34. Legend

Blown away by the head-on explosion, Karl was still not dead.

A close-range explosion—one that even an ACPA would find difficult to withstand—and yet Karl was not dead?

Why wasn't he dead?

Because the ACPA had taken the brunt of the blast, of course.

The grenades, entangled with monomolecular wires and dangling from the ACPA's forearms, had rolled into the ACPA's embrace as its palms unclasped. They detonated directly in front of the ACPA. Compared to the ACPA, which had only a helmet to fend off the blast, Karl had enjoyed a far superior defense.

Not to mention those reassuring steel arms, wide as Karl's entire body. Consider the machine gun held in the ACPA's hands—the sheer thickness of the barrel, the massive bulk of the receiver. A single glance was enough to tell it was the ultimate shield.

With such powerful protection, coupled with the fact that he had already fallen and pressed flat against the ground beforehand, how could Karl possibly have died?

He wasn't dead, true, but he was certainly very close to it.

"Damn it hurts."

Lying amidst the ruins of rubble and shattered chandelier fragments, Karl felt as though his body were braised beef from a delicatessen, every single fiber and slice being cut through with excruciating clarity.

"It hurts like hell, yet it won't let you die. What kind of sick joke is this?"

Muttering to himself, Karl tried to move his body, only to find it utterly unresponsive.

*Hell, I still need to fulfill the others' entrustment... Wait, how am I supposed to carry her later? Should I have her lean on my back while I slowly walk over, or will her injuries leave her hands too weak to hook around my neck?*

How much time had passed?

About four minutes left?

Four minutes...

Gritting his teeth, Karl used an elbow that was half-missing to prop himself up into a sitting position.

Rest for four seconds. Just rest for another four seconds, and force yourself to stand.

One...

"Crash."

Two...

"Clang, clang."

Three...

"Click."

Four.

Karl watched as an arm thrust out from the pile of rubble that buried the ACPA.

An arm covered in bloody trails and wounds, with the elbow half-severed, connected now by only a shred of tendon and bone.

"Damn it."

Under Karl's look of helpless resignation, the pile of stones was pushed aside. Then, with a third of it crumbling away to reveal the cockpit, the ACPA—sparking with electric arcs across its frame—along with its pilot, appeared before Karl.

"Can't you just die in peace?"

Karl tried to draw the Kenshin at his waist, only to realize belatedly that his hand was gone.

"I return those exact words to you."

Speaking for the first time, the pilot—whose true face was now exposed within the cockpit—was a young man who looked roughly Oliver's age. Half of his face was already ruined, yet the pale gums bared amidst the torn flesh were grinning.

It was the smile of victory.

Compared to Karl, who was now barely able to move, he could still maneuver the ACPA slightly, and that margin was the difference between victory and defeat.

Even if his fight had been ugly, even if he had piloted the ACPA and nearly been killed by Karl, what of it?

He had won.

He was the victor!

"So this is what the taste of true victory in battle feels like."

Operating the ACPA, the pilot slowly stepped forward toward Karl, one agonizing step at a time.

This time, however, it was no longer a game of cat-and-mouse; rather, it was simply that the machine was so heavily damaged it could move no faster.

Yet, no matter how slow, it did not matter. Compared to the immobile Karl, all he had to do now was walk over and reap the fruits of victory.

The method of reaping was simple: swing an iron fist and smash down. A single blow would blast away Karl's upper torso.

Was there any other way?

Karl asked himself in his heart.

And then, he arrived at an answer.

This time, he really was just waiting to die.

When I was eight years old, I stared at the raindrops on the car window, wondering which droplet would win the race, only for all of them to be scattered by a sudden gust of wind. Perhaps, even back then, I already understood that things rarely go your way eight or nine times out of ten.

What a pity.

A pity for what?

It seemed I wouldn't be able to secure a safe passage for Brown and Oliver after all. On this mission, perhaps I really would end up buried alongside the cherry blossoms.

Anything else?

There was...

Karl thought of something very, very important—so important that merely remembering it gave his spirit a sudden boost.

I didn't even get to take a single bite of the pork I f***ing ordered!

...

Mrs. Wells, along with Oliver's sister and father, must be heartbroken when they hear the news of our deaths.

Perhaps people simply tend to dwell on things right before they die.

Yet the arrival of death would not be halted.

The heavy footsteps stopped right in front of Karl.

"Truly exhilarating. I might never forget you."

"Won't forget me?"

Karl smiled faintly. "Then I'll head down first to scout the scenery for you, and beat you up again when you catch up."

"Deal. You'd better learn to pilot an ACPA by then, otherwise I might just win all over again."

The ACPA pilot let out a chuckle as well. Then, without hesitation, his fist descended.

Between them, on the verge of death, there was likely nothing left worth saying.

Karl should have closed his eyes and awaited death.

Yet he did not.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of something.

The passage of time seemed to slow down.

No, the passage of time had not slowed down; rather, his perception had heightened, allowing him to see that someone was moving at high speed.

That physique... that machinery...

Another machine.

Sandevistan.

Amidst the decelerated flow of time, a mechanical figure closed in at high speed from afar toward Karl and the ACPA pilot, and then, a mechanical hand shot forward.

In that instant, even falling droplets of blood seemed incapable of raising ripples upon the pool of crimson.

The ACPA pilot sensed something.

His pupils rolled sluggishly, trying to discern the threat, but his current physical state no longer permitted him to accomplish such a feat.

The mechanical hand seized his neck, exposed to the open air outside the ACPA cockpit, and then that metallic grip gently twisted and squeezed.

In time that felt frozen, Karl could see the utter astonishment on the ACPA pilot's face, alongside the lingering, unvanquished smile still etched upon it.

A smile identical to his own, affirming that the outcome had already been decided.

*Apologies. It seems my luck held out this time.*

Karl blinked. A geyser of blood rained down, dyeing him crimson from head to toe.

*Go wait for me down below. I'll be a bit slow, but I'll come down to beat you up eventually.*

The machine that had snapped and torn away the ACPA pilot's head turned to look at Karl—no, to be precise, that 'person' looked at Karl.

A pair of glowing red eyes held little humanity; within them resided only a cruelty so cold it was devoid of all warmth, brimming with ruthless intent.

"Kid, I'm taking over your mission."

That was the last sentence Karl heard before losing consciousness.

Karl knew who he was.

Or rather, in this entire world, any mercenary who didn't know who he was simply did not exist.

The legendary mercenary.

Adam Smasher.