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With his back turned to the bandit, the thin, snow-skinned man twisted his joints around completely, reversing the direction his arms faced and guarding against the attack.

Lawrence’s elbows popped and reversed, his shoulders rolled and rotated, completely allowing his arms freedom to defend his back.

“What the–?!” Dingo let out.

In an abhorrent orchestra of cracking and popping sounds, the head of the mysterious, jester adventurer spun around as his neck twisted, facing the man with his smiling expression.

“Do I scare you? I have a tendency to do that, I’m afraid,” Lawrence said.

Dingo couldn’t get the words out of his throat as his eyes widened with horror at the sight of the twisting man. This opportune moment was seized as Lawrence’s joints shifted back to their normal state before the eccentric adventurer spun around and slashed his blade across the bandit’s chest.

“Ghh-!” Dingo winced.

The massive gash formed across the bandit’s torso immediately spewed out a heavy amount of arterial fluid–perhaps too much for such a wound.

Dingo fell onto his rear, clutching his chest as blood continued to pour out, seeping and pouring endlessly past the wound as the crimson fluid rushed out into a black gunk._.

“Wh-wh-what is this…?” Dingo said, his voice frantic and growing weaker by the second.

As the pale, abnormal man stepped towards him, a terrorizing wave of dread crawled over the bandit, causing him to hug himself as his wound continued to bleed.

There was something completely terrifying about the orange-haired man; an aura that of a human, devil, and a monster.

“Stay away…!” Dingo yelled.

“You’ll be dead within the minute, I’m afraid,” Lawrence told him with a sad voice, though still smiling, “I don’t like the idea of letting prey escape even though I’ve clearly won, so a cut from my blade guarantees such death.”

“–” Dingo watched silently while shaking.

The red-haired bandit’s complexion had grown incredibly pale as his teeth shattered; the blood continued to ooze endlessly from his wound while he sat there in a puddle of his own loss.

–

Against the other of the two bandits, the boy was doing his best to evade the massive blades that cut through stonelike butter.

Though all he could do was his very best, as a single slash landing would spell his death.

Using small bursts of wind, he moved himself around swiftly, allowing himself to dodge cleanly and to repel his opponent’s attacks, but the man was swift himself.

I can only rely on simple, small-scale spells right now. Small, confined spaces like this are the worst for me! He thought.

It wasn’t just that he was looking out for his ally or the people trapped in the cells, but potentially damaging the integrity of the hideout itself could result in it collapsing on top of him. Simply put, he had to be cautious.

He was constantly on his feet, moving back and creating obstacles of stone for the dual-wielding man to have to cut through as he chased after the boy.

“Stop running, brat. You’re only going to make this worse when I get my hands on you!”

“Thanks for the advice…!” He replied.

As he waved his staff again, this time he conjured bands of water, attempting to ensnare the man, but failing to do so as Terry launched forward suddenly, rushing directly towards him.

Crap–bad timing! He thought.

He ducked down to avoid the blades, causing the man to now be directly above him in the air as he found his chance for a counterattack.

…Now! He thought.

Pressing his staff up against the man’s stomach, he summoned a pressurized beam of water, unleashing it against the bandit’s abdomen mercilessly as it tore through his garments and pushed him up, slamming the man against the stone ceiling harshly.

It was only for a moment, but he could see that the man had a tattoo on his neck–it was the Mountain God Style sigil, with three stars–a noble rank.

It’s the same rank as the bald man I fought before–but this guy is way tougher. I knew that the guy I fought was blinded by anger, but this is really how strong a Noble-rank is–? Scary, he thought.

Though it seemed that he had all but already secured a victory as he watched the bandit fall back down to the ground, who picked himself up, revealing a bruised and bleeding stomach; dozens of small lacerations were left on the man’s stomach from the beam of water, seeming to drain a lot of fight from the bandit.

“…That smarts,” Terry groaned.

“Give yourself up,” he suggested, “You don’t have to die.”

Though his offer of mercy was rejected as the hazel-haired man simply laughed out, almost choking on his own laughter.

“–” He watched in silent confusion, “…What’s so funny?”

“You don’t get it at all, do you, kid? Trying to play the hero in a world like this?…Please. Even if I wanted to give up, Oswell would gut me anyway,” Terry said, raising both of his greatswords again, “Let’s get on with it, then.”

Just then, an ungodly amount of bloodlust oozed from the man; it was enough of an aura that spoke of the countless killings the man had likely committed, the atrocities he had witnessed and done–it was enough to force the boy to no longer stay his hand.

It wasn’t as if he wasn’t trying to achieve victory beforehand, but he did strive not to kill. That reluctance to kill dulled his proficiency by a large margin, so once he relinquished that idea–

“Phh–!” Terry vomited blood.

There was a massive hole straight through the man’s stomach. A clean hole bored through in an instant, taking the bandit by surprise as he looked down.

“…Not too shabby…”

This was done swiftly by the young boy, who aimed his staff towards the hazel-haired bandit with an adamant expression worn on his face.

It was a blast of compressed air; it overlapped many times into what acted almost like an invisible cannon. Such a spell was something he had taught himself, but it was one that could only be utilized with the intent of ‘destruction.’

Still, with some sort of zombie-like vigor, the bandit still rushed towards him, rearing his arms back as it looked as if he was preparing to throw his swords at the boy.

…That? I remember the other man tried that. I won’t let you, he thought.

He held his rock-solid composure, aiming his staff forward as he squinted his eyes, unsure if he should watch the result of his own actions, but choosing to do so as he summoned a sphere of fire in front of his staff.

It was a volatile orb; crackling with sparks and fuming as he added air to it to increase its potency before launching the small, but destructive orb of fire towards the all-but-dead bandit.

BOOM.

The impact of the orb meeting the bandit resulted in a small-scale explosion, though he made sure to use something that wouldn’t destroy the corridor.

…I scaled it down, but it’s still more than enough to kill somebody. Spells like this are only meant to kill. A part of me didn’t like the idea of that, but this is the kind of world I live in now, right? Father didn’t hesitate to kill Rubert. I killed those traffickers before. Why should I hesitate now? He thought.