"Let's see what five hundred silver coins can do."
He snapped the ammunition belt into place with a practiced tug. The metal teeth locked in with a satisfying clack, and the Vickers seemed to settle, as if eager. Klaus tilted his head slightly and glanced at Shane over his shoulder.
"Wanna cover your ears?" he asked pleasantly. "This one will be loud."
Shane didn't even blink. He remained where he was, shoulders squared, eyes sweeping the ruined battlefield with calm demeanor. "No need," he replied evenly. "I think I can take it."
His gaze drifted toward the massive trench Zul'got had carved moments ago—a scar of annihilated stone and vitrified earth that still shimmered faintly with residual mana. The place where the vines and rabbits had been was empty. Nothing moved. No fur, no twitching ears, no grotesque multiplication.
For a moment, Shane assumed they were gone.
He exhaled quietly. Well, I had to thank Delle for his sacrifice.
Then something brushed his boot.
He looked down.
A small crimson rabbit hopped into view, ears perked, white eyes bright and very much alive. It paused, nose twitching, as if checking whether the coast was clear.
Shane's eyebrows lifted a fraction. "You little rascal," he said, genuine delight creeping into his voice. He crouched slightly, careful not to startle it. "I thought you were gone."
The rabbit tilted its head.
What Shane didn't see—what he couldn't possibly know—was how deliberate the creature had been. It had learned. During the first hit, it had pulled a couple of clones back instinctively, sacrificing the rest without hesitation. One had been left at the very edge of the crater as a watcher. Another—this one—had hidden in the crook of a broken tree, perfectly still, waiting. Maybe survival instinct kicking. Maybe he learned adaptation from his past battles.
The rabbit hopped once, testing the ground, then looked back at Shane.
Shane chuckled under his breath. "What do you think?" he asked it softly. "Want to continue?"
The rabbit's nose twitched. Then it sprang forward, tiny body launching toward the demon with reckless enthusiasm.
At the same moment, Klaus moved.
He lifted the Vickers with disarming ease, hugging the heavy machine gun against his right hip as though it were merely oversized luggage. The tripod folded and clung against his waist, stabilized by supernatural strength that defies physics. His left hand slid along the barrel, steady and reverent. His right hand settled on the trigger.
He drew a breath.
Across the crater, Zul'got shook the dust around his shoulder.
Four of the demon's eyes narrowed as they locked onto Klaus. Then flicked toward the charging rabbit, then back again, calculating.
Klaus's expression changed the instant his eyes met the demon's.
The easy smile vanished.
What replaced it was sharp, feral, and excited.
His pupils dilated, breath steadying instead of quickening, lips pulling back just enough to show teeth. There was no hesitation, no flourish, no final quip for style points. In that single heartbeat of eye contact, Klaus looked less like a trickster and more like a predator that had finally been given permission to hunt.
"Time to meet your maker," he said calmly.
He pulled the trigger.
The world detonated into sound.
The Vickers roared—deep, thunderous, relentless. Holy-etched bullets screamed through the air in a continuous stream, each round glowing faintly as divine energy ignited upon triggering the explosive trap. The recoil shuddered through Klaus's body, yet his stance never wavered, Illumi's slender frame held steady by sheer will and practiced absurdity.
Zul'got reacted instantly.
Mana flared. Beams shot outward from the massive orb, streaking forward to intercept the bullets. For a brief moment, the air between them became a lattice of light—holy silver clashing against abyssal black.
Crack—crack—crack.
Each bullet met a beam.
At first.
Zul'got snarled. He redirected more mana, arms blurring as he tried to keep pace. "This—" he began, irritation bleeding into his voice.
Then the rate of fire increased.
The machine gun howled louder, faster, the belt feeding endlessly. Zul'got's eyes widened as his calculations slipped. His prediction was on point, but his reaction was trailing. One beam lagged fraction of a second behind.
That was enough.
The first bullet punched through his guard.
It tore straight into his shoulder, erupting in a burst of searing light. Black blood sprayed outward, hissing as it struck the ground.
Zul'got roared in shock and pain.
