Chapter 57 — Mini Boss

Alternate Title: Sven Glascheit — Chimera

My fist connects with another Magus’s ribcage, the sickening crunch of bone echoing through the hall as I send him flying into his comrades. 

A jolt of [Vibration] pulses from my feet, the kinetic energy surging through the Circuits embedded within them, spiderwebbing cracks across the polished marble floor. A smirk tugs at my lips as the remaining Magi stumble, their disorientation cut short as I hurl a dislodged bench into them. 

The sound of splintering wood and pained groans is almost musical to my ears.

“Husband, must you insist on redecoration?” Lorelei’s exasperated voice floats from behind me, thick with amusement, just as mine is.

I ignore her, effortlessly lifting another unfortunate Magus into a full-nelson hold, his struggles pathetically weak.

Seriously? These guys are starting to make small woodland creatures look like tactical geniuses. 

You’d think after the fiftieth Magus got face-planted, courtesy of yours truly, they’d consider a change in strategy.

‘Note to self: Never join a cult.’

I think wryly, my eyes falling on a small, glowing Orb near my feet—a Mystic Code I’d relieved an earlier casualty of.

“Catch!” I bark, kicking the Orb towards the huddled group of Magi. At this point, after a good half an hour of… This, they’re all starting to look the same: Like… Really, really resilient punching bags brought to help me with anger management issues.

And the best part? It is working.

The frustration for being cockblocked thrice has dwindled significantly.

On a more positive note, Lorelei and Gil seem to be enjoying their impromptu coffee break. ‘Good for th-’ 

My train of thought derail as a sticky, ethereal chain wrapped around my shoulders, its touch sending a jolt of pain through me as it greedily drains away at my Od. 

Damn. 

Cheap shot, even for cultists…

With a flick of my wrist, I bound the Mystic Code to my arm, yanking the Magus attached to the chain towards me with a brutal tug. 

He slams face-first into the ground with a sickening thud. I casually used his pristine white uniform to wipe the blood splatter from my cheek, my gaze sweeping over the Magi. They are huddled together, fear finally eclipsing their earlier bravado.

The sight almost makes me feel sorry for them. Almost.

“What’s the matter, gents?” I pur, my voice deceptively soft. “Lost your enthusiasm? You were talking a lotta shit before.”

“A brute! You’re nothing but a disgusting brute! We are men of science!”

The Magus spits the words like they are poison, clinging to his pride like a shield while his round belly shakes with indignation.

“And what of it? Might makes right. You call me a brute like I’m supposed to feel hurt, yet here you are, beaten bloody. If you scorn us ‘brutes’ so much, prove your superiority. Come on,”

I goad, hooking my finger. “Step back into the ring.”

Someone else had already taken care of him twenty minutes earlier, not me.

They really should have disabled ‘Friendly Fire’.

“I’m more than willing to give you a rematch.” My taunt silences his protest, but he’s not the only one with a bone to pick with me.

“You’re not good enough for her!” Good-fucking-golly, it’s a woman this time.

“And you are? Do you think you know better than your idol? Than the Queen of the Clock Tower herself?” My accusatory tone drains the color from her face. ”You think very highly of yourself, don’t you?” 

“Wha-No, I don’t!” 

“Then lay down your weapons and trust in her judgment.”

Though she looks as if she’s swallowed a lemon whole, the Magus reluctantly complies, sheathing her blades.  

Just as she yields, another Magus steps forward to take her place. “You scoundrel! Gold-digger! Manwhore!” 

Humming, I glance at Lorelei, mouthing, ‘Play along,’ And sit beside her, all while Ambrosius glares daggers at the back of my head. 

“Even if I were a gold-digger, so what? If you have the capability, go find a wealthy, influential and pretty woman to marry. Oh, wait, you can’t. You’re not even good enough to be a gold-digger.” 

Next to me, I catch the sound of a chuckle, but by the time I turn, Lorelei’s face is already back to its emotionless mask.

Just a few feet away, Gil’s intense stare burns holes in my face.

It’s gonna be an earful when we get back to the hotel, isn’t it?

