I decided to target John first after my transfer.
I wanted to take out the operator before he could use the weaponry behind him.
Fortunately, John was not a human excelling in close combat.
He was an inventor whose true value manifested through weapons and equipment.
Balk was also inept in close combat.
Therefore, closing the distance all at once and pressing the attack was the best approach.
I enhanced my own senses and observed the two men within the stretched time.
John had not detected me.
He held his gun up, recklessly exposing his back.
As I thought, he couldn't keep up with my movements.
I lunged forward and flashed my mana blade.
Scooping upward, I severed John's neck.
Blood was about to spray from the cross-section.
John, gun in hand, crumpled to his knees.
I pivoted from there and aimed a return stroke at Balk.
However, I noticed Balk emitting a strange groan and stopped my feet.
Black slime was oozing from his mouth.
It dripped to the ground, evaporated, and drifted around Balk.
It was a curse of super-high concentration.
A defensive barrier for all directions.
The curses were surging toward me.
Balk was not looking in my direction.
(Perhaps he deemed the teleportation imperceptible and made this an autonomous defensive spell.)
Touching it would mean instant cursing.
What Balk unleashed was extremely pernicious.
I must not carelessly inhale it.
I employed countermagic to hold the curses at bay, then created distance with a burst of teleportation.
From there, I fired a fireball from my staff.
However, this was an enhanced version infused with miasma.
The blackened fireball drilled straight through the wall of curses and engulfed Balk, burning him fiercely.
In an instant, Balk collapsed into the desert like a shadow.
He did not rise; he turned to ash.
"...Tch."
The foul stench of burning human flesh.
It is something the undead, lacking a sense of smell, cannot perceive.
Being a rare occurrence for me, the stench was overwhelming.
Having pushed the odor from my consciousness, I glanced at my staff.
A crack had formed at its tip.
The damage spread from there, and it utterly shattered.
It seemed it could not withstand the miasma magic.
It was an inevitable result, no doubt.
A standard staff was never designed to channel curse energy.
Out of old habit, I'd reached for it without thinking.
Even knowing the spirit world was merely an illusion, I hadn't expected to break another one.
There was no grief, exactly, but a certain bitter irony clung to the feeling.
I let the shattered remnants of the staff slip from my fingers and my gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, to Gwen.
She was still sprawled on the ground, that spiteful smirk firmly in place.
The two she had summoned were dead, yet her composure hadn't cracked.
A sour premonition coiled in my gut at the sight of her.
"Stop looking away, you bastard!"
John's voice came from behind.
Simultaneously, a gunshot cracked through the air.
I instinctively threw up a defensive ward, conjuring a thick, glass-like barrier.
A bullet slammed into it.
Embedded in the magic, it began to spin rapidly around its axis.
Its momentum, far from stalling, was accelerating.
It bored through the protective spell, scattering dark mist as it advanced.
It looked ready to pierce through at any moment.
(The properties of otherworldly firearms... no, that's not it.)
I stared intently at the projectile, recognizing the incantation woven into it.
It was tremendously powerful.
It pierced through defensive magic as if it were nothing, providing propulsion to the projectile.
(I shouldn't try to force a block)
I leaped sideways, dodging the projectile's trajectory.
The projectile that shattered the defensive magic flew off into the distance.
It showed no sign of returning.
"..."
I looked in the direction from which the shot had come.
There stood John, holding his rifle ready.
Balk was beside him.
Both were unharmed.
There was no corpse; only the two of them, uninjured, stood there.
I checked my own body, but found no traces of any strange magic having been cast upon me.
John and Balk were, without a doubt, revived.
(Could this be a characteristic of the mental world?)
Not knowing the laws of this space, I couldn't rule out the possibility.
Unlike the real world, reviving the dead might be easy here.
That was when Gwen raised her voice to explain.
"Those two are immortal! As long as their spirits endure, they can regenerate no matter how many times! Both possess exceptional spiritual strength, so they will never be completely destroyed!"
Hearing her triumphant voice, I felt certain.
I understood why Grom had chosen these two.
They were invincible in the spiritual realm.
That must be why, among many strong candidates, he'd selected the ones who had judged they would never lose even to me, the Demon King.
Certainly, individuals with such resilient mental fortitude were rare, even compared to the two before me.
Grom's selection had been apt.
"Come on, let's get the second round started."
"Surely you haven't lost your nerve, have you? If you claim to be the Undying Demon King, you ought to be able to handle this much, at least."
The two taunted me with arrogant words.
They should have memories of being killed by me, yet they showed not a hint of retreat.
They had conquered the fear of death.
They stood here, having steeled themselves to be killed again and again, if necessary.
(...It can't be helped. I have no other useful strategy.)
I repositioned my magic sword.
This outsider named Grom had certainly caused me considerable trouble.
I'd like to complain, but unfortunately, even that was difficult.
It seemed I had no choice but to see this through to the very end.