Chapter 348: Do You Have Some Kind of Misunderstanding About "Easy to Talk To"?
"No big deal. It's just a Collapsal after all."
Steven waved a hand as if brushing away a speck of dust. Stuffing the severed tentacle back into his inventory, he turned to Patriot with a bright, almost casual smile.
"You… know of these things?"
Beneath the bone mask, Patriot's crimson eyes flickered.
Knowledge of the Collapsals was a matter of absolute secrecy—whether in Ursus or beyond. For this boy to call it by name so casually could not help but stir suspicion.
Who exactly was he?
What kind of background allowed him to know such forbidden truths?
Patriot pulled his embedded halberd free from the frozen ground and studied Steven's eyes.
He'd always been curious about this youth's identity. Now, matching the face with what little he knew, his instincts leapt to the most dangerous conclusion:
Could this boy be tied to Yan? Royalty, perhaps?
But no—there was no trace of draconic blood about him. His presence was far too ordinary, too unassuming.
"Talulah mentioned it in passing. And before today… I happened to deal with one myself."
Steven spoke without a shred of hesitation, as if talking about stepping on a stray insect.
It wasn't some terrible secret, after all. And it wasn't as if Patriot would avenge the creature.
"You've killed one?"
For the first time, the sharpness in Patriot's gaze truly cut.
Even Yan's royal heirs would hesitate before boasting such a feat. Yet Steven's tone held no trace of falsehood.
Impossible. Ridiculous. And yet… Patriot couldn't refute what his eyes told him.
"Mm. It was back when I first arrived in Ursus. The Emperor's Blade were witnesses. Oh, that reminds me—speaking of the Royal Guard, I just ran into them over at Yelena's."
As if the subject were a mere afterthought, Steven added a reminder, casually informing the older man of what had transpired.
Patriot's grip on his halberd tightened at the mention of his daughter. But because the information came from Steven, he forced himself to relax.
If the boy was mentioning it now, it could only mean the matter had already been resolved.
And knowing Steven, there was no chance he would let Yelena suffer a loss.
"…Thank you."
The towering man—demon-like in stature, his voice gravel and steel—offered words he rarely spoke aloud.
It was an acknowledgment he seldom gave, but after Steven had saved Yelena from certain death, it was unavoidable.
He knew well that if left alone, conflict with the Emperor's Blade was inevitable. One Royal Guard might be manageable, but two or more? That would have been Yelena's grave.
"There's no need for thanks. Yelena's my friend too. Besides, I didn't do much. Those two Royal Guards were surprisingly easy to talk to. After a short chat, they just… left."
Steven shrugged, his tone completely matter-of-fact.
Patriot, however, froze.
Easy to talk to? The Emperor's Blade?
For a moment, he wanted to laugh.
That the boy could say such a thing with a straight face… was almost absurd.
Those soldiers—personal hounds of the Emperor himself—were anything but approachable. They were walking weapons, monsters in human skin.
Yet here stood Steven, claiming they were "easy to talk to."
Was it ignorance… or was this youth's brand of absurdity simply operating on an entirely different scale?
If the nobles who'd died choking in their gilded estates during Ursus' civil strife could hear this boy calling the Emperor's Blade "easy to talk to," they'd probably burst out laughing from inside their coffins.
"I'll be returning to the guerrilla camp," Patriot said at last, shaking off his lingering curiosity about the young man. His gravelly voice was calm, decisive. "The appearance of these Collapsals means this winter will only spiral further into chaos. The guerrillas must prepare for the worst."
What Steven chose to do from here, Patriot left unsaid.
That was his freedom. Yet a heavy premonition gnawed at him: if this boy became entangled in the matter, the storm would be far greater than he imagined.
Not just him, not just Yelena, but the entire guerrilla fighter—perhaps even all of Ursus—would be dragged into the maelstrom.
"Sounds good. I'll head back myself in a bit. But first, I need to deal with the other Collapsal."
Steven reported it like a student politely checking in with a teacher. Patriot's red eyes flickered at the words.
