Chapter 188
"You don't need to speak. Thanks to you, the enemy left an opening. Just focus on breathing."
"Th-the young mistress...?"
"She's fine. Both His Grace and Lady Esmeralda are unharmed."
"I...see..."
"Please survive. That's what would make them happiest."
The moment the Mad Jester's movements faltered slightly—this opening was created by a guardsman's desperate action, who despite being debuffed, immobilized, bleeding, and barely conscious, had desperately grabbed the jester's trouser cuff.
Feeling genuine gratitude for being saved, I encouraged the guard while advancing forward to avoid putting him in further danger.
There were numerous established patterns for defeating the Mad Jester. Some methods even allowed low-level players to succeed.
The key to this battle was determining which strategy to employ—but now that we'd crippled the enemy's mobility, one particular approach seemed viable.
All resentment from before was now buried deep within. From this point onward, I couldn't afford to show any emotion.
Without taking a deep breath, I consciously suppressed my feelings, erasing all expression from my face.
"Hah, I can't fight anymore. Look—this leg. Your attack did this. I'll even discard my weapons. I'll tell you everything I know. How about sparing my life in exchange?"
"......"
He showed his bloodied left leg with a solemn expression. Even with a clean amputation, seeing the insides of a human body wasn't pleasant.
But without changing my expression, I slowly raised my spear.
"Hmm, it seems you hold quite the grudge against me."
Engaging in further conversation would be pointless. Among his arsenal, his most troublesome weapon was arguably the unlisted skill of provocation.
So without a word, I closed the distance in one motion and thrust my spear.
Despite his earlier pleas for mercy, he nimbly dodged on one leg, blocking my attack while launching sharp counters. However, having lost a leg, his movements were worlds apart from his peak condition.
Maintaining balance on one leg was difficult even with training.
"Tch.""Gotta make use of injuries!"
Yet frustratingly, he was a genius when it came to combat.
An ordinary person would be writhing in pain, too grief-stricken to fight after losing a limb.
But the Mad Jester's deranged, battle-hungry talent led to brutal creativity—like using blood gushing from his wound for a blinding spray during a roundhouse kick.
Dodging the blood aimed at my eyes, I countered his bizarre single-legged maneuvers—his flexible joints allowing movements only possible in this state.
He shifted his weight with unnatural fluidity, as if his foot had suction cups—spinning like a top, hopping like a pogo stick, or bracing like a pole.
With only one leg, he adapted with relentless ingenuity.
Had his personality been normal, his abilities could have ranked him among the strongest NPCs.
But.
"Ahahaha! One leg seems tough against you! What's happening!? I'm being pushed back!"
Even with such prowess, the difference in prior knowledge began deciding the battle.
Losing a leg was devastating for a dagger user reliant on mobility.
His charge-in ability was halved, and I prevented him from closing the distance.
While avoiding fatal wounds, my spear steadily carved into the Mad Jester's body, draining his blood.
"Your movements are strange!! It's like you know everything I'll do!! This technique! This move! This variation!! You know them all?!"
No matter how he improvised, I saw the fundamentals of his movements, predicting every development with crystal clarity. Wisdom, knowledge, information—call it what you will.
His occasional lightning spells could be diverted by using Magic Edge as a grounding rod, just like with Nel's halberd.
Poison-based skills generally required a medium like a blade. Barehanded poison use carried risks, and antidotes didn't provide instant cures.
While his skills were troublesome as an enemy, they weren't necessarily versatile.
This disparity between knowing and not knowing created an almost unfair advantage.
I felt no panic.
Ignoring the Mad Jester's cries of frustration, I spoke:
"Neck Hunt."
This time, I severed his right wrist.
As the poison dagger clattered away, he kicked the dismembered hand toward me with his stump of a left leg.
"Why!? I don't know you!! You're not in my memory!! Not in my recollections!!"
I had no room for error—yet felt no fear at cornering him. He resisted death, but showed nothing beyond that.
"Who are you!?"
Left leg and right hand gone, yet the Mad Jester still fought to survive.
To this, I had no answer. Silently waiting for Neck Hunt's recast time, I drove my spear into his left shoulder joint.
"Who!? Who!? WHO!? WHO ARE YOU!?"
