this mad bastard?

Hyperion had only ever been truly shaken once in his life: when his master, the Fist Emperor Laurelian, abducted him. This was the second time.

He’s really not dodging?

It wasn’t a half-hearted swing. He threw that punch with the genuine intent to kill. Hyperion was sure that Keter would react and dodge, thus starting the fight. However, he didn’t—not even a twitch of defense.

Fuck, is he trying to make me a coward?

Laurelion, his master, had drilled it into him: never act dishonorably. Even if it hadn’t been taught, Hyperion himself despised it, too.

Stopping a punch imbued with such destructive power by force placed an enormous strain on Hyperion. His bones twisted, and his muscles tore under the effort. Even so, he failed to bring his fist to a complete halt. Instead, he just barely managed to shift its trajectory, diverting it into the empty air beside Keter’s face rather than striking him head-on.

Even with the force pulled back, it was incredibly destructive. The blast spread in a cone-shape, tearing everything in its path apart. Keter smoothed back his hair, blown wild by the shockwave.

“...Psycho. If you won’t fight, get out of my den.”

“Oh, I’ll fight. Just not now.”

“Hmph... So you’ll wait until I slip? Waste of time. You’ll see.”

Hyperion scratched his head roughly and strode off. Keter didn’t bother to chase him.

“He’ll come back anyway.”

Though Hyperion’s den was just a makeshift hut and firepit, the lingering traces of long habitation made it clear he had lived here for quite some time.

“Well, let’s start with this.”

As Hyperion had expected, Keter wasn’t the sort to simply sit back and wait for an opening. Humming to himself, he strolled into the forest, looking positively delighted.

As the sun fully set and night fell, Hyperion returned to his den. Whatever he had been doing, he came back looking refreshed.

He frowned, his good mood instantly souring. Something unfamiliar had caught his eye.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It was a log cabin. Compared to his own rough hut of lashed-together branches, the new cabin was so perfect that his home looked pitiful.

Keter greeted him casually from the fire, poking at a pile of firewood.

“What the hell are you... Sniff sniff?”

Hyperion was about to snap, but his nose twitched at the sudden whiff of something irresistible. He turned toward the fire. There, balanced over the flames, was a pot. The savory smell wafting through the air was coming straight from it.

Bubble, bubble, bubble.

The soft simmering sounds made Hyperion’s mouth water.

In all the decades he had lived out here, he had never once eaten proper food. He had survived on raw fruits, roots, and half-burned or half-raw meat, since he had no idea how to cook.

However, it wasn’t as though he had never known the flavors of civilization. He had grown up with his parents, after all, but those tastes had long since faded into distant memory.

“Rabbit and potato stew. Found some rare herbs nearby, too. Added a bit of spice, so it’ll have a nice kick,” Keter explained as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Hyperion’s mouth watered before he could stop himself.

“What do you mean, so what?”

Keter, who had brought kitchen tools into Decameron’s pouch, ladled a generous portion into a big bowl and handed it over.

Steam rose from the rabbit-and-potato stew. The rabbit meat had been simmered until it was tender enough to fall apart, while the potatoes were soft and fluffy, seasoned just right with salt. To finish, black pepper and pepperoncino had been added, giving the dish both depth and a pleasant kick of heat.

Hyperion’s stomach was almost scolding him to eat that stew at this instant.

“You think I’ll eat just so you can ambush me mid-bite? Fine, I’ll play along.”

In the blink of an eye, he snatched the bowl from Keter and wolfed it down, not even bothering with the spoon.

Keter calmly ate with a spoon, watching for Hyperion’s reaction.

Hyperion’s eyes shot wide open, his expression melting as the flavors hit him.

“Rabbit... is actually good? Potatoes... this fluffy? And this taste... What is this? I’ve never tasted anything in my life...”

The words slipped out of him unguarded. Having lived on bitter, bland food all these years, Keter’s cooking was a revelation. Then he devoured bowl after bowl, wharfing down four servings at once. He was eating so fast that he was probably barely chewing. He still wasn’t satisfied and cast a longing glance at the pot. Seeing Hyperion look like a starving wolf, Keter snaps his fingers.

“I’ll give you more. Pass me the bowl.”

“A-ahem! Looks like I ate too quickly and didn’t give you a chance to attack me. This time, I’ll eat it slowly.

Keter ladled him another generous helping of stew. Hyperion took the bowl and ate it far away from him. He praised its taste once more, then brought the bowl back. Hyperion came back five more times and ultimately finished twenty servings by himself.

“It’s already gone...” Hyperion frowned.

“N-no! I only pity you for failing to attack me.”

“Don’t worry. Tomorrow morning I’ll cook something even better.”

Hyperion’s eyes gleamed with childlike excitement, completely at odds with his massive frame.

“Ahen! You’re going to desperate lengths to try and catch me off guard. Feeding me until I’m full and then striking while I sleep—that’s your plan, isn’t it? I’ll take you on anytime.”

He turned toward his shabby hut, but Keter stopped him.

Keter tossed something toward him. Hyperion instantly assumed it was an attack and caught it with his left hand, readying his right fist.

As he was just about to swing his right fist...

“You use it, you wash it.”

But when he glanced down, it wasn’t a weapon; it was the empty bowl.

“If you don’t use the dishes, no food tomorrow.”

With that, Keter headed into the cabin with Decameron. The fire was now out, and Hyperion was left alone in the dark.

“...Maybe he’s actually a decent guy?”

Scratching the back of his head awkwardly, Hyperion trudged toward the river with the bowl.

Peering through a crack in the log wall, Keter watched him go and softly muttered, “Poison doesn’t work on him.”