Round 27: The 47th Bride
When 47 slowly made his way to the front hall of the Cat’s Paw Tavern, it was already in chaos. He spotted Parkerman’s figure at the side door and followed him. Along the way, two burly men dressed like bodyguards rushed forward with clubs, likely acting on Parkerman’s orders—to block his path. One of them crumpled under a slap, his neck snapping with a loud sound as he fell beneath the bar and stayed motionless. The other took the chance to strike 47, but was instantly flung back as if lifted by a mammoth.
Not many remained in the tavern’s hall. The smarter ones had fled at the sound of shouts and fighting in the background, while even the slower-thinking understood what was happening when they saw Parkerman, an elite member of the Hierarchy Church, stumbling out. In a place like the Cat’s Paw Tavern, already half-controlled by the Dark Church, such a situation meant full-scale war. Who would stay to pick up loot?
What was left were either women screaming in panic, running around like headless flies, unable to orient themselves, or men still dazed from drinking too much, too confused to know what to do. (Women who got this drunk would have long been dragged away by someone.)
47 crushed a stool lying across his path and strode through the tavern as if no one else was there. A drunkard lying at the bar, seemingly unconscious, suddenly sprang up the moment 47 turned his back. With a swift, fluid motion, like a fish leaping from water, he twisted and swung his short sword, its blade flashing as it pierced 47’s back. The blade pierced through the warrior’s leather armor and the monster’s skin beneath without resistance, ready to sever the spine and split the lungs and heart in two.
Unfortunately, all that came was a harsh screech of metal grinding together. 47 didn’t even turn. With a swift backswing, his shoulder joint spun freely like a ball bearing, sending the Hierarchy assassin’s head flying like a top struck by a whip. It hung perfectly on the antler of a bison skull serving as decor at the bar, its eyes staring blankly at the skull’s empty sockets. The headless body swayed briefly before collapsing back onto the bar, this time truly unconscious forever.
Now wasn’t the time to play with such minor threats. Parkerman had been out of sight for a while. Though it was just an act of chasing, he still needed to put pressure on his prey.
Whether it was because there were no more Hierarchy Church members left or because 47’s ruthless slaughter had served as a deterrent, no one dared stop him anymore. The half-naked dancers huddled in the corners simply continued playing their part as screaming queens.
When Forty-Seven pushed open the corner door, he glanced back at the woman, feeling much happier. If I were playing Jason right now, I’d kill everyone—though first I’d need to find a hockey mask and a sturdy axe. I like Jason. I like Mac. I like every silent, unstoppable killer. Walking down the narrow corridor, Forty-Seven thought about casually kicking open a door and entering a pitch-black room. The darkness didn’t affect his vision at all; his red eyes were more than just different in color from normal eyes. The room wasn’t large, with nowhere to hide. Broken window shards scattered on the messy bed indicated that someone had just jumped out through the window to escape. The half-closed, dirty curtains fluttered in the night breeze, and faint screams seemed to be heard, but Forty-Seven didn’t care about that. Instead of chasing after them through the window, he tossed the mace in his hand and hurled it at the floor. The force behind it didn’t create a hole big enough to access groundwater but instead spread out in a circle, blowing away large pieces of wood. The thunderous explosion sounded like the use of a sonic blast spell. A dazed head appeared at the edge of the hole in the floor, creating a rather eerie scene. Flying wood shavings caused blood to stream from the head, which stared blankly up at the strange figure approaching, forgetting even to scream—it was already remarkable that it could remain somewhat conscious under the impact of the mace. In fact, even before entering the room, Forty-Seven had seen this person hiding under the floor, ready for action. The heat emitted by this warm-blooded creature made it a beacon of light in the dark grayish-black surroundings. Although Forty-Seven’s vision, which functioned like a heat detector, might not be able to penetrate thick walls like iron or stone, the walls and floors of the rooms in the Cat’s Paw Tavern were simply too poor in quality and too thin. “Parkerman told you to wait for me here? He actually ran downstairs, didn’t he?” Forty-Seven bent down slightly, grabbed the guy by his ears, and pulled him out of the hole. But the guy just stared blankly at Forty-Seven’s face, distorted as if by a stroke, looking as eerie as possible. Realizing the guy was too stunned to hear him, Forty-Seven simply threw him out through the broken window—given the force, it was amazing his ears hadn’t fallen off; human bodies were indeed much stronger than imagined. Then Forty-Seven stepped into the large hole in the floor, too lazy to look for the entrance to the underground passage hidden somewhere. Some famous human once said, “There are no roads in the world; they become roads when many people walk on them…” Something like that. He stomped on the floor beneath him, collapsing it and revealing a deep underground passage. No sign of Parkerman was visible. Although he had once been sent to the “electric chair” by Morriel, it seemed to have done nothing to slow down his escape speed. It seemed beheading was still the safest method of execution.