“You! I’ve never seen anyone so shameless!”

“And I’ve never seen such sore losers before,” I say, taking Lorelei’s cup from her hand and downing the tea in one gulp, only to cringe a second afterward. ‘Way too sweet…’

It’s like drinking liquefied sugar—gross. 

Masking my expression, I point at him. “I guess there’s a first for everything. Imagine ganging up on one guy—all 100 of you—to prove he is not worthy of your Goddess, and losing.”

Emphasizing, I casually swing my leg from left to right. “You sound like a real bitch right now.”

“The only reason she married you is because of your Traits. You have nothing of value you worthless upstart!”  

Oh, aiming straight for the jugular, is he?

Bad move, especially against a former League of Legends addict.

The things I’ve said in a lobby would make people cry. “I’d beg to differ—I beat you, remember? I beat all of you. Besides, it’s not my fault she deemed your Bloodline unfit, is it? Not that I blame her. I mean, look at you! I know male pattern baldness can be addressed, but you’re long past that point. Just shave it off, get in shape, and maybe you’ll at least look intimidating instead of pathetic!”

I glance at Lorelei and notice a faint pink spreading from her neck to her cheeks, and I can’t help but snort.

“My barber said the tonsure is a respectable hairstyle!” 

“First off, yours is half a tonsure at best. Second, your barber deserves to be jailed for even suggesting that tonsure is anything than disgusting.”

I retort, rolling my eyes as he retreats all teary-eyed. “Anyone else want to object to our marriage…? Speak up now, or be silenced forever!” 

A chilling wind breezes past my ear, whispering in my ear about the new challengers.

Sure enough, the door blows off its hinges seconds after, revealing a shadowed hall. 

“We can see you guys.” I call out just as a chorus of admiring sighs and breathy gasps surrounds me. 

Guys want to be them; 

Girls want to be with them… 

Who could they possibly be?

“Sven and whatshisname?” 

“It’s Knight Conor Ua Duibhne, sir. He’s very proud of his heritage.” 

“Thank you, Ambrosius.” 

“It is my duty.” The butler replies with a shrug. 

“I object.” 

I hum thoughtfully, pointing at the blonde. “And the Glascheit?” 

“He just wants payback.” 

“So how are we doing this?”

With a heavy sigh, I get up from the chair, to adress the two Magi. “Which face do I need to pummel in first?”

Dragging a chair over to sit down, Conor gestures at the blonde. Compared to Svin Glascheit, Sven is taller and possibly stronger, but still nothing I can’t handle. “I beat you once, I can do it again.” 

“I wasn’t prepared.” 

“And now you are, I assume?”

I lean forward and grin before tossing the cup at his head without reinforcing it.

There’s no need—Lorelei seems to prioritize quality since even something as insignificant as her tea set can withstand almost anything except extreme heat.

Crushing the mid-air, Glascheit strides toward me, each step boosting his height to a solid 7 feet as he’s enveloped by the reflection of his Soul—a Minotaur.

Really gives a whole new meaning to ‘bull-headed’, doesn’t it.

I don’t recall much about the Glascheit family, but I’ve heard of them throughout the Tower.

Beyond their connection to the animal kingdom, most members of their House have a single creature to which they are attuned.

Svin Glascheit’s was a Werewolf, if I remember correctly.

The Glascheit suddenly accelerates, leaping up with fists as large as several hammers combined, crashing down where I had been just a moment before, further wrecking the already battered ground. I really can’t fathom what gave him the courage… Strength and Durability are his greatest assets, yet I have already outclassed him in both.

But whatever…

If anyone ever sees me turning down a chance to show off, I hope they do me the favor of putting me out of my misery.

Pumping my fists, I put up my guard, just like Kirei had taught me, and wave him closer.

Senza Esitazione won’t be necessary, not for somebody I’ve already beaten.

“Come!”

We collide, sending marble tiles and cement flying in all directions.

I’m genuinely surprised to find myself pushed back, even if just a bit. 

Sven launches a fist toward my ribcage and tries to grab my neck, narrowly missing my collar as I maneuver out of the way, countering with my knee.

