There Is No World For ■■

Beyond the darkness of the control room, the owner of the sudden voice slowly stepped forward. Through the dim light of the monitor, an old man dressed in Soviet-style clothing revealed his face.

“...Dong Gungjeongbaek,” Yeomyeong said his title, and the man with many faces smiled slightly.

But beyond his wrinkled smile, his black eyes gleamed menacingly.

“Gungjeongbaek... That’s a false title given by the oppressors.”

“....”

“My true title is the First Secretary of the Asha Communist Party, the Pervy Sekretary (Первый секретарь).”

The First Secretary of the Communist Party? Yeomyeong swallowed a dry laugh.

“A grand title indeed. Since you’re already wearing a crown, why not be the General Secretary?”

It was an open mockery, but the old man responded seriously.

“The General Secretary of the Communist Party is only that one person. I am merely filling in for their position... How could I claim to be the General Secretary?”

His voice was as serious as his expression. The belief and conviction behind his words felt all too familiar to Yeomyeong.

The so-called patriots always spoke with such conviction.

Yeomyeong, slightly repulsed by the realization, placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. Behind him, he «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» faintly heard the sound of the saint holstering her gun.

The atmosphere was tense enough to spark a fight at any moment.

However, Vikoff made no move to retaliate. Instead, he stepped forward and calmly continued.

“Yeomyeong, would you consider my offer?”

“....”

“Let’s cut to the chase. Join our party.”

Vikoff extended his hand. Yeomyeong glanced at the rough, calloused palm and shook his head.

“I have no intention of joining hands with a red.”

“Then what if we are both victims?”

“...Victims?”

“We are the weak, sacrificed by the oppressors. We are the innocent victims born in a broken world.”

What is this bastard talking about?

Yeomyeong’s expression hardened as Vikoff bent down and picked something up from the floor.

A pig’s head, crusted with dried blood.

It wasn’t a regular pig’s head, but that of a shepherd secretly raised by the Korean government.

“I wondered why you attacked Gungjeongbaek. After much thought, I suddenly realized... Yeomyeong, the monster created by the Korean government...”

“....”

“Your goal was revenge, wasn’t it?”

Yeomyeong didn’t confirm or deny.

Facing the silence, Vikoff spoke with even more certainty.

“I understand you, better than anyone else! I was once an ordinary citizen, swayed by power-mad oppressors!”

Vikoff threw the pig’s head to the ground. The sound of flesh being crushed and blood splattering filled the air between them.

“Why do people like us come into existence? The answer is simple.”

“....”

“It’s those who created this modern society! The Americans and all the scum hiding behind them, continuing their oppression! They are the root of all our suffering!”

Vikoff took another step forward.

“Yeomyeong, take my hand! I will help you! Together, we can bring not only revenge but true justice to this land!”

“....”

A hand extended, a brief silence.

Before the silence could stretch too long, Yeomyeong drew his sword.

The blade, forged with the blood and tears of slaughtered dwarves, gleamed with a yellowish tint resembling mustard gas.

Seeing the sword, Vikoff sighed in regret and clenched the hand he had extended into a fist.

“...What’s the reason for rejection?”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘true justice,’ but... I don’t think the justice of someone who stabbed his comrades in the back and created the Rat Beastmen army would be any better than America’s.”

“Ha... Pinel went to see you, huh? Still a useless earring until the end.”

Vikoff sighed deeply and, with a hopeful expression, added,

“It’s a regrettable matter... but if it was for something necessary, would you believe me?”

“...The Korean government’s bastard dogs said something similar to me.”

With those words, both men simultaneously thought the same word.

Negotiations failed.

The next moment, a gunshot rang from behind Yeomyeong.

****

As the conversation ended, Neti gasped at seeing her sister shoot the pistol.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she had aimed perfectly at Vikoff’s head.

But once Neti confirmed the path of the bullet, she gasped once more.

“No, what...?”

Seti’s shot didn’t pierce Vikoff. To be precise, it was caught in his hand.

He caught the bullet in this darkness, from this distance?

Vikoff tossed the bullet, now lodged halfway into his palm, onto the floor.

“Lack of manners.”

At that signal, the saint and Yeomyeong moved.

First, the saint pulled the trigger of the now few remaining rounds in the anti-material rifle.

Boom!

With the blessing imbued in the bullet, there was no way Vikoff could block it. He immediately leapt into the air.

Seemingly rolling on the floor, he used the recoil to spring up, gathering mana in his legs.

Then, in the next instant, his body blurred and accelerated explosively.

A speed resembling, or exceeding, Bigaku techniques.

‘So he was a superhuman after all.’

It was, in a way, to be expected. A normal human couldn’t possibly maintain the position of Gungjeongbaek in this trash heap of a city.

Yeomyeong immediately unleashed Bigak to follow after him.

The two’s speeds were nearly matched, but Yeomyeong’s sword had a longer reach.

“Not bad swordsmanship. Lacking a bit of killing intent, though,” Vikoff remarked, narrowly avoiding the blade while speaking. Before Yeomyeong could strike again, he pulled a small remote control from his coat and pressed a button.