“Little Red Riding Hood, mermen, mages, Shirek cultists… Why do they all seem to like hiding underground? As far as I know, oil resources were completely exhausted after the Second Fuel War.” Forty-Seven muttered to himself as he continued forward; the darkness and debris meant nothing to him, just like a gentle breeze and light rain.
The passage should lead straight out to the Cat’s Paw Tavern. Perhaps after a few turns, it would lead to the streets—Forty-Seven could sense vibrations above him, as if many people were running by. He resisted the urge to rush up and fling those guys off his head and continued searching for Parkerman in this long, dark, winding underground passage, or rather, trying to drive him back to the Shirek Church’s deeper, more hidden lair, from where he could follow the trail further.
It seemed to get deeper the further he went, and the walls grew wetter—Forty-Seven began to suspect he might be heading toward the seabed. Could there be a merman island underground in Deep Flow City? A foul wind blew from across the passage. Although Forty-Seven didn’t have a real nose, he could still smell the stench in the air, as if he had stepped into a giant underground graveyard.
Finally, he saw an exit. Forty-Seven leaped forward, splashing a large amount of blackish liquid—though calling it liquid was inaccurate; it was more like a thick soup made from countless kinds of garbage and filth mixed together over who knew how long, so foul that even abyssal demons would avoid it. The smell from his leap alone was comparable to that of ten or eight stink spells. The liquid that splashed onto the dark stone walls turned into a paste and slowly dripped downward due to gravity, drying up before it could travel far, adding more disgusting filth to the walls that made anyone who saw it want to vomit.
“If anyone is following, I definitely won’t make a sound.” Forty-Seven stepped onto the shore, wading through knee-deep murky water. In reality, it was also a ground made up of piles of various solid wastes, all mixed together in the freely flowing sewage, becoming inseparable. Walking on it gave a slight elastic feel.
Forty-Seven scanned the pitch darkness. Before him was an irregular cave, either artificially carved or naturally formed. Stone pillars and garbage divided it into a maze-like complex structure. There were many openings on the cave walls, seemingly the starting points of even more complex passages. Who knew which one Parkerman had crawled into—it seemed Forty-Seven’s pursuit would end here.
From deep within the piles of garbage, there came the sound of something crawling, like a mass of semi-solid matter flowing toward him. Forty-Seven turned around and saw an incredibly fat giant maggot crawling toward him. It held its head slightly raised, with bubbling mucus beneath it. Dozens, even hundreds, of tentacles as thick as fingers writhed around its head. The toothless mouth, covered in layers of folds, was hard to tell whether it was a mouth or an anus—until it suddenly turned its head, opened its mouth, and sucked at the ground. By the time it raised its head again, it had swallowed a large piece of garbage, at which point Forty-Seven realized it must be a mouth.
The giant maggot wriggled, swallowing the garbage in its mouth, and then, like eating noodles, slurped down half a rotten thigh—likely belonging to some unlucky guy who had been killed and thrown here.
