“The same?”
Hans scoffed.
He couldn’t quite remember the man’s name, but he had seen that face before.
Why else would Hans always go on expeditions alone, so easily accumulate grudges, and have no companions to call upon like the others?
Was it because of a bad personality?
In the Labyrinth, everyone had one.
The answer was simple—Hans possessed things far beyond what a mere hunter deserved.
The favor of a witch—and now, even a beautiful girl.
That face, too, belonged to one of those who had once envied Hans for becoming a witch’s hunting dog.
Like a starving stray dog resenting a pampered pet.
“Let’s not spill any more blood. Haven’t we done enough?”
So now, how delighted must he be?
Even if what Lebkuchenhaus had given him was nothing more than a meager crumb compared to what Gretel sent to Hans, it was still something an ordinary man could never obtain in his lifetime.
When too many slaves exist, they begin to crave shackles they can at least take pride in.
“More importantly, Hänsel—you’re alone, aren’t you?”
But regardless of that hollow blessing, the difference in numbers was a real threat.
Hans considered himself among the more skilled hunters, convinced that the only reason he hadn’t become an explorer was due to his lack of specialized training and knowledge.
But that didn’t mean he could walk away from a fight against many without getting stabbed even once.
If they were mere gatherers—weak-willed and spineless—perhaps.
But these were hunters, just like him.
Lunatics who made a living slicing through monsters with nothing but their blades.
Hans gave an exaggerated shrug, as if conceding, his body language hinting at retreat.
“Well, fair enough.”
And the moment he turned his head—a sharp, whistling sound tore through the air behind him.
His ears, keenly perked, didn’t miss the noise of something slicing through the wind.
Even though he had anticipated it, Hans threw himself into a roll, deliberately letting his body crash onto the filthy ground.
With a swift, fluid motion, he completed a full tumble, sprang to his feet, and drew his sword in one seamless movement.
“I knew it. You’re all so damn predictable.”
“And we didn’t think we’d go down that easily, either.”
Drawing a bow in the city was a forbidden act.
It could be used to snipe a witch, after all.
Just the sight of a bow was enough to summon familiars that would rip the offender to shreds.
Spears were no exception.
The only ranged weapons permitted were throwing knives or stones—neither of which could pierce through a familiar’s protection nor do more than momentarily disrupt the senses of an experienced hunter.
In the end, close combat was the only option.
Kumo Strasse’s streets weren’t particularly spacious, but they were more than enough for a group to encircle a single target.
The hunters, swords at their sides, closed in.
Unlike last time, they had no distractions.
This time, they had their sights set solely on Hans.
“Idiots.”
Hans laughed at them.
They had no idea why he had moved so dramatically, nor did they understand the value of the meager blessing they had received.
Hans had wielded that power far longer than any of them.
As the hunters drew near, Hans let out a sharp cry.
“!”
A fragment of the Divine Language.
He didn’t know its meaning.
The pitch didn’t even suit a male voice.
But it was the only pronunciation Gretel had ever forced him to learn.
In truth, even in the Divine Language, it was meaningless.
Nothing more than a jumble of syllables—gibberish as nonsensical as “ga-gyagu-gyo.”
Pointlessly complex, utterly devoid of meaning.
Which made it perfect.
Perfect as the final key to unlock a safety mechanism.
Hans’ exaggerated movement drew their eyes, buying just enough time.
The fire orb he had rolled toward them finally unleashed the mystery contained within.
BOOM!
A violent explosion erupted into towering flames.
He had hoped to avoid using it, but there was no other choice.
A trigger pulled at just the right moment— the unleashed firestorm engulfed nearly half of the gathered attackers.
Gretel’s flames could be far stronger, but this was a controlled blaze, prepared specifically for use within the city.
It wouldn’t spread, but its heat was still more than enough to turn several people into charred husks.
And among them—was the homeowner, the one who had brandished another witch’s orb.
Shhhhh.
The orb shattered in response to the unleashed mystery, and from within, an avalanche of earth and debris exploded outward.
The cascading soil swallowed even the house Hans had originally intended to destroy, forming a small hill over the wreckage.
Those caught in the collapse writhed and struggled beneath the weight.
