Round Twelve: Chaos

The dwarves let out low, guttural sounds that were hard to decipher—was it them whispering to each other or imitating anteaters sucking ants into their burrows?
“This is bad. This might be a precursor to an attack,” Jason gradually loosened the chains binding the werewolf. Aside from Bloodaxe, who remained motionless, the others quietly gathered together, back to back, ready to fight to the death.
They all sincerely hoped they were just overreacting.
Miracles never happened when you needed them. Bloodaxe roared as he swung his battle axe; in an instant, several goblinoids turned into flying chunks of flesh. Unable to determine the exact number of their opponents based on volume alone, they guessed it was about five or six.
The goblinoids’ shrill screams shattered the hopes of the remaining mortals. Helplessly, they swung their weapons at those disgusting and terrifying little foes, cursing in their hearts the forty-seven who had started the conflict and the warlike dwarf warrior who had pushed them into this desperate situation.
Forty-seven had no idea what the others were thinking. He used the sword techniques he had practiced these days while mimicking Bloodaxe’s movements. He had to admit that although the dwarf seemed dirty, ugly, stupid, and brutal on the surface, he was incredibly skilled in combat.
The swinging battle axe acted like a giant broom, scattering the filth from the swamp everywhere. As far as the eye could see, there were shattered goblinoid flesh and those still intact. The most troublesome opponents were those who wouldn’t back down.
Even the ferocious Bloodaxe was now getting injured.
Forty-seven was covered in goblinoids, his metallic skin making grating noises. These rat-like creatures were, after all, intelligent beings—so why were their fighting methods so disorganized? They couldn’t even tell the difference between flesh and metal. Thinking about this, Forty-seven pulled his foot out of the mud and stepped forward, crushing two more rats.
Howls from behind came from the werewolves. For Forty-seven, who had no concept of death, those agonizing sounds didn’t cause any emotional reaction. He was too busy moving his wrists to turn his head.
“Damn it! You’ve pissed me off!!”
Bloodaxe swung his battle axe like a violent gust of wind. Anyone he hit or who hit him was either killed or injured. Yet his range of movement gradually shrank, eventually returning to his starting position. He too joined the line of back-to-back fighters, with the noisy werewolves guarding his back.
The combination was probably quite comical. Forty-seven turned to look at them huddled together, thinking how strange human friendship really was.
The battle continued. Forty-seven swung his sword aimlessly. He didn’t need to focus on a specific enemy—firstly, because it was hard to distinguish them, and secondly, even if he swung randomly, he didn’t have to worry about missing, as there were so many of them. He kept observing Bloodaxe’s movements, including his meaningless shrugs after each punch, which, in Forty-seven’s eyes, seemed like just a way to show off. He made sure to remember everything and try it out as soon as possible.

The targets kept coming. Now, the 47th’s sword was no longer used for slashing or thrusting but in a different manner. In fact, he rarely extended his sword to pierce anything anymore. Instead, he used the swaying of his wrist to make the sword spin around his body like a windmill—provided he had sufficiently flexible wrists and ample strength. Neither of these seemed to be problems for the 47th.

Blood Axe’s wrists were also exceptionally flexible. Don’t think that a battle axe only requires brute force—that’s something a clumsy lumberjack would do. The heavy weight of the axe would drain one’s energy severely, even for someone as muscular as Blood Axe, who resembled a crushed bear.

He skillfully used his strong and flexible wrists to swing his massive axe rather than just waving it around, which inspired the 47th. He began to do the same, and the results seemed good. He considered switching to a larger, longer, and more durable sword.

More and more corpses piled up, blood and flesh muddying the ground, with a thick, nauseating stench filling the air.

His comrades were doing well. Though they were injured to varying degrees, they were still engaged in a one-sided slaughter. Those killing were out of breath, while those being killed remained energetic and seemingly eager to continue—truly a strange sight.

“Hahaha, another one! The 27th! You stinking walking cheeses!”

Quick, who limped, kept talking nonstop even while killing. It was unbearable.

“Copper Hammer, something’s wrong. The rats have gone mad.” It was unclear whether Jason was genuinely worried or just mocking.

“How else could they manage to carve several bloody wounds on me?!” That dwarf was still better off staying silent—at least that way he didn’t seem as useless as he actually was.

“This will go on forever!” Though Cain always seemed timid, his two daggers flew up and down in his hands, targeting the heads and necks of the goblins. Wherever he passed, corpses fell like wild grass blown over by the wind.

“Damn! If that Morriel were still here, he’d be the best at dealing with these things!” Blood Axe kicked away a goblin that had almost bitten his pants. “These idiots fear mages the most!”

Morriel? The 47th froze for a moment, his sword also stopping mid-swing.

Morriel! A thought pulse that seemed to have vanished long ago suddenly appeared in the 47th’s central system. As an atomically powered, adaptive evolutionary mechanical warrior, the 47th was never good at tasks that didn’t require firepower—like guarding or rescuing—or at determining where firepower wasn’t needed. His specialty was constantly modifying and tuning the two cannons on his arms, from electromagnetic wave generators for close-quarters combat to low-yield proton missiles with a range of over 500 kilometers. His primary and only goal in battle had always been to eliminate all moving targets he could scan. But now, a command that surpassed his long-established killing protocols—even more vivid than the desire to watch cartoons—surged forth and filled the 47th completely.

A ratman clung tightly to the gray leech skin around 47’s waist, its thin claws scratching desperately. If it had been earlier, it might have damaged several sensors or something.
47 unexpectedly failed to shake it off in time—more precisely, his body also seemed to freeze, and soon the ratman covered him in a dense layer.
“Damn! What’s wrong with that metal shell?” Jason swung his sword, knocking off a ratman that had climbed onto Copper Hammer’s back. Copper Hammer then swung his massive warhammer, crushing the creature that tried to attack Jason’s ankle.
“Who knows!” Copper Hammer’s voice sounded like rotten potatoes being smashed against a gong: “It might be broken! These mage gadgets are just not reliable!”
The ratmen surrounding 47 exploded.
It wasn’t exactly an explosion, as many of their severed limbs remained attached to 47’s body, like medals.
Primary target under search. Two pinprick-like red lights on 47’s face swelled slightly before contracting again.
“Where is this guy going?!” Quick watched as 47 stepped into the crowd of ratmen, was submerged, then reappeared like a rock in a stormy sea.
“Ignore him!” Blood Axe threw his axe, which created a red steel whirlwind, severing at least five ratmen’s bodies before returning to his hand in a way that defied physics: “Do our own job!”
“It’s all because of this guy,” Kane muttered angrily, stabbing and twisting two daggers into a ratman’s head before moving on to the next one.
Right here. Peering in, the ratmen’s cave was narrow and damp, with a strong stench of decay emanating from its unremarkable entrance.
47 didn’t know how many attacks he had taken—the gray leech skin, used as both waterproofing and clothing, was already tattered, hanging loosely on his body. Even his metal shell was covered in countless bites and scratches. If he were made of flesh and blood, there would probably be nothing left but bones.
But strangely, ever since 47 broke through the encirclement and found the entrance to the ratmen’s cave, their attacks on him gradually weakened. Some ratmen even rushed out of the cave and headed toward the battlefield ahead, as if 47 were just a patch of swamp bushes growing by the entrance.