Forty-seven didn’t recognize this disgusting monster, commonly known as the Fecal Monster. They carried deadly germs and toxins, regarded anything smelly as treasure, and would eat while defecating even if they couldn’t swallow it all. Once they finished eating, they would turn to their own excrement and devour it as a newly discovered delicacy. If Morriel were here, she would never allow Forty-seven to engage in a close combat with the Fecal Monster—she would immediately burn the giant worm to ash with a sea of fire, preventing even a drop of its bodily fluids from touching her. But since Forty-seven was alone now, when the Fecal Monster attacked while vomiting, he simply threw punches in return.
The Fecal Monster’s body, as soft as feces, was just an illusion; in reality, it was extremely agile and powerful. With a stretch and a curl, its thick body wrapped around Forty-seven. If the opponent had been human, its corrosive bodily fluids and overwhelming stench would have given it a decisive advantage.
But Forty-seven never cared about his appearance. He broke free from the other side of the Fecal Monster’s body—tearing through flesh nearly ten feet in diameter as easily as ripping through paper. The Fecal Monster let out a gurgling scream, writhing in agony as a pile of organs mixed with the rotten things it had eaten flowed out of the wound, continuing to spray out as its body contracted.
Damn it. Forty-seven was now in a terrible state—his entire body covered in the Fecal Monster’s bodily fluids. Even the limited healing ability of his mutated skin couldn’t withstand such damage. The unhealed wounds were already rotting like meat left out for months, peeling off in large chunks with just a touch.
Go back? Forty-seven hesitated for once—he could imagine Morriel’s reaction upon seeing him in this state. But staying wouldn’t help much either.
The Fecal Monster seemed to have stopped feeling pain. It grunted and turned around a few times, then, noticing the internal organs it had spilled out, shifted its hostility toward Forty-seven and began to devour its “delicious meal.”
Forty-seven stepped back a few feet, not wanting to disturb it. After all, this creature had contributed to cleaning up the environment.
Just as Forty-seven was undecided, a strange yet somewhat familiar sensation spread throughout his body. It was as if every sliding axis, gear, and lever was vibrating and rumbling slightly, causing him to tremble involuntarily. These tiny vibrations combined into a powerful shockwave. Forty-seven remembered having experienced this strange sensation before, but he couldn’t recall when or where. Such a vague memory was something he had never encountered before.
Flames like coals ignited in the darkness.
Forty-seven rotated his head like a full-angle cannon.
He quickly chose a direction and strode forward—though not entirely sure. But if he wanted to figure something out, he couldn’t rely on thinking; he had to take action himself.
With a new goal, Yonji’s movements became much faster. He leaped between ditches and trash, entering one hole after another, as agile as a gibbon roaming through the forest—until suddenly he stopped. A figure clad in black armor lay grotesquely piled up beside a stone pillar, with a chain whip emitting black flames at its side—standard equipment of Priest Xeric. The figure’s eyes and tongue were gone; its tattered state suggested even its internal organs and bones might be missing—supported by the large clumps of thick, black blood in front of it, which also contained numerous small pieces of flesh. Was someone else playing cat and mouse with Xeric’s followers here? Yonji glanced into the darker, deeper passage ahead and suddenly realized that not having another choice and simply dealing with everyone in the tavern might have been a mistake—someone else had come to steal the “toy.” After turning two more corners, a larger underground cave appeared before him. “Demons! Demons!” A warrior rushed over, screaming frantically, ignoring Yonji standing in his path, waving his arms wildly as he ran. “What demons?” Yonji grabbed the warrior’s chain armor to stop him and force him to face him. Unfortunately, his two questions to the Xeric follower yielded no satisfactory answers. “Demons! Demons!” The terrified warrior ignored Yonji’s ugly face entirely, gesturing wildly, seemingly unaware he was being held. His eyes darted rapidly, perhaps seeing nothing at all. Yonji released him with a sense of indifference, and the warrior immediately fled on all fours. Let him go; even if Yonji kindly warned him about a dung monster on that path, he likely wouldn’t listen. Time to take a look—Yonji rubbed his hands together, eager to see what kind of demon could drive Xeric’s followers mad, as he hadn’t seen a demon in ages. Behind a pile of trash, a human face appeared right in front of Yonji, so close that he could sneeze right into it. It was indeed a face, hanging alone on a rusty iron rod protruding from the trash, with no other human parts attached—like a mask displayed in a shop for sale, though crudely made, with torn edges and drops of blood on the chin. Its nose was sunken like a deflated ball, and its empty eye sockets glared at Yonji mournfully, allowing him to see the scenery behind them. There indeed was a demon there. Though it resembled a giant spider, its thick, hairy hooked limbs, venom-dripping fangs, and especially the many eyes on its head, glowing with the evil cruelty only abyssal creatures possessed, revealed its true nature—a demon spider.