Immediately.

A siren blared in the control room, and red lights flickered on.

It seemed like a citywide alarm resonating through the bunker. The sound of Rat Beastmen charging from the other side of the bunker was heard.

“Well then, shall we get a proper fight going?” Vikoff said, raising his fist.

A brief silence, their gazes crossing. Just as the saint reloaded her rifle, the two charged at each other, swinging fists and blades. The clash of flesh and steel rang through the air, but the fist, imbued with mana, was as heavy as a mace.

Clang!

The deafening noise of metal clashing.

Suppressing the shock emanating from his hand, Yeomyeong thrust his sword forward, but Vikoff extended his hand like a blade.

A sword style using the hand like a blade? Yeomyeong, who also used a similar martial technique, altered his sword’s trajectory to block the incoming hand-blade.

Once again, the sound of metal rang, and sparks flew like molten metal, as if they were welding.

Yeomyeong shook him off and glanced back.

Through his vision, he saw the control room’s main door opening and Rat Beastmen swarming through the slightly cracked door.

‘...I’ll leave the Rat Beastmen to Seti and the saint.’

Just as this thought crossed his mind, Vikoff lunged through the opening between Yeomyeong’s sword and swung a punch.

“Heh, you’re going to turn your eyes away in the middle of a fight?”

His punch was fast and powerful, faster and stronger than any martial art Yeomyeong had ever seen.

Yeomyeong barely managed to twist his body to avoid the punch, but with each blow, the control room’s monitors, desks, and even the concrete floor shattered into rubble.

Bang! Bang!

The shockwaves from Vikoff’s punches were impossible to believe, as if they were on par with modern weapons. It wasn’t just the destructive force—his true intent to kill was imbued in every blow.

As Yeomyeong focused solely on defense, trying to read the power behind Vikoff’s moves, he suddenly realized something and gathered Comet's Light into his blade.

The moment Vikoff saw the light, he immediately stopped his attack and leaped back.

Yeomyeong didn’t follow him, nor did he fire Comet’s Sword.

It was partly because he had already exhausted mana in his battle with Kahal Magdu, but also because he wanted to gauge Vikoff’s reaction.

‘As expected, the moment he sensed the killing intent from Comet's Sword, he backed off.’

Yeomyeong gazed at Vikoff with his deeply sunken eyes. Vikoff stroked his beard and asked.

“...Your martial arts may be rough, but they are efficient. Do you have a master?”

“Corvus.”

“The Seeker of the Crossroads? Then...”

You must be able to use magic as well.

Before that sentence finished, dozens of Ice Spikes appeared around Yeomyeong. They shot toward Vikoff, carving an eerie trajectory.

Vikoff deflected and dodged the Ice Spikes, closing the distance again. And then, another punch followed.

Yeomyeong extended his left hand, using telekinesis to hold back the punch, while his right hand extended the sword.

The sword’s blade traced a long arc toward Vikoff’s neck.

And then...

It was blocked. Vikoff had closed his mouth and caught the blade between his teeth.

‘What?’

Caught completely off guard by the unexpected defense, Yeomyeong frowned, just as Vikoff drove his knee into his side.

Crack—Several of Yeomyeong's ribs broke with a single strike. As Yeomyeong gritted his teeth and infused his sword with Comet’s Light, Vikoff immediately leapt back.

“What a shame. I was sure you could have done great things.”

As Yeomyeong’s bones began to heal, he chuckled bitterly. Vikoff’s words were essentially declaring that he would die here today.

Spitting out the blood pooling in his mouth, Yeomyeong asked, “Vikoff, let me ask you one last thing.”

“Are you going to surrender? I’ll gladly accept.”

Yeomyeong shook his head and asked, “What’s your relation to Jugashvili?”

A question he had been asked countless times before. But in this moment, Yeomyeong had to ask it in return.

The martial art Vikoff used was too similar to Jugashvili’s traits.

Simple, efficient killing techniques.

But Vikoff’s answer was something Yeomyeong hadn’t expected.

“Jugashvili... is my surname. I suppose I only gave you a fake one. Yeomyeong, my full name is Vikoff Ivanes Jugašvili.”

“What?”

Jugashvili? That was Stalin’s original surname, wasn’t it? Yeomyeong furrowed his brows.

“...Stalin’s bastard?”

“Oh, you’re more imaginative than I thought.”

Vikoff smirked, lifting the corner of his mouth. Then, as he glanced over at Seti and the saint blocking the Rat Beastmen at the control room entrance, he added,

“The General Secretary’s bloodline has already been cut off. His two sons heroically sacrificed themselves for the people, and his daughter became contaminated by capitalism.”

“...”

“But even so, the reason I carry the name Jugashvili... is not because of bloodline, but because I inherited his will.”

Will. The moment those words left his mouth, red energy began to swirl around Vikoff’s body.

Mana mixed with a tangible killing intent.

“I am the last heir and survivor of the Jugashvili lineage. Does that answer your question?”