Normally, a knee to the chin from me would be enough to decapitate someone, but Sven seems to be made of sterner stuff. Dancing out of the way, I sigh. “You know, you’re a really, really dull opponent to fight, and I think I’ve figured out why. You lack creativity.” 

It's like fighting Brewess—all brawn and no brains. “A word of advice? Try being trickier. Put some thought into your fighting. Make this enjoyable at least, because right now you bore me.”

I can certainly see why he’s climbed so high up the ladder…

With the Stats he’s shown, most Magi wouldn’t be able to cast their Spells before he pulverized them. But against me? He's really out of his league. 

“You said WHAT?! I’ll show you boring, you cocky little shit!” 

“Bro, you look like you shave armpit hair, shut the Hell up.” 

“What’s wrong with shaving?” 

“It just seems… Zesty,” I shrug in response. “Now, are we fighting or not?” 

I’d use Magecraft, but I’m low on Od right now. Fighting a hundred Magi at once is really exhausting, and even though [Eternal Engine], paired with high-speed regeneration, lets me ignore the physical strain, they sadly do not prevent a Mind-Down, hence why I’ve got to conserve my Od for the ‘Boss’ eyeing us like a hawk.

Happily dancing around Glascheit, I keep up the taunting, landing a few hits until the Magus finally seems to reach his limit and drops out of [Minotaur Form], looking quite down.

The crowd that had cheered for him now sulks. Even from here, I can hear their whispers behind his back. 

“Genius Enforcer? What nonsense… He can’t even handle a First-Gen.”

The one speaking hadn’t even participated in the initial battle. 

“He has the courage to get up on stage,” I thunder, fixing the man with an icy glare. “Something you wouldn’t know anything about, you gutless wonder. So why don’t you do us all a favor, shut your mouth, and let someone who isn’t a spineless coward do his thing.”

Heads turn, the rest of the crowd finally realizing who I’m dressing down.

Face the color of a sunset, the man scurries towards the exit.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I call after him. “Run! Get lost!”

Turning away from the fleeing man, I address the performer on stage.

“Alright, Glascheit, you can get off now. I don’t have a habit of kicking a man when he’s down.”

He looks at me, confusion clear in his eyes. “Why are you protecting me? What’s the game here?”

“It’s simple,”

I say flatly. “I’ve earned the right to trashtalk. He hasn’t. People like that… They’re the worst.” 

Worse than Zouken, even; mainly because of their number. 

A second Zouken might be a rarity, but cowards who hide behind insults and revel in tearing others down even though they have achieved nothing of value in life? They are everywhere.

Like those ‘backseat fighters’ who ripped on Connor McGregor, despite having never stepped foot in the octagon or felt the sting of a real fight.

Who were they to criticize a millionaire fighter? 

What right did a weasel have to criticize a Bull?

They’re not decent people, merely pitiful weaklings hiding behind a sheep’s façade.

They disgust me.

“You’re a confusing person, Jasper Hangman.” Sven chuckles as he adjusts his stance and moves forward. “But if you think I’ll back down because of this, you’re sorely mistaken. I only surrender when I can no longer swing my fist.”

Bullheaded as expected.

It's kind of endearing.

I had a friend like him once.

We got into a fight, and when I was losing, I clung to his leg and kept swinging until he surrendered. We were best friends until seventh grade when he had to move away. Both of us were poorer than our classmates, so we’d share the same sodas and cigarettes at lunch-break.

He even took a brick to the head once during our scuffle with the next class after a supposedly ‘friendly’ soccer match. Good times… Wilder times, back when we thought ourselves invincible and all was right with the world… When you could punch your problems away and regroup with said ‘problems’ to kick a ball like the attempted homicide yesterday was merely a fever dream.

“Quit grinning. You’re seriously giving me the creeps.”

“I’ve got a proposition for you. Curious if you’re interested?” 

“Go on.” 

“If I win, I want you to come and work for me. And before you ask, we offer excellent employee benefits, including a mandatory 15 days of holiday.”