But 47 saw more in those gazes. As a cunning abyssal monster capable of hunting demons for food, it was rare to see the Demon Spider looking agitated. It had already spread sticky webs all around—enough to reach its daily limit—but these webs clearly weren’t meant to capture anyone, as the only living person present was Parkerman, the leader of the Hierarchy, who was far outside the web range, holding a dagger and scanning the area, seemingly searching for something. It seemed the Demon Spider must have been summoned by Parkerman’s group; otherwise, it would have attacked him. Who were they fighting? There were several corpses of Hierarchy members in the webs, likely killed by that mysterious enemy—47 suddenly remembered that Parkerman couldn’t die, otherwise how could he lead them to the Hierarchy’s lair?
“What have I missed?” 47 rubbed his hands as he strode out.
Suddenly, he froze. The throbbing in his body returned, even more intense. He remembered this feeling from the first time he saw Agus’ mecha, from when he absorbed the underground steel giant of the Seven Sins Tower to become a new body and burst out of the floating tower, and also from the day before yesterday when he traveled by carriage with Moriel to the Red Robe Mage’s stronghold—this was a resonance, one originating from deep within the magic mecha, which 47 could now clearly sense.
A disturbance appeared in a certain area of the cave, like a stone thrown into calm water. The Demon Spider, which had been wandering there, leaped suddenly like a real spider—not to attack, but to escape—but unfortunately, it landed right between 47 and that strange void. Before the spider’s eight powerful legs could contract for another leap, 47’s gaze had already shifted there. Though he wasn’t actually looking at it, but at two glowing dots that suddenly appeared in the void opposite the spider.
Those glowing dots were a pale blue, floating there like eyes.
The owner of those eyes met 47’s gaze, separated only by the tightly coiled Demon Spider—red and blue eyes like invisible chains, firmly binding this spider-demon from the abyssal realm, one that could frighten most people in Deep Flow City, but who now clearly feared for himself.
Parkerman quietly retreated; he was unimportant now—actually, he had always been unimportant.
“Who do you think you are? A Iron Warrior?” 47 suddenly spoke up, thinking there were too many people cosplaying tonight.
Whether it was because speaking weakened its momentum or because the Demon Spider thought 47, who still stood firmly there, was an easier target, the spider-demon lunged at 47—its mouth, wide open like petals, almost capable of biting off his head. The magical aura around it shone brighter than ever, as it fought desperately to return to the abyss whole.
47 didn’t move. He didn’t have time to act.
The monstrous body of the Demon Spider trembled violently in midair. To use an inappropriate analogy, it was like burping after overeating. Its round, bristly abdomen exploded, spewing out large chunks of bloody flesh, resembling jet engines. At the same time, its entire body swelled slightly. The energy concentrated throughout its body was suddenly drawn away, causing its limbs to droop, and it flew toward 47 relying solely on the momentum of its body.
Just as it entered 47’s attack range, the poor Demon Spider was completely destroyed. It seemed as though countless invisible blades pierced through its body. Then, the entire body of the demon was stretched apart by something that had just entered, with pieces of flesh being cut apart and drifting further apart from each other. This renowned Abyssal Hunter was completely torn to pieces.