He crossed his six arms defensively, wings folding inward as he tried to shield himself. Mana flared desperately, forming layers of protection—but holy bullets were not impressed.
Rounds slammed into him one after another. Each impact ripped chunks of flesh free, burning as much as tearing. His regeneration kicked in immediately, muscle and sinew knitting back together at an alarming speed—
—but not fast enough.
Meanwhile, the rabbit reached him.
It leapt, was swatted aside casually by a massive claw, and splattered against a boulder in a red smear.
Then it twitched.
Split.
Two rabbits sprang from the mess and charged again.
Another swipe. Another splatter. Four more appeared.
Zul'got's laughter turned strained. "Annoying vermin!"
The battlefield devolved into chaos.
Bullets carved glowing lines through the demon's body. Rabbits burst, multiplied, and swarmed his legs, biting and distracting, forcing him to divide his attention. Every stray round that clipped a rabbit only worsened the problem—holy-infused impacts accelerating their grotesque replication.
Shane watched, arms crossed, expression unreadable save for the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth.
"Well," he murmured, "this is getting out of hand."
Within ten seconds, Zul'got's health plummeted visibly. Regeneration lagged. One of his massive arms, half-shattered by overlapping impacts, finally gave out and crashed to the ground with a wet, thunderous boom.
The demon screamed.
It wasn't a roar this time.
It was sharp. Panicked. Raw.
Another arm followed soon after, severed clean at the elbow as a cluster of holy rounds chewed through it faster than the abyssal flesh could respond. The limb disintegrated mid-fall, turning to ash before it even hit the dirt.
Klaus didn't let up.
The Vickers sang—a continuous, merciless hymn of metal and recoil. Empty casings poured from the ejection port, bouncing, rolling, and piling up around his boots like golden hail. The ground vibrated beneath him, and the smell of hot metal mixed with scorched flesh filled the air.
Klaus laughed.
It wasn't his usual playful chuckle or teasing snort. This was loud, breathless, unrestrained—borderline hysterical, like something ancient and violent had slipped into his skin and decided it liked the fit.
"Still regenerating," he observed casually, adjusting his aim by a hair. "Impressive."
Another burst tore through Zul'got's limb wing.
"But inefficient."
Zul'got staggered backward, wings flailing wildly as he struggled to keep balance. Rabbits clung to his legs, some biting, others bursting under stray bullets—only to multiply faster, crawling over one another in an ever-growing tide. His feet sank into the writhing mass, movements slowing, coordination slipping.
Shane watched from behind, posture rigid but composed, eyes sharp as they tracked every change.
"…So he had limits," he muttered, noticing the regeneration delay. His fingers twitched at his side, ready to intervene—but he didn't move.
Zul'got roared again, but the sound cracked halfway through.
For the first time, something unfamiliar crept into his expression.
Not rage.
Not arrogance.
Fear.
Klaus saw it instantly.
"Oh," he said brightly, eyes lighting up. "There it is."
He leaned in, almost affectionate, as if rewarding a good performance. The Vickers bucked harder as he squeezed out the last of the belt, bullets walking up the demon's chest, ripping through the neck, and shoulders. Holy energy flared with every hit, burning deeper, wider, crueler.
A full minute passed in a blur of noise and violence.
Then—
Click. Click. Click.
The gun went silent.
The sudden absence of sound was almost jarring.
Smoke drifted lazily from the overheated barrel. Casings settled. The rabbits paused, noses twitching, as if confused by the quiet.
Zul'got remained standing.
Barely.
His body was mangled past recognition—his torso riddled with cleanly punched holes, both arms and his left shoulder completely missing, as if torn away by a colossal bite. Only two wings still clung to his frame; the rest had been reduced to ash or malformed stumps that twitched uselessly, regeneration sputtering and failing to keep pace with the damage.
Klaus eased the Vickers down, the weapon's weight settling as his breathing finally evened out. His brow creased when he noticed something wrong—half-hidden beneath the shredded remains of the demon's shoulder was a fragment of a purple orb. His voice dropped to a murmur.
"Is that… his core?"