Round 27: Expired Arms

They didn’t see what had happened.
Of course, with Moriel’s current abilities, she could easily drive away the crowd and calmly cast the right spells to replay what had happened in the previous few minutes—but she couldn’t stay calm right now. Besides, who the hell cared what had happened in those few minutes? Nothing in the world could anger her more than Forty-Seven, and nothing was more important to her than scolding him recklessly.
So when she focused on the scene, what she saw was a group of men snarling like wolves, surrounded by women screaming and roaring like lionesses, on the verge of violence.
“Let go of me! You freakish, vile, disgusting, stinky primitive creature with your mouth on your nose!” It was hard to imagine such astonishing volume and strength coming from such a small, frail body. She struggled desperately, her shoulder straps writhing like snakes, only held back from sliding down to her elbows by her protruding shoulder blades. As a result, the “primitive creature” who was over a head taller than her could barely grasp her wrists—until he reached out with his other arm, attached to his ribs, and struck her in the face.
The attacker panted heavily, his voice sounding like that of a patient with severe lung disease, audible even over the noise and laughter. Honestly, ignoring the insulting words from the beaten prostitute, this description was enough to paint a pretty good portrait of him. He was completely naked, his back so hunched that his head seemed to be on his chest. Below his arms (or rather, forelimbs) were a pair of additional limbs, equally slender and strong, with four fingers each, forming two claw-like pairs. Besides his mouth, which indeed sat vertically in the center of his face, his entire body was covered in shiny mucus, making him slippery.
Blood flowed from the young prostitute’s nose and mouth down her neck, but she neither fainted nor fell. She could hardly curse anymore. He still held her wrists and lifted her up, displaying her like a rib hanging at a butcher’s shop.
“Hey! Now you know what we’re capable of, you bitch!” Another man leaned against the bar, holding a glass, wearing sleeveless leather armor with his cloak draped behind him, revealing the bone spurs on his arms. His smile showed his satisfaction at witnessing the abuse of the weak. “Will you behave properly and provide us with satisfactory service, or will Maduk continue to ‘teach’ you how such worthless scum like you should survive in Marked City?”
“Please don’t do this! Please don’t!” The little imp calling himself Luke appeared again in a flash—apparently this area was his territory. “Rest, trade, entertainment—welcome all of it, but no violence! Blood and chaos will only cause trouble for Luke!”
He flew around their heads in circles. “Don’t cause trouble for Luke! Otherwise, I’ll call the guards!”

“Come on! Little flea!” someone shouted. “You only care about the tips that end up in your pocket!”
Hearing this, the man smiled smugly again, just like a stray dog wagging its tail in excitement after being recognized by its pack. “It’s none of your business, little thing. Marduk is paying for her drinks—and she’s already taken the money. But she dares to bully Marduk because he can’t speak the Common Planar Language, refusing to serve him!”
The woman struggled again, letting out muffled cries, but was quickly knocked into vomiting by another heavy blow from the four-armed creature aimed at her abdomen.
“Use your pea-sized brain—would we tolerate such fraud? Won’t this damage the reputation of this place? Now, do you still want to stop us from taking legitimate action to protect our rights?”
“Of course not! But gentlemen…”
The four-armed creature seemed impatient, breathing heavily and saying something to the man, his voice sounding much like his disgusting breaths.
“Alright,” said the cloaked man, waving his hand as if shooing a fly. “Let’s take her to the guest room to sort this out. You should feel honored—remember this favor, and you can brag about it to others in the future. Come on, Marduk.”
“Let her go, you scum.”
Morrill would never be the kind to help those in need, past, present, or future. But right now she stood on the other side of the bar, clearly outraged by this brutality, her expression terrifying—probably even enough to scare Forty-Seven, who remained seated.
The cloaked man immediately recognized Morrill as a formidable mage. Unfortunately, he didn’t grasp what her terrifying expression meant.
He set down his glass and spoke in the condescending tone typical of a Planar being toward a mortal: “This is a private matter, beautiful mage lady. I noticed your companion acting foolishly over there… I think it’s better for you to go back and deal with your own problems. At her rate, it’s doubtful she’ll even make it out of Marked City alive. You probably don’t realize how many fools this city has devoured—more than skull rats. I forgot the word for ‘scum.’ You’d better go back to your seat. Maybe I’ll buy you a drink when I come out, okay?”
“Let her go, you scum. I won’t repeat myself a third time.”
“Hey! ‘Bloodhand,’ you’re scared of a woman!” shouts rang out again—the cloaked man’s fake smile instantly turned into a fierce, grim expression. Public opinion can indeed be deadly.
“Go deal with it! Go deal with it!” the little imp started screaming again.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Forty-Seven said too, grabbing the prostitute’s arm. She had shaken off the four-armed creature before leaving and tried to crawl under the table legs to escape, but the Ironman pulled her up and sat her on a stool. “Every villain pays for their crimes. Don’t you want to see them suffer like you do?”
The prostitute struggled a few more times but realized those iron claws were as solid as if they were welded to Marked City itself. “I didn’t ask you for help… Pah! It’s nothing—back in the day, I even slept with a giant slug!”