With such a bizarre and brutal method of killing, it was likely that even if the Demon Spider returned to the abyss, it would be severely damaged.
The invisible killer became slightly visible amidst the black blood mist emitted by the Demon Spider. Transparent blades stained with blood fluttered like butterflies. What sprayed in front of 47 along with the blades and blood was the shape of a translucent human woman—the flying blades adhered to her body, each one constantly changing shape as it moved, eventually forming a peculiar metallic armor. Her slender and graceful figure was fully revealed through this almost liquid-like, aesthetically pleasing transformation. The exposed metallic skin was smooth and shiny. The blood of the Demon Spider seeped through the gaps in the tight armor, floating on her body in various strange patterns, as if the blood of demons had nurtured this existence beyond even demons.
All of this happened in just a short moment as she arrived in front of 47. 47 didn’t hesitate and swung his fist, with enough force to kill a grizzly bear. But the woman-shaped blade didn’t choose to fight head-on. Instead, she floated upward like a feather, following the wind pressure from 47’s fist, turned around in midair, and when she landed, her strong thighs tightly gripped 47’s head—now the “feathers” had turned into deadly iron clamps. She used her hands to push off the ground and twisted violently with her waist strength. Even 47’s neck, which could rotate freely like a wheel, emitted a crisp sound of metal breaking due to the sudden immense force. By human logic, his neckbone must have been broken.
She exerted more force again, lifting her legs as she twisted her waist, throwing 47 far away. She crouched like a cat on the dirty trash, having shaken off all the filthy demon blood from her body. Her pale blue eyes stared at 47, who had fallen into the pile of trash. The last remaining, wing-like blades formed a pair of beautiful wings and retracted into her back.
47 got up with his back to her, keeping his eyes fixed on this beautiful woman whose body was also made of metal, just like his. She was far more delicate than 47. Without close inspection, it was hard to tell the difference between her steel skin and that of a real girl. Her short hair also appeared to be individual strands, but the cold light emanating from them revealed that they were actually thousands of thin silver needles.
“Are you the one in the cave of the Sleeping Forest?” Forty-seven turned his body, the movement causing a bone-chilling sound of metal grinding in his neck, and his leather coat became even more tattered. The woman didn’t respond; it was unclear whether she hadn’t realized it or simply didn’t consider Forty-seven to be her kind. She slapped her hands together, causing the ground covered in trash to shake, and at the same time, she rose into the air, her arms extended and spinning as she rushed at Forty-seven at incredible speed, like a high-speed rotating drill bit. Sharp metal spikes protruded from the tips of her fingers, swirling like a blooming flower of death. It was likely in this way that the Demon Spider entered her body. But Forty-seven had no intention of merging with a woman to become Wutianx. He faced the challenge head-on, shattering that “flower of knives” with a punch. Yet once again, his enemy demonstrated her ghostly ability to float mid-air. She twisted her body, pressed her hands on Forty-seven’s arms, used the momentum to fly over his head, and as she descended, she grabbed his throat with one hand and his waist with the other. Her long, needle-like nails sank deep into these vital areas. Then, with a push, she threw Forty-seven, who was much taller than her, aside. “Damn!” Forty-seven got up from the trash pile again. When he looked up, his opponent was already leaping into the air and diving down—this time, he didn’t confront her head-on but punched the ground instead. A tremendous force radiated out from Forty-seven, as if an extremely powerful bomb had exploded underground. The debris and stones were sent flying upward like a swirling black torrent. Such a wide-scale attack meant nothing to the metal-bodied woman, but it still slightly disrupted her movements. Forty-seven rushed forward and punched her down, but she managed to block the strike with her hands. Even as she fell, she regained her balance and landed lightly. It seemed that neither in boxing nor wrestling had Forty-seven gained any advantage yet. The woman accelerated. Her speed wasn’t something like a mage’s “acceleration spell”; it was more like a teleportation that resembled having multiple clones. When Forty-seven threw a punch at her on the left, the one on the right had already plunged her wrist blade into his armpit. The wind generated by Forty-seven’s punches and the sonic boom from her rapid movement created a terrifying storm around them. The immense power of speed and strength shook the entire cave and spread far beyond, like an earthquake. In fact, Forty-seven was at a disadvantage. He had more and more wounds—his deformity monster’s skin was torn to shreds, hanging on his body and gradually being ripped apart by the violent air currents between them. But he didn’t care. He was extremely angry. Those wounds, which would be fatal on anyone else, seemed insignificant to him. He was solely focused on chasing after and attacking the metal woman who kept cutting him over and over again. Meanwhile, the woman effortlessly combined seemingly contradictory traits—light as air, soft as bone, strong as steel, and sharp as a knife—to strike the furious Forty-seven with ease.