I’m not entirely sure what his role will be, but I've got plans to establish two forces—the National Army and the Royal Guards.

Can’t really expect the guy to go from a wealthy second-generation to slogging in the trenches, but he might be interested in running my Royal Guards. 

“I’m an Heir, I’m already rich. Money does not interest me.”

“There’s always room for more wealth, isn’t there?”

I reply, circling the platform, mirrored by Sven’s steps, who paces with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Furthermore, I’m offering more than just wealth; it’s a chance to become truly extraordinary. Are you familiar with the Throne of Heroes? I assure you, every one of my close retainers will earn a place on it; amongst Legends and Myths.”

The Glascheit snorts, offering me a smile that seems to mock my ‘arrogance.’ 

“You’ve got quite the opinion of yourself, don’t you? The Throne’s for Humanity’s finest, and you believe you can place people there? Just because you say so?” 

“Because I command so.” I correct, casting a brief, cautious glance at Gil, as if silently questioning, ‘Are you entertained enough?’ 

My thoughts are cut short by the Glascheit’s laughter, whose skin begins to flicker with a fiery red glow. “Alright! If you win, I’ll support you—just not against Connor. The guy is my brother from another mother; everyone else’s fair game.” 

“I’m agreeable to that.”

Loyalty is a virtue the world sorely lacks today. 

“But that’s only if you win. If I come out on top, I expect the same in return, plus your immediate divorce from Lady Barthomeloi.”

He’s even a dedicated wingman too! Nice.

“They call me ‘The Chimera’ in the Tower, you know.”

Sven shuffled his feet and took a step forward, a move that instantly made Lorelei’s biggest admirer cry out in alarm.

“Sven, stop! It’s not worth it!”

“Oh, I think this little demonstration will be quite worth it.” Od Particles begins to erupt from Sven Glascheit’s body as he lurches toward me, every movement radiating agony. “There’s a reason for the nickname, you know? While my parents and siblings are confined to one Form, I can assume mmUlTIppLeeE!”

‘Werepanther?’

It’s my first time seeing one in the flesh, and it is every bit as awesome as I had imagined.

Too bad that awesome came with a [Speed] that surpasses mine, and I’m a Lancer.

He slams into the floor, having already ripped through five of my [Shield]s in but a second, and judging from the faint scratches his claws left on my self-repairing suit; could’ve wounded me if he had used just a bit more strength.

“Not exactly built for tight spaces, this Form,” Sven sneers. “But out in the open? What do you think, Hangman? You can still back out of the bet. I’ll allow it. We haven’t signed anything, after all.”

Laughter bubbling to my neck, I discard the robe draped over my shoulders, gesturing for the ‘Beast’ to come closer.

However piss-poor, it is still a Hero’s duty to fell a ‘Monster’.

“Remember a minute ago, when I called you boring? Never mind that.”

“A compliment? Surprising…”

“Credit where credit’s due.” 

I shrug, settling into the Bajiquan stance Kirei had drilled into me.

I was never much good with the Supernatural side of the style, but I could at least mimic the forms with some competence. 

Gil must have noticed it as well, judging by the amused hum she makes.

Sven Glascheit exploits the Werepanther’s speed, crossing the distance between us with a terrifying lunge.

He slams into me with brutal force, the impact itself a weapon, and in that same instant, violently shifts back into the hulking frame of the Minotaur, ensuring maximum damage from the Bull’s strength.

[Shield] can no longer hold, shattering to a cloud of Od as I’m thrown across the training ground like a ragdoll.

The pain’s as great as having nearly pulverized ribcages can be, but I’ve been through worse.

Choking back the mouthful of blood, I reveal a bloody grin, patting the imaginary dust from my chest just as a snake-head shoots toward me. “Hybrid Transformation too? You’re just full of fucking surprises, aren’t you?”

Flickers dancing at the tips of my fingers, fire completely consumes the training ground and, subsequently, the snake, causing a barrier to flash to life and protect the observers.

‘They really have thought of everything, haven’t they?’

I think to myself, a sardonic edge to the thought.

