There Is No World For ■■

At the same time Yeomyeong was clashing with the Death Knights—behind the club.

“...Fucking lunatics.”

Dilla Katakpoier muttered under the neon glow. Her voice was quiet enough that no one else could hear.

But Seti, standing right next to her, didn’t miss it—her ears were too sharp.

Seti let out a brief scoff and turned her head.

“What, you got a problem with our plan?”

Dilla didn’t say Of course I fucking do, psycho, and instead cautiously nodded.

“I, I’m sorry. It’s just... even if they are necromancers, isn’t this a bit too much...? That’s what I was thinking.”

Seti didn’t answer. She just tilted her head slightly, with a look that said Oh, really?

Her eyes landed on the spot just behind the trash bin, where the Saint was crouched down on the ground, inscribing something with a red blessing.

A long, rectangular metal case.

Dilla might not have been a soldier, but even she could recognize that thing as TNT—or maybe C4.

There weren’t as many explosives as she’d feared, but seeing those blessings glow crimson... yeah, the quantity didn’t seem to matter anymore.

What the hell kind of woman can cast that many high-level blessings like it’s nothing?

Was she some excommunicated high priestess or something?

As Dilla swallowed nervously, the Saint finished her blessing on one of the rectangular bomb cases and handed it to Seti.

Seti took the bomb and, without hesitation, lobbed it toward one of the upper-story windows of the club. A shadow hovering by the window caught it smoothly and vanished inside.

She didn’t even have to look to know where the bomb was going. That floor housed the central control room where the necromancers gathered.

Dilla, the one who’d revealed that room’s location, squeezed her eyes shut.

Thinking about her comrades—relaxing behind reinforced concrete, steel plates, and layers of magical wards—made her feel like crying.

And then, just as the last bomb disappeared through the window—

Dilla found her courage.

“Um, hey. What if we didn’t do this? What if we tried negotiating instead?”

“Negotiate? Yeah, I’m sure the necromancers would just love to negotiate once they realize we’re about to loot their entire warehouse.”

This time, it was the Saint who answered.

Still wearing the face of that rice-soup joint ajumma, she toyed with a revolver in her hand. The contrast with her soft, gentle eyes was absolutely terrifying.

Dilla avoided her gaze as she replied.

“Y-You’re not worried about civilian casualties at all?”

“There won’t be any.”

“How can you say that?! With bombs like that, there’s gonna be shrapnel flying everywhere, and, uh, what was it, the noise! There’ll be traffic accidents!”

“We’ll focus the blast. It won’t matter.”

This fucking bitch just won’t lose an argument, huh. And what? She can control the blast direction now?

How the hell does that work with blessings? Who does she think she is, Hoana Thule or the Saint herself?

“L-Look, just—just give me a moment. I’ll go and talk to them myself. Just a little time, please—”

But just as Dilla shouted in a desperate voice—

A massive explosion rocked the inside of the club.

KUUUUUUNG...!

The shock came from the first-floor lounge. The opposite direction from the window they’d come through—specifically, the direction Yeomyeong had gone to buy them time.

It had to be the sound of him fighting the Death Knights...

The Saint gave the club a worried glance, then turned to Seti.

“Shouldn’t we go help him?”

“...No. Wait until he comes out. If we go in now, we’ll only mess up the plan.”

“But still...”

“No more worrying. You know better than anyone—we don’t need to panic over something like this.”

As she said that, Seti’s gaze remained fixed on the upper floor. She was probably guiding the final bomb’s placement using shadows.

So she’s really not worried about the lounge at all. The Saint pouted and jabbed her elbow hard into Seti’s side.

“...Your faith is unshakeable. Anyone watching would think you two were married.”

Seti let out a dry laugh and replied,

“Maybe. But Yeomyeong doesn’t seem to trust me.”

“What? Why?”

“He told me to be careful around you.”

“....”

The Saint’s brow crumpled on the spot. Seti’s elegant eyebrows curved into a crescent, amused.

What the fuck are these lunatics even talking about now? Dilla rolled her eyes, and Seti murmured with a sly tone,

“But, you know... I think it’s Yeomyeong who should be careful around you.”

“....”

“...It only takes one step to cross a line.”

The Saint didn’t answer.

Because, of all moments, that was exactly when the club’s sprinkler system went off.

****

Back when Earth had just begun creeping through the dimensional gates, slowly invading the land and property of the natives—

The paladins drew their swords to defend their oppressed homelands.

Clad in thick armor, charging with weapons imbued with divine blessings, they looked like heroes straight out of legend.

If it had been the Napoleonic era, they might’ve turned the tide of a battlefield.

Even if it had been the First World War, Earth would have remembered them as nightmares.

But the Earthlings of that time had combat doctrines and weaponry forged in the fires of World War II.

