There Is No World For ■■-Chapter 170: For Whom Does the Bag Open? (1)

To His Highness the Crown Prince.

(Omitted)

...Even those foolish nobles have a point. Crops can still be grown without fertilizer, and merchants can still sell goods without trains.

But freedom is different. Freedom is like mana—once tasted, one can never return to what came before...

(Omitted)

Even though the Hero has slain the Demon King, the Demon Realm still remains. Likewise, the communist demons sown by Stalin continue to lurk in the shadows...

(Omitted)

So please, before the spark of revolution spreads, light the torch of peace.

—Excerpt from a letter sent by Tower Master Mahagan to the Crown Prince, 13 days before his assassination.

****

The First Secretary, Vikoff, took a step forward, his lips moving beneath his long beard.

“It’s my turn to ask questions now.”

Perhaps it was the murderous aura wrapped around his body, but from Vikoff’s eyes flowed a crimson gleam, tears of blood streaming down his cheeks.

At the same time, the muscles hidden beneath his people’s uniform swelled, and the wounds scattered across his body regenerated—proof that the power of the Dzhugashvili school of martial arts had awakened.

Yeomyeong matched him step for step, invoking Mariji Celestial Body Technique. Mana materialized over his body, rising like a mirage.

Vikoff, raising an intrigued eyebrow at the sight, continued speaking.

"Do you know what the other Court Lords were planning to do with the nuclear weapons in this armory?"

“...I don’t know. Nor do I care to.”

Vikoff smiled at that response. A smile so eerie that blood pooled in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"The Western Court Lord—that fool obsessed with Earth’s culture—wanted to sell nuclear weapons and become an Earthling noble. Hah, an Earthling noble. Does he think democracy is some kind of joke?"

"..."

"And as for the Southern Court Lord... well, let’s just say he was more traditional. He planned to offer nuclear weapons to the Imperial Emperor, hoping to make the Empire an equal to the United States. The hollowed-out remains of an empire, dreaming of greatness... Don’t you think it’s ridiculous?"

Yeomyeong gazed at Vikoff with an ever-deepening stare.

Knowing the intentions of the other Court Lords meant he had been predicting their actions.

And it didn’t take long for Yeomyeong to realize—this red bastard before him was the very cause of the chaos engulfing the city.

He was the one who spread rumors about the World Tree Crystal, the Tower Master’s legacy artifact, and nuclear weapons being in this city.

He was the reason the Court Lords, obsessed with nuclear fire, had drawn in foreign powers.

“...Why did you do all this?”

"Because this city needs a revolution."

"...A revolution?"

"Chaos is the seed of revolution. When outsiders sow chaos, and the Court Lords, instead of quelling it, fan the flames... do you think the people of this wretched city would just sit still?"

"..."

"I was planning to march in with my Rat Legion at the end and restore order myself...."

“...But we ruined your plans.”

More precisely, it was the rumor Seti had spread that had thrown things off.

The moment word got out that there was treasure hidden in the sewers, the people didn’t rise up in revolution—they became blinded by greed instead.

"Yes, you understand well. Because of the rumor you spread, the revolution never even started, and I had to move my Rat Legion ahead of schedule."

"..."

"But fortunately, my plan isn’t a complete failure. If I eliminate you and the dragon above this city now, I can still make it work."

As Vikoff said this, he assumed a stance.

His right fist raised high, his left fist lowered—his legs spread wide, mana surging through them, poised to launch at any moment.

A stance meant purely for charging in fast and striking with a fist.

It looked even sloppier than the basic martial arts forms taught at the Academy, yet Yeomyeong kept his eyes locked on him.

Because there was no telling what kind of attack that sloppy stance would lead into.

A moment of stillness passed between them.

From the control room entrance, the sound of gunfire mingled with what could have been either a saint’s prayer or a curse. But to the two men, only the sound of each other’s heartbeats filled their ears.

Long breaths. Tensing muscles. Sweat and blood trickling down.

And then, the very instant that Vikoff’s blood tears and Yeomyeong’s sweat hit the ground—

They lunged at each other.

The distance between them closed in a blink.

Yeomyeong’s reach was slightly longer thanks to his sword, but Vikoff was the first to strike.

And his speed was incomparable to before.

His fist flew straight for Yeomyeong’s face. Murderous mana rode the wind, making Yeomyeong’s hair flutter.

Without hesitation, Yeomyeong swung his sword, cutting through Vikoff’s fist.

The flesh of his knuckles split apart, blood spraying—but as if expecting it, Vikoff thrust forward and aimed his left hand at Yeomyeong’s lower body.

To be precise, at his groin.

Instinctively, Yeomyeong dodged backward, avoiding the attack. A motion made out of pure survival instinct, but one that also left an opening.

Vikoff didn’t miss it. He immediately swung his waist, following up with a spinning kick aimed at Yeomyeong’s wrist.

Crunch—

The murderous force in Vikoff’s kick pierced through Yeomyeong’s mana, shattering his wrist bone.

Broken fragments stabbed into muscle, and strength drained from his grip. His sword fell from his hand.

A groan nearly escaped his throat, but there was no time to falter—Vikoff was already twisting his body, bringing a knifehand strike down toward his neck.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is freeweɓnovēl.coɱ.

Yeomyeong reacted instantly, executing Lightfoot Technique, bending his body backward.

The deadly strike barely grazed his hair.

And the next moment, Yeomyeong kicked off the ground, whipping his leg upward.

A backflip kick—his heel slammed into Vikoff’s jaw.

“Guh—!”

Vikoff, caught off guard by the unexpected blow, halted his attack for the first time.

Yeomyeong completed his full flip, hands pressing against the ground as he righted himself.