"…The other one? You mean… you intend to cross paths with the Emperor's Blade again?"
"More or less." Steven grinned, all teeth and confidence. "Relax. Perfectly safe. Just one Collapsal and five Royal Guards. Nothing I can't handle."
Patriot fell silent.
At length, he said only: "When you return… I'd like to hear your stance on Talulah's vision."
He didn't press further. Turning away, the massive man trudged toward the Shieldguards' encampment, the snow crunching beneath his boots.
If Steven claimed he could handle it, then he would. Patriot no longer had the words to argue otherwise.
What weighed more heavily on him was Talulah's dream—the so-called Reunion Movement. Noble, beautiful, yes… but to Patriot's eyes, painfully naïve.
To unite the Infected? To lift them into dignity and strength? On this cruel land, such things were not so easily done. He had witnessed too much blood, too many broken hopes, to share her faith.
And yet… the boy before him was the keystone.
With resources, wealth, and power to spare, he had what Talulah lacked: leverage.
His choice alone could tip the scales, deciding whether the dream of Reunion was worthy of Patriot's trust—or doomed to futility.
"Alright then," Steven said with a careless wave, turning away. "I'll come back and chat once I'm done."
With that, he vanished once more into the endless white of the snowfields.
The red dot on his map hadn't vanished. Clearly, even the Emperor's Blade couldn't finish off the last Collapsal—not if it was dragging on this long. If it were simple, it would've been over already.
But when he arrived at the scene, he quickly understood. He really had underestimated the situation… and misjudged the Emperor's Blade.
Hovering at the top of his vision, a distinctive purple boss health bar had appeared. That alone made it clear that this thing was a completely different class from the two pathetic trash mobs he'd dealt with earlier.
As he stepped through the black haze and into the battlefield—now smothered in dark clouds—Steven saw it. And his eyes narrowed in belated comprehension.
A monstrosity towering over ten stories high, rivaling even the colossal Fallingstar Beast he had once encountered. Larger, heavier, stronger than any Collapsal he'd seen before.
"...Alright, fair enough," he muttered.
No wonder the Royal Guards were struggling.
What stood before him wasn't just big—its body bore growths that were anything but normal. Protruding lumps of flesh, shaped grotesquely like human faces and heads, writhed across its surface. They twisted and deformed in sync with the monster's movements, making expressions so distorted it turned the stomach.
This was… unpleasant.
Tentacles, eyeballs—those were just creepy, maybe even a little funny. But this? This was stomach-churning.
He glanced around the battlefield. It was an abandoned mining site, warped almost beyond recognition. The ground was polluted, black tendrils sprouting upward like diseased roots. And then it clicked:
If the workers of this mine—every thought, every memory, every body—had been consumed and assimilated, then yes, something of this magnitude was possible.
Collapsals weren't individuals. They were concepts made flesh, abstract conglomerates of countless lives. Becoming this kind of fusion horror was… well, expected.
Expected for him. But for the four Emperor's Blades locked in combat, it was hell itself.
He recognized them: the ones he'd met before. But now there were only four—what had happened to the fifth? Their stances were strained, their grips on their blades heavy with fatigue. They looked far from their usual cold efficiency.
Still, one thing surprised him.
Despite the battlefield being completely overrun—ground sprouting tendrils, air thick with pollutionion—they weren't collapsing. Not like ordinary men would.
Steven had always assumed his own immunity was unique. But the Royal Guards… perhaps it was their peculiar constitution. Or maybe those ominous respirators strapped to their faces were doing more than filtering air.
"Hey," Steven called out, strolling in like he was arriving late to a casual dinner.
The Collapsal and the four Royal Guards all turned toward him.
Unbothered, he gave them a broad grin. "You boys look like you're having a rough time. Need a hand?"
After all, with a boss fight on the table, how could he possibly let this juicy reward slip away?
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Note: Character Illustration is in this Google Drive:
https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1iuyfwNVFHzIi9H4rWNT_lAm7jTSiah_M
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