She tilted her head back, blood scabs clinging to her chin, with fresh blood still flowing from her nose. She stared at Si Forty-Seven with a defiant gaze that showed no fear or concern: “You don’t want to help? That bastard Bloodhand is a ‘brutalist’. Your little girl seems to underestimate things too much. In Marked City, underestimating enemies gets you killed faster than premature ejaculation.”
“Just wait and see,” Si Forty-Seven laughed carelessly. “If I had to name the most brutal crocodile in the world, I’d call it ‘Miss Morriel’.”
There were more than two opponents. Besides the cloaked man and the four-armed creature, three well-equipped thugs also stepped onto the street. The five of them surrounded the female mage, who had her arms crossed over her chest, and slowly approached her—
The assault began quickly and ended just as fast.
Perhaps everyone understood that mages were not to be trifled with, and it couldn’t be said that they were careless or had poor tactics. But the fact that in the blink of an eye only one of the five remained standing proved once again that facing oneself is more important than facing an opponent.
Morriel let them close in before launching an attack. The four-armed creature was the fastest of all; charging from over a dozen steps away, he resembled a giant grasshopper, but he was also the first to move—cracks of broken bones rang out one after another, as if he’d collided with a herd of charging bulls. Only then did Morriel lower her arms and truly cast her spell. She raised her right hand, pointing her index finger precisely at the tip of a dagger thrown by another man. He stumbled uncontrollably along her finger’s direction. Then, the female mage gently sidestepped a sneak attack from behind, using her left hand to guide the attacker, causing him to collide head-on with Puppet Number One with a loud “bang.” The pair of dazed fools then pressed down on the third person, who was still following his planned path and completely unaware of the changing situation, causing them all to tumble to the ground.
Bloodhand didn’t even get a chance to act. His eyes were filled with terror, his expression stiff, as he stood there, unable to do anything more complex than moving his neck, completely clueless as to how the female mage had done it. Judging from the faint glow emanating from his half-drawn dagger, he did possess a formidable magical weapon.
“Just stand here until dawn,” Morriel said, walking straight back to her seat. “Or maybe longer—better pray no one else bothers you in the meantime. You, Tin Face, what were you saying?”
“I was teaching Kaylo how to be a lady,” Si Forty-Seven replied without hesitation, talking nonsense.
“You’re even worse than…” Morriel didn’t finish her sentence. The cloak of the frozen Bloodhand suddenly billowed, along with his hands.
“Die all!” A fist-sized sphere, covered in flickering lights, shot through the corridor and pillars as he hurled it at Morriel’s table, then turned and ran—Morriel could easily paralyze him again, but he had no confidence in being able to break free a second time with his current condition.
He was just one step away from escaping into the dark alley, but it was the darkness of the alley that stopped him. A huge, dark magic dog emerged from it, biting through his knee in one bite.

