Far from the others, Klaus was busy having a peek-a-boo fight with the sand wyrm—and he was rapidly losing patience by the second.
The wyrm's massive tail slammed down exactly where Klaus had been standing, crushing sand and stone into a shallow crater. Klaus vanished in a blur, phantom jumping just before impact, and reappeared on the beast's left side with a sharp crack of displaced air. The sudden movement sent sand spraying in every direction like a miniature explosion.
"Here we go," Klaus muttered under his breath.
He twisted mid-air, coat flaring, and raised Devil's Arm, the revolver gleaming faintly with condensed mana. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the wyrm's head as it turned too slowly to follow him.
"Eat this!!!"
He fired.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Each pull of the trigger was smooth and practiced. Devil's Arm's barrel spun dramatically, as fresh mana bullets formed inside the chambers with a soft hum. The sound echoed across the dunes—sharp, confident, satisfying. The recoil traveled cleanly through his arms, grounding him even as he fell.
Unfortunately, the bullets hit the wyrm's scales and fizzled out like sparks against wet stone.
The impacts left nothing behind. No cracks. No scorch marks. Not even chipped edges.
"…You've got to be kidding me," Klaus muttered as he landed and slid backward across the sand, boots carving shallow trails.
He dug his heels in and stopped, straightening slowly while staring at the wyrm's armored hide. His lips pressed into a thin line. This wasn't new. Not even close.
Earlier, he had tried everything. Head shots. Neck. Underbelly. Joints between the scales. Even the eyes, during the brief moment the thing blinked. Each attempt ended the same way—with his mana rounds doing absolutely nothing.
The wyrm's scale armor was far tougher than he had expected, and with every failed shot, his confidence chipped away a little more, replaced by irritation.
The wyrm answered his persistence with fire.
Its massive head tilted back as its jaws opened wide. Heat rippled through the air, warping the light. Klaus felt it a split second before he saw it.
The flames surged forward.
Klaus didn't even think. He phantom jumped again, reappearing nearly fifty meters away. His boots hit the sand hard, and he skidded several meters before regaining balance, leaving deep furrows behind him. The wave of heat rolled past where he had been, scorching the ground and turning sand into brittle glass.
He straightened, brushed sand off his coat, and stared at the wyrm in disbelief. His jaw tightened, lips twitching between a grin and a scowl.
"Shoots," he cursed, exhaling sharply. "This tough bastard really has no weak spot, huh?"
The wyrm roared in response, its voice deep and vibrating, as if offended by the suggestion.
Klaus sighed and rolled his shoulders, the motion loose but tired. He raised Devil's Arm again, though his grip lacked its earlier confidence.
"Yeah, yeah," he said dryly. "Let's keep dancing. One of us is bound to get tired first." He paused, then added, "That might be me."
A sharp twinge hit his chest. Klaus winced and pressed a hand over it instinctively. He could feel it now—his heartbeat a little too fast, his breath a little too shallow.
"You little gluttonous bastard," he muttered, speaking inwardly as if addressing the Curse Egg that curled deep inside him. "You better be useful once you hatch."
He glanced at his status panel, the faint blue glow hovering just out of sight of the wyrm. The numbers made his eye twitch.
His mana points were dangerously low, thanks to his continuous use of Phantom Step and Devil's Arm.
His health points were slowly chipped away by the Curse Egg.
His stamina, barely above half now.
"Wonderful," Klaus said flatly.
He looked down at the revolvers in his hands, then back at the towering wyrm, which was already coiling its body, preparing another charge.
"…Looks like this isn't for me," he admitted.
With a flick of his wrist, Devil's Arm vanished into his storage. Klaus immediately pulled out two vials—one red, one blue—both sloshing faintly as he moved.
Before he could uncork them, the wyrm lunged.
The beast surged forward, jaws snapping shut with enough force to shatter stone—but it only bit through a fading afterimage. Klaus had phantom jumped again, leaving nothing but a mocking blur behind.
High above the battlefield, Klaus twisted mid-air and uncorked both vials at once. He tilted his head back and drank them simultaneously, grimacing as the liquids burned down his throat. His mana and health points went up again.
"Mindforger," he muttered.
Reality shuddered.
An ammunition box appeared beside him, followed by the unmistakable bulk of a Vickers machine gun. Klaus reacted instantly. With precise, practiced motions, he grabbed the weapon, snapped it into position, and loaded it mid-air in the span of a blink. The ammo box dangled awkwardly between his feet, clinging by sheer friction and bad planning.
He hugged the gun to his chest as he began to fall.
"I really should've put straps on the box," he said to no one. "Maybe next time."
He fired.
The Vickers roared to life, a relentless thunder tearing through the desert air. Bullets screamed forward in a continuous stream, tearing through sand and striking the wyrm's scales in rapid succession.
The wyrm responded with flames.
Fire surged outward, melting incoming rounds mid-flight. Molten fragments rained down like sparks as Klaus phantom jumped sideways—without releasing the trigger. The gunfire didn't stop. The bullets simply appeared again from a new angle, hammering into the wyrm's flank.
The creature roared, clearly startled this time.
The barrage didn't pierce the scales, but it dented them. The wyrm felt it.
Angered, the beast swung its massive tail toward Klaus—only to smash through another phantom. The bullets were already coming from the opposite side. The wyrm swiped again, jaws snapping shut on empty air, and again hit nothing.
For the first time, the fight felt even. The indestructible scale armor dented.
Sand churned violently as the wyrm twisted and thrashed, trying to track him. Klaus bounced around the battlefield like a bad idea that refused to go away, relocating constantly while maintaining the stream of fire.
After nearly a full minute, the gunshots stopped.
The desert fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the wyrm's heavy breathing. Its scales were dented and scorched, though none were broken. There was no blood—but its expression had changed. The beast was wary now. Irritated at the same time.
Klaus landed heavily, breathing hard. He rested the Vickers against his shoulder and squinted at the damage.
"…Huh," he said. "So you do feel it."
He dismissed the weapon and rubbed his sore arms, glancing at his dwindling resources again.
"I really need to consider making real bullets instead of using Trap Master," Klaus muttered. "I just wasted fifty gold coins on that."
The wyrm growled low, shifting its weight.
Klaus sighed, straightened, and rolled his neck.
"Well," he said, forcing a crooked grin, "round two, then?"
"Enough of guns, let's play swords." He grinned, "Sword of Despair."