In other words—they could treat charging paladins as slightly tougher targets.

Artillery that blanketed the sky, machine guns spewing thousands of rounds—

If they’d fought face-to-face, the paladins could have taken down dozens, maybe even hundreds of enemies each. But in the storm of gunpowder, they were swept away—powerlessly.

Of course, they weren’t idiots.

The paladins searched for answers in the deaths of their mentors and comrades. They strategized.

Joint operations with mages, infiltration, sabotage, surprise attacks...

But even with every trick they could muster, they could only delay the inevitable.

Paladins were defensive by nature. Instead of charging into machine gun nests with swords, they died protecting fleeing believers.

And so the front lines kept retreating.

Eventually, Earth’s armies surrounded the final stronghold.

And that day, whether by fate or by sheer accident, a single paladin picked up a discarded gun from the battlefield.

It wasn’t all that unusual for a paladin to scavenge Earth weapons, but what happened next—was.

She, a paladin named Hoana Thule, prayed to her god.

And she tried to bless the gun—a feat believed only possible with melee weapons.

Both paladins and Earthlings had attempted it before. Every time, it had failed.

The prevailing wisdom of the age was that mana simply couldn’t be used to enhance firearms.

So what she did should’ve been a complete waste of mana...

But then—a miracle happened.

The Red God of Struggle answered her prayer and granted divine fire to the weapon, naming her as His gun.

She didn’t reject the god’s wrath. She welcomed it—returned the bullets to the Earthlings without hesitation.

While Earth’s soldiers gaped at this unimaginable miracle, she blessed the weapons of her fellow paladins.

She became the hero of the first decisive victory against Earth.

People cried it was a miracle of the gods.

But when Earth’s generals read the battle report, they didn’t see a miracle.

They felt something else.

Fear.

They feared the collapse of their technological edge.

Unlike mana—which required rare elixirs and bloodlines—guns could be used by anyone, even some farmwife from the sticks.

Panicking, the great powers scrambled. They studied mana. Rushed to develop countermeasures for blessed firearms.

Magical guns. Enchanted bullets. Martial arts. Precision-targeting spells...

But as history shows, Earth’s fear remained just that—fear.

Blessed guns barely managed to hold the front. A counteroffensive was out of the question.

And most of the countermeasures against blessed firearms?

Massive wastes of money.

The magical gun? Only three prototypes were made. The mages hired to design them ran off with the cash.

Enchanted bullets? They were at least usable—but nowhere near worth the cost.

...Or so the history books say.

But as always, beneath what the public knows—lies a truth stamped Top Secret.

America succeeded.

The Pentagon’s attempt to create a martial art for firearms... worked.

To generate ideas, they brought in martial artists, military experts—even directors and screenwriters.

Thus was born America’s own martial art.

One that embodied a single, unwavering truth:

No matter the situation, no matter the enemy—you will hit your target.

The martial art lived up to its doctrine. And as Soviet troops were torn apart by bullets, they gave the style a nickname—equal parts admiration and mockery.

Sharpshooter.

Alongside Jugasibili, deep in the Cold War’s shadow, this art of the gun was born.

****

The moment Yeomyeong rolled across the lounge floor, he was forced to confront a bizarre sight.

Bullets drawing gentle arcs—like they had anticipated his movements.

Magic? No. Enchanted bullets? No. The way those bullets flew resembled the sword energy scattered from his own blade.

Don’t tell me Sharpshooter is... a martial art for handling bullets?

That brief realization brushed through his mind at the same time a searing pain tore through his shoulder.

“Kh...”

The shot had clearly aimed for his head. Yeomyeong used the recoil from hitting the floor to roll backward.

Dudududu!

Gunfire rang out behind him.

He took two rounds to the thigh, three to the forearm, and one more in the chest—only then managing to take cover behind a fallen table.

Right after, one of the American soldiers shouted.

—What are you doing? Don’t you know barricades don’t mean shit?

Even before the voice had faded, more shots were fired. Trying to pierce the table? No—it wasn’t that.

The next bullet curved around the table and punctured Yeomyeong's side.

What’s next after curving bullets, heat-seeking rounds?

Grinding his teeth, Yeomyeong rose to his feet. The moment he did, another barrage of bullets slammed into where he’d just been sitting.

—Seriously, are you Soviet or what?

“How the hell do I look like a commie?!”

Yeomyeong shouted as he dodged, prompting a slightly flustered reply from the American.

—Well, I mean... you’re using Jugasibili, aren’t you?

“I stole it from a commie! If you’ve got time to spit bullshit, explain what the fuck Sharpshooter actually is, would you?!”

As Yeomyeong yelled, he hurled an ice spike toward the muzzle. The American responded by shooting down each and every spike with his gun—a completely deranged display of marksmanship.