Chaos erupted among the group.
It was the perfect opportunity to escape.
But instead of fleeing, Hans remained calm, sword in hand, and stepped forward.
With his orb expended, the witch’s influence no longer shielded him.
If he ran, they would undoubtedly give chase—and now, having tasted the overwhelming power of mystery, they would have long since discarded any sense of restraint or discipline.
Kill, or be killed.
But if he killed them elsewhere, it would only create more problems.
That wretched rule—so strictly enforced on humans, yet never on the witches.
What could he do?
Without the power to change the world, he had no choice but to obey.
“Gah!”
The ones caught in the flames didn’t even require a sword; they were already as good as dead.
Instead, Hans turned his blade on those who had managed to rise from the landslide, cutting them down one by one.
The city’s streets, where violence was supposedly forbidden, were already stained with darkened, dried blood that could never be scrubbed away.
That alone proved this kind of slaughter was anything but rare.
And yet, few humans could claim the favor of a witch as Hans did.
So why?
Why did the scent of blood feel so out of place in Heimvig—a city that was supposed to be safe?
There was no time for questions.
Instead, Hans sharpened his senses and carved his blade into flesh without pause.
Of course, the other hunters weren’t so easily cut down.
“Die!”
They had braced for battle just as he had.
Those who were completely incapacitated by the unleashed mystery were one thing, but the rest wouldn’t be so simple to finish off.
In the Labyrinth, metal was too precious to be wasted on weapons—but monster hides were everywhere.
A human body could never match the durability of a beast, but properly treated, layered, and hardened monster leather often became even tougher than it had been in life.
Hans’ blade drew blood, but a single strike wasn’t enough to deal a fatal wound.
“Get lost!”
“Aaargh!”
“I’ve always hated you! Always strutting around, acting high and mighty just because a witch took a liking to you!”
Screams, shouts, and curses filled the air in a chaotic mess.
Hans had never been formally trained in swordsmanship, but his instincts for survival and experience in battle were more than enough to keep him alive.
He moved swiftly and skillfully, dodging and weaving through attacks, enduring the relentless assault.
Since he couldn’t take them down in a single strike, he focused on drawing blood, forcing his enemies to wear themselves out.
He used the narrow streets and various obstacles to prevent himself from being completely surrounded.
But of course, there was only so much he could do.
Some had lost themselves in rage, blindly charging at him.
Others, however, remained calm and methodical, slowly tightening their encirclement as if hunting a beast.
If not for the lingering effects of his earlier attack, he would have already been overwhelmed, beaten to the ground or decapitated.
Well, even now, he was barely holding on.
“Clang! Clang! Clang!”
Just as one hand can’t hold off ten, a single sword can’t block ten blades.
Hans struck, parried, dodged, and countered, but he was steadily being pushed back.
“Huff… Huff…”
His stamina was draining rapidly.
While he had inflicted wounds to tire his opponents, he hadn’t escaped unscathed—their blades had found him, too.
Though he had avoided lethal wounds, blood trickled down his body.
The longer he fought, the more his wounds tore open.
Should he retreat?
If he lured them into a narrow alley, he could pick them off one by one.
Some would die, some would resist, but once the heat of battle cooled, the rest would give up.
Their leader was already dead, and in the Labyrinth, loyalty meant nothing.
But if he did that, it would mean moving the fight elsewhere—leaving a trail of bodies and chaos in his wake.
Gretel.
Of course, no matter what atrocities Hans committed, Gretel would protect him.
She often nagged and grumbled, but their bond was unshakable.
But what about her time?
Hans hadn’t realized it before, but Gretel had already burned away so much of her time for his sake.
If all those sacrificed moments were added together—Would they one day exceed the time he could even spend by her side?
Beneath the hardened shell of a Labyrinth-stained, selfish bastard, there was still a trace of something simple and human.
And so, even as he recognized his own stupidity, Hans chose to fight instead of flee.
Swords clashed.
Wounds deepened.
Pain surged through his wrist.
His breath burned in his lungs.
Yet, like a fool, he refused to run.
And when the blood-soaked Hans was finally driven to a dead end.
“I found it .”