Brawlers don’t put on a pretty show. In a fight, their moves are wind‑quick and stone‑plain: strike, slip, counter, like waves grinding a cliff.

Nivifar versus the Bristled Beetle was just that, a drumbeat fight, not fireworks. Same with Princess Golia against the thing across from her, rain on rock.

Brawlers have a few tricks. Nivifar’s stance, Tread a Thousand Peaks, plants like roots and crashes like avalanches. Princess Golia’s hand‑blade carries the concept of Edge, cold as frost. But most of it stays basic: one move, one answer, guard and riposte, like hammer and anvil.

And most folks can’t even use stances. Like in a game, you don’t spam finishers. You build the rage bar with basic swings, like stacking dry tinder.

Compared to duels where a single sword decides fate in a flash, brawlers hit softer. Their battles run longer, like slow rivers. You can watch the current tilt.

Right now… Princess Golia has the current. Her tide pushes forward.

Her opponent is clearly humanoid, a close‑in brawler throwing tight, lethal combinations, hands like pistons. Before the fall, he was likely a famous adventurer, a blade now dipped in ink.

Blessed by the Ocean of Darkness, he’d been promoted to Hero‑grade. His fists and kicks could shatter tree and stone, body tempered harder than steel, like a blackened bell.

He wrapped himself in dark mana like a soot cloak. Inside the seams, I glimpsed toad‑skin, clammy and vile. Even fallen, he felt shame, like a moon hiding behind clouds.

If Stini had faced him, it would’ve been a bitter fight, teeth on ice. Too bad his foe is Gloria, who tops him in every stat, a mountain over an ant.

Gloria was soaked in monster blood: green‑blue, black‑red, milky white, a painter’s ruined palette. Even the Colonna Empire’s sun‑gold hair was drowned, like dawn behind storm.

She always finds the optimal line in battle, knife‑honest and mercy‑cold. That chase for slaughter efficiency, with no other fixation, isn’t a human way to fight.

This is a weapon more monster than monster. The Sorcerer Emperor’s anti‑demon arm, the Demon Slaying Sword—Gloria Colonna, a blade forged of winter.

The humanoid’s left arm moved stiff. Early on, he misread his foe. The Princess’s hand‑knife took it off in one sunrise stroke; he regrew it, awkward as a graft.

He kept backpedaling under Gloria’s storm, afraid to trade. His blows couldn’t dent her guard, not even shift her stance. Her Edge‑bladed hand cut inevitability, so he could only dodge, leaf in gale.

Picking a close‑quarters slugfest against the queen of physical combat, kid—bold move, tiger stripes on a rabbit.

Life isn’t a novel. Big turnarounds are rarer than meeting the Demon King on Main Street, thunder in a teacup.

I cleared the dwindling trash mobs at the edge, like sweeping leaves. To the Hero Squad, ten‑meter ridge giants, burrowing viper‑rats, berserk apex Barlo Rabbits—none of that is a thing next to the Demon King of Slaughter.

Stini’s side grew quiet, like embers cooling. She should be finishing.

“Stini, over here, over here. Hooked a big one.” I called toward the Hero’s direction, a pebble across a pond, then used pinpoint Shadow shots to pick off the last stubborn beasts.

“Your Highness, need a hand?” My voice went light, like a feather tossed.

“Help me. Capture him.” Her reply was level, blade‑straight.

“On it.” Curiosity flickered first, then I moved. I wanted to ask where that guy came from, smoke to the fire.

Bad guys hatch by the clutch. If there’s one mortal who defected to the dark, there are more nearby to kidnap—no, to recruit, like wolves circling a fold.

While building a binding spell, I also surged forward with my sword. The Andor Mephy build doesn’t sit still spamming Shadow; my strength is steel and stride.

“No. Battle, I handle. Andor, you grab him.” Princess Golia halted, palm up like a stop‑sign, and shook her head, snow on a branch.

Eh? Why?

“Andor, not good at, precise fighting. You’ll kill, the target.” Her words dropped like stones.

“I wouldn’t dig our own grave like that!” My protest flared, a spark in wind.

“The treant. Earlier.” One pebble. Big splash.

“…Good luck, Your Highness. Lower HP means easier capture.” I sighed, tossed my Greatsword back into Shadow like sinking a moon, and focused on spellwork.

“What the hell are you bastards saying!” The mid‑tier retainer had a brain and a mouth. He looked like smoke and tar, but he still talked, still thought, still smelled danger like rain.

“Do you even need to breathe? Why is there no gap in your breathing!” His voice grated like rust.

The fight held a momentary balance, needle trembling. Both sides attacked and defended, drum for drum.

In pure technique, Princess Golia trails Nivifar by more than a hill. But an untakable body and an absolutely cutting hand give her the firmest shield and sharpest sword, sun and scythe.

Worse, she doesn’t need to breathe. She can press from the first bell to the last, no stamina tide, no rest, a storm without a lull.