I can no longer match him in Speed…

Prolonged [Reinforcement] will drain me dry, until I have nothing left to fight the ‘Boss’ with.

‘I just have to read his moves correctly.’

Unlike Kirei or Kiritsugu, both of whom like to calculate every attack, there’s not much thought put into Sven Glascheit’s… None, in fact.

My body moves as if guided by an unseen puppet master, each motion dictated by the invisible strings sprouted from the Cursed Heart.

A glimpse of my reflection in the polished marble reveals my face—masked by a chilling detachment, a mirror image of the bloodlust and murderous intent I’ve only ever witnessed on Kirei’s face when he spoke of either Zouken or the Magus Killer.

Back against the wall, I narrow the field of attack, tuning out the triumphant roars of the Magi already defeated. Sven attempts again the same tactic, leaping towards me, knife-like claws extended, a predatory gleam in their depths. “Too many tells.”

I sneer, and with a casual sidestep, evade his lunge, my fist connecting with his jaw with a sickening crunch.

His features warp, the Werepanther giving way to the granite-like visage of the Minotaur for increased durability.

But it’s a futile gesture against the inferno gathering around my knuckles.

“[Super-Charged: Fire Burst].”

I whisper as the first punch explodes, engulfing the Glascheit in a blinding inferno.

‘Eight…’

I can’t see him through the flames, but I can certainly feel the unmistakable sensation of magically toughened hide against my knuckle.

He's still conscious then, else the emergency Enchantments would’ve been triggered. Good.

I press my advantage, driving a second fist forward, aiming for where I know his head must be, through the flames and into the heart of the blaze.

‘Seven…’

The building creeks loudly around us; floor melted to glass that glues to the soles of our feet.

‘Six…’

The air crackles with fiery strands, whipping against my face as I funnel the remaining Charges into a single, devastating punch. The marble tiles beneath us shatter, obliterated by the raw power and heat that gives my skin a pinkish tone like a newborn.

I fight to control my breathing, remembering the priest’s teachings.

With a deep inhale, I gather my focus, allowing [Super-Charged: Apollo’s Glare] to ignite in front of [Mimir’s Eye]—the one Eye of mine that will not suffer from that close proximity of a Super-Laser.

The beastly Magus, wreathed in smoke and flickering, leaps from the dust cloud, only to be met by a concentrated blast of plasma that rips through him, the shield and the ceiling above, exposing the metal skeleton of the building.

Just as he’s about to be obliterated, a surge of magical energy comes to life to wrench him away.

Enchantments flare, their healing light diverting from the non-critical Magi in the room, converging on Glascheit’s unmoving form dropped right next to his ‘brother.’

I hiss, pain lancing through me as I observe the mangled flesh of my arm, smoked and flayed by my own attack.

My gaze snaps up to the Magus, who sits calmly, tending to his unconscious friend.

Towering over the Magus, I growl, “You’re next. Same offer as him.”

O’Connor Ua Duibhne doesn’t even flinch, instead looking up at me, eyes like chips of ice. “I don’t think so.”

“About what? Fighting me, or joining me when you inevitably lose?”

“Fighting someone on the brink of death doesn’t sit right with me. It’s dishonorable.”

“… Seriously? After what I just did to your good buddy good pal?”

Sure, Death isn’t a thing on the Training Floor thanks to those fancy Healing Enchantments that costs millions to operate each month, but if someone pulled that stunt on one of my closest friends, I’d be losing it.

“Seriously… How long until you’re back in fighting condition?”

His gaze holds mine as I weigh my choices, finally opting to settle cross-legged in front of the Magus, my chin resting on my fist. “Honor trumps loyalty?”

“Don’t get me wrong… The urge to eviscerate you up is very real, but that’s no excuse for dishonorable conduct. It's the dividing line between right and wrong—Heroes and Villains. Now sit there and recover.” 

“Give me an hour and a half, then we can finish this.”

With that, Ua Duibne turns, barking orders at the servants—the new and the downtrodden, like me. "Fetch the lad a drink. Iced. I want him drinking his defeat."

"And don’t spike my drink!" I add, chuckling to myself. “I’ll know.”