“Do you think I can’t handle this thing?” Moriel still didn’t even give a proper glance at the hooded man in distress. Forty-Seven reached out and grabbed the object that had been thrown at him; the light spots within it flickered faster and more urgently in his hands. The onlookers around rushed to avoid it in panic, and the young prostitute wished she could hide under a table—finally, the flashes ceased, and nothing happened.

“You’re not that unfamiliar with it, are you?” Forty-Seven tossed the iron lump back and forth between his hands. “A product of the Agus Empire, with a 180-day full warranty and an effective killing radius of fifteen feet… a Doubt Bomb, further refined by me personally.”

The Iron Man stood up. “Where did he get this thing? It seems we need to step up efforts to enforce the arms embargo against terrorists.”

“The Reclamers? Who are the Reclamers? Where can I find them?”

It wasn’t hard for someone whose one leg was crushed and the other at risk to speak, but it was hard to understand what he was saying.

Forty-Seven looked down at the hooded man’s face, twisted in agony and fear. The Doubt Bomb spun wildly in his hands like a living thing. “Can’t you speak more clearly?”

“The Reclamers are just the Reclamers! They’re not individuals… damn it…”

“Bloodhand” had truly become Bloodhand. He clutched his wound tightly, hoping to stem the loss of blood. “I said I don’t remember who sold this to me… In Marked City, especially in the black markets of the Nest, there are all kinds of people and everything, but no familiar faces! Not to mention those Reclamers—they’re all the same… Can you tell the difference between two piles of trash?… I’ve said everything!”

“You want to find the Reclamers?”

Forty-Seven turned and saw the young prostitute standing there, her back straight. Though a shadowy, bloody maw was growling nearby, only held back from pouncing on her by Moriel’s control, she still maintained a posture of humble yet defiant pride—a wealth that seemed worthless to others but was the only thing those with nothing else could rely on, an essential part of the spiritual strength that makes one a “human.”

Unexpectedly, the Iron Man placed a hand in front of him and bowed formally to her. “I’d be glad to hear more, madam.”

“The Reclamers are the lowest and darkest group in Marked City… By nature, they don’t like to interact with outsiders.” The prostitute wiped her nose and spat out blood onto the ground. “But maybe I can help you get in touch with them… Of course, not for free.”

“What are we waiting for? Anything that money can solve isn’t a problem.” Forty-Seven took a few steps, then turned back, bending down to place the Doubt Bomb beside the hooded man. “Since you say you bought this, I can’t just take it away from you. But one thing you must remember: next time you buy weapons from someone else, make sure to ask for a proper invoice.”

The spherical bomb rolled a few times with a clicking sound before stopping in a pit in a broken stone slab. The cloaked man hadn’t yet recovered from wondering why the Tin Man had given it back to him when a faint mechanical noise made his face even paler.
The mysterious bomb began to flash again, more urgently this time. He didn’t bother covering his wound anymore; he grabbed it and threw it upward, aiming it at random—yet the bomb didn’t leave his hand. Several thin steel limbs extended from the bomb, firmly gripping his palm, piercing his flesh, and locking onto his bones.
“Damn it! Bastard!” The cloaked man frantically tried to shake off the bomb. In his desperation, he even managed to stand on one leg, the blood from his severed limb tracing grotesque curves across the street with each of his hops. “Help! Someone, help me—”
The mysterious bomb exploded.
The little imp Luke was flung to the other side of the tavern by the shockwave. The main entrance was engulfed in flames, half-collapsed, in complete chaos.
“Damn it! Damn it! He said the kill radius was only fifteen feet!” Luke screamed in anger amid the Knorgan demon’s sinister laughter.
Forty-seven felt the hot wind rushing toward him, filled with triumph.
“…And there’s an instruction manual too.”