The monster tried to mess with her breath and rhythm, like tapping a drum. Too bad he met an enemy who outclasses him head to sky. Becoming a retainer and ditching breath to run on mana only clawed back a sliver, a nail’s worth.

“Damn it, I can’t die. I still have to revive the Demon King, Your Highness!” His vow cracked like ice.

“Calling a Demon King ‘Your Highness’ is weird, you know.” My snark came first, then the smirk, like a cat swatting yarn.

“You over there—shut the hell up!” He spat sparks.

“Hey, hey, don’t swear. It tanks your value in front of ladies. If our story became a movie, the director would cut the foul‑mouthed extra first.”

Bored, I sat atop a monster corpse like a mossy rock and wove my spell, tossing barbs like pebbles.

“Andor, more cussing.” Princess Golia looked left and right. No Raven, no Stini to volley with. She took a deep breath, mountain air before a shout, then tossed me a tiny quip.

Do you really need a deep breath for a three‑syllable quip?

“Are you kidding me? This is a serious fight scene. You’re Heroes! Be serious!” The monster ranted, smoke from a chimney.

“See, Your Highness? Even our monster friend lands his quips cleaner than you.” I pointed like a fan in a crowd.

“This isn’t a place for quips! You goddamn bastard!” His temper blew like a stove.

Fuming, he tore free, leaving his right hand behind like a lizard’s tail, and charged me, thunder on bare feet.

Gloria had him entangled tight. She didn’t expect him to ditch a hand just to get at me. She froze a blink, then sprinted, arrow‑true.

She drew a deep breath, as if to show heat, but only her speed rose. Her tone stayed flat, like ice over fire. “How do I, quip here?”

How would I know!

“Mm, no quip needed. Play dumb. Try, ‘You think you can actually run?’ Or, ‘Parlor tricks. Dead end.’” I stayed seated, still water. I’d roughhoused with our upper‑tier retainers and sparred the Hero so often that mid‑tier felt like drizzle.

“Die, bastard!” Three steps left. In less than a second, he’d be on me, lightning to ground.

Just jump—

His foot sank into the earth, like clay swallowing a hoof. No footing, no leap. He pitched forward, sky flipping, and ate dirt.

Not a swamp. Too cheap. A brawler won’t trip on shallow holes.

I had opened a gate to Shadow in front of me, a black door in daylight. Half his body fell into that other shore. I closed it, and his lower half stayed forever beyond, a lost anchor.

Without another authority’s domain meddling, the world plays by late‑age physics. A fast body doesn’t just stop, arrow keeps flying.

His upper half—just a torso now, and the left hand had gone too—kept its forward roll, a headless log. It slammed into my seat of monster flesh and flopped at my feet.

“Told you. People who love to curse get short screen time. Here—piping‑hot bento.” I slapped the binding I’d just finished, the Dark Custody Gaol, across his face like sealing wax.

———

Princess Golia drew a deep breath. I cut in, a leaf on wind: “Do you have to inhale before snarking, Your Highness?”

“Yes. Father said, it should be so. Also, you—”

“Hey, you don’t have to force it. Quips and deadpan need to flow. If you act it out, it lands flat, like rain on oil.”

“But you—”

“Come, repeat after me: ‘How could this happen!’ Remember to swing your hand hard. See? Backhand swing. Classic quip. They say a cave underground trains quippers.”

“It’s you—”

“No shame. It’s just me and monsters here. Treat it like newbie practice—”

Princess Golia moved in the Godspeed Realm, and her hand caught my face. No—she clamped my mouth, hawk on mouse.

My prized reflexes didn’t even twitch. She glanced around. No Stini to banter with, no Raven to deflect. A flicker of panic, like a lantern in wind.

“Mmmph…” I protested, muffled.

“Andor. Quiet.” She used a tone for teaching small animals, calm water over rock. She stared into my eyes, made some decision, sword‑clean.

Adorable, flashed across my mind, wildly out of place. Our noses were a breath apart. If she moved her hand, we’d kiss—if you think that’s good, you’d be wrong. She was about to pop my head like a gourd.

Her strength is far beyond human. You don’t see it in fights because her body control is rough, balance tricky, so she holds back. In truth, she’s built at the physical limit, iron under silk.

Flustered, she gripped too hard. My jawbone creaked like winter wood. Crack felt close.

“Andor. Let me finish.” Her words were an edict, calm as snow.

Sorry, I won’t cut in again, just spare my skull! I hammered her wrist with my palm, a fish thrashing. She eased a touch, enough that my head wouldn’t pop like a balloon.

Princess Golia took a deep breath, then spoke faster than usual, tone still flat, a river running straight. “Andor. You messed up. Again.”

She pointed at the scattered grit on the ground—what had been that mid‑tier retainer’s body, now gravel after a storm.

“Your fault.”