—That’s classified... I mean, we didn’t even leak this to the necromancers...

“Oh, come on!”

Only after Yeomyeong’s exasperated yell did the American finally start to explain.

—Tch. Sharpshooter’s a martial art focused entirely on understanding an enemy’s movements.

“....”

—I’ve only learned a half-assed version of it... but I’ve already read your patterns. Which means it’s no use dodging now.

The moment he finished, Yeomyeong condensed mana between his plantar fascia and calf.

A fusion of Shadow Step and Wavecut Execution.

If dodging was pointless, that only left attack. With mana surging like crashing waves, Yeomyeong charged straight across the lounge.

No evasive maneuvers. A pure frontal assault.

The tearing screech of bullets ripping through air filled the space, and holes began to open across Yeomyeong’s body.

Within effective range, every bullet pierced him clean through.

The one saving grace was that if a bullet went all the way through, it actually made it easier to regenerate.

Of course, that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

Every time a new hole opened—excluding his head—blood welled up in his throat, and his nerves screamed like they were on fire.

But Yeomyeong didn’t stop. This wasn’t some meatheaded rush relying on his regeneration.

He had been counting every single bullet fired at him so far.

At most, a rifle carried a few dozen rounds.

The moment the enemy’s magazine emptied, when the gun finally went silent, Yeomyeong brought his blade down.

But—

—Fuck. Knew this would happen.

A massive figure blocked Yeomyeong’s sword.

Belladiva.

Her hand axe and right shoulder were cleanly severed, but the time it bought was enough for the American to pull out another gun.

A Remington MH750.

Yeomyeong knew that shotgun all too well—and now its barrel was pointed right at him—

BOOM!

Silver-plated lead shells, magically treated, slammed into his body. Unlike rifle rounds, they lacked penetration—but their stopping power and pain were beyond comprehension.

The repeated blasts sent Yeomyeong skidding backward.

In agony so intense it felt like his mind might melt, Yeomyeong reflexively conjured an ice wall.

It only half-formed before it was shattered by the lead shot.

But even half-complete, the ice wall had weakened the blast enough that instead of being shredded, Yeomyeong was merely sent tumbling across the floor with a loud crash.

Goddamn it.

As he regenerated his wounds and got back up, the American was already pulling a long rifle from his coat.

Is there some pocket dimension inside his uniform? Or is that part of Sharpshooter too?

Either way, dragging this out until the bullets ran out wasn’t an option.

Yeomyeong suppressed the urge to just unleash Pyroclastic Devastation and blow the whole damn club sky-high, and scanned the lounge instead.

Two Death Knights—missing limbs—looked at him with worried eyes. Meanwhile, the unarmed old man and the spear-wielding man he hadn’t finished off were slowly getting back to their feet.

And then there was Belladiva with a hand axe in her left hand, and the American soldier taking aim.

His mouth went dry. No terrain to exploit, no time to deal with them one by one...

As he briefly considered his options, Yeomyeong’s golden eyes spotted a sprinkler head poking through the shattered ceiling lights.

The thought was quick. The action was quicker.

The moment the American finished reloading and fired again, Yeomyeong raised his arm and launched small fire spells at the sprinkler.

Maybe misunderstanding the action, the unarmed old man who had risen spoke.

—If you’re struggling, we can let you run.

“I’m fine!”

—Now, now. No need to become a Death Knight just for our sake...

But then—the sprinkler’s heat sensor, overwhelmed by the fire, gave out with a shriek. An instant later, the fire alarm blared and water came pouring down.

—What is he doing?

The Death Knights, unfamiliar with modern systems, all voiced their confusion at once. But the American—just about to pull the trigger—grinned.

—Clever bastard, aren’t you?

The next instant, Yeomyeong pulled a staff from his Inventory. He drew up all the mana in his body and slammed the staff against the floor.

“Freeze.”

What burst from the staff tip wasn’t even an ice spike—just a basic freezing spell. About as elementary as you could get—but the result was anything but.

Fwoooosh—!

A white frost swept across the lounge, freezing everything in sight.

The hand axe arcing toward his head. The gently curving bullets. Even the bodies of the Death Knights.

It was the combination of Yeomyeong’s massive mana output, the sprinkler water now soaking the room, and the naturally cold bodies of the Death Knights.

Sure, it’d only hold them for maybe ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) a minute...

But that was more than enough.

Raising his sword slowly, Yeomyeong spoke.

“Sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to bring you all in with your limbs intact.”

Words that didn’t match the pale breath spilling from his mouth. Belladiva gave a disbelieving snort.

—So you’re as crazy as we are, huh? What, did you spend a few decades in a coffin too?

Decades, huh. Yeomyeong swung his sword, lost in a strange, quiet sentiment.