Perhaps faces of past victims flashed through his mind. This man, who thrived on human despair, possessed excellent facial recognition—especially for those he'd wronged.
He seemed convinced I was someone's relative seeking revenge.
"......"
In this world, our first meeting was as Ares.
Whether we'd met before—I couldn't know either.
"Is this about ruining my hunts!? That's your grudge!?""......"
My response was a scythe-spear thrust aimed at his face.
With his weapon arm gone, the Mad Jester's only remaining trick was blood-spray dodges—leaving me drenched in crimson.
I offered no answer. That was the most effective response.
For this madman, the worst tactic was entertaining him. Every strategy guide emphasized this.
His potential scaled with emotion. The more amused he was, the stronger he became.
Conversely, killing his mood weakened him.
To him, "fun" was paramount—and nothing was more entertaining than witnessing despair.
So I responded mechanically, attacking like exterminating vermin, showing zero emotion.
I became his most boring opponent—the type who made killing feel like a chore.
"Neck Hunt.""Ah—"
This was fundamental Mad Jester strategy:
Weaken through disinterest.
Anger, hatred, lamentation—these emotional reactions were strictly forbidden.
Negative emotions fueled his frenzy.
After all his provocations, not reacting felt impossible.
I'd already slipped earlier, showing murderous intent.
But gradually, I cooled completely.
Finally, I slashed his right ankle, immobilizing him completely.
As he dropped to his knees, I thrust at his chest—only for him to roll away pathetically.
Engage the cornered, increasingly talkative jester in conversation?
That would be the worst mistake.
Earlier, I'd conversed to confirm his identity and vent game-era grudges. But now, certain of his identity, conversation offered only downsides.
Until his heart stopped or his head rolled, vigilance was mandatory.
Why?
Because countless players—myself included—had been killed during careless chat lulls.
In this world, respawns likely didn't exist.
Half-measures wouldn't suffice.
"Gah—!?"
My spear impaled his abdomen.
When I tried withdrawing, his abdominal muscles clenched, trapping it.
Losing Magic Edge cost me a second of retrieval time.
Even now, he refused to yield.
He spat a needle from his mouth, aiming for my eyes.
"How far...do you know?""......"
But I recognized this move—a sub-20% HP special attack.
His severed wrist pressed against the wound, but blood gushed uncontrollably from both stumps.
Left untreated, he'd undoubtedly bleed out.
But passive kills couldn't be trusted.
Answering his dying questions? Unthinkable.
I needed to finish this personally.
"Heheh...so you're...my reaper?"
He laughed until the end.
Still resisting, he attempted magic—lightning. I diverted it with Magic Edge.
Seeing this, his final struggle ended. As his resistance crumbled, I lunged.
"Ah...Clarisse...""Neck Hunt."
Passing behind him, I slammed the scythe-blade into his neck.
A truly lethal strike.
His head tumbled through the air.
Though he'd muttered a name at the end, my blade didn't waver.
The head rolled, blood fountaining.
You might think this ended it.
But with him, it wasn't over.
Feeling the visceral sensation of decapitation, I performed the corpse check familiar from game days.
Toppling the body with my spear, I examined the neck stump.
"Not a golem."
The game's version lacked this gruesome realism. Next, I used my spear to strip his armor and clothing.
Though badly injured, the body was undeniably human. The sight turned my stomach, but I pressed on—this was necessary.
His genius for deception and body doubles was legendary.
If this was just a doppelgänger, the consequences would be catastrophic. Letting him escape meant never walking safely again.
Even in-game, no death announcement existed. Many players, thinking they'd won, were stabbed in the back by surviving clones—hunted relentlessly by an NPC who grew stronger with each player kill.
Corpse verification, while graphic, was considered essential—a dark-gray strategy shared on forums.
After confirming his humanity, I approached the grinning head on the ground.
Kneeling, I set aside my spear and gently lifted the chin.
Its recent vitality made it feel alarmingly alive. Carefully, I searched for—and found—a disguise layer.
Peeling it away revealed:
"Ah. No mistake."
Seeing the man's true face, I finally accepted the battle's end.
A heavy sigh escaped me as the weight lifted from my shoulders.