After the woman stabbed a dagger into her own ribs—barely enough to fit her slender palm—47 finally seized his chance. He grabbed her hand, grinned viciously, and smashed his head into her straight, beautiful nose. When that didn’t work, he bit down on her delicate neck, his layered fangs tearing at her like a ferocious beast.
The metal woman spoke for the first time. With a loud cry, her clear voice echoed through the cave as she broke free from 47’s grasp. A flying blade appeared again, cutting through 47’s mouth and leaving dozens of wounds on his body. Yet 47 still held on tightly. Her arms, composed of countless tiny components, became as slippery as fluid, and she used her feet to push against 47’s chest before finally breaking free.
47’s eyes burned fiercely—what did a cracked chin matter? Vampires looked the same. He lunged at her again—this time replacing his weapon of mass destruction with his mouth. His already torn cheeks stretched wider, revealing more sharp teeth, determined to devour her alive.
The woman’s blue eyes also glowed—unlike 47’s abyssal red flames, her eyes held the brilliance of stars. Her body, along with all the floating blades around her, flashed briefly, then those lights gathered rapidly in her palms, creating a spectacle of countless meteors converging at one point. The swirling vortex of light spun once before shooting out from her palms, as if a minuscule galaxy had been born.
The aurora formed from the starlight struck 47, engulfing him instantly. Wherever the starlight reached, everything was silently purified and destroyed, except for 47, who experienced countless tiny explosions. He was flung far away, crashing into the rock walls wrapped in a sphere of destructive light, causing the cliffs to collapse.
The woman’s entire body dimmed slightly. She stared at the huge crater formed by the melted rock at the end of the long burn marks on the ground, seemingly wondering how her enemy could still survive such a terrifying attack.
She was right—the enemy still survived.
47 stood up. Though he looked even worse than when he left the mage tower and entered Rain City—his body thinner from the light explosions, with hardly any intact parts, some revealing bones beneath the skin—he seemed utterly unconcerned. Instead, he unleashed waves of icy, bone-chilling fury at the metal woman.
“You bastard.”
He suddenly turned left, his right shoulder swelling as if it were exploding. It wasn’t an explosion but rather a large number of metal components emerging from his body and reassembling. Similar scenes erupted all over his body—shoulders, back, chest, legs, hands—shifting in size and sometimes deforming terrifyingly. The continuous sound of metal assembling sounded like thousands of sharks chewing at once.
Forty-seven had not transformed into a Construct Giant or an Iron Dragon—since his opponent wasn’t making such moves, perhaps he felt that growing huge first would undermine the integrity of a direct confrontation. Complex networks of metal connected together to form powerful armored muscles, simultaneously sealing all wounds on his body.
The metal woman also didn’t seize the opportunity to attack but remained on high alert.
By the time he was ready, Forty-seven was much taller than before, his entire body now resembling that of a Construct Giant—broad, triangular shoulders, sharp spikes, and interwoven exoskeleton and muscles.
He snarled at his enemy.
“Now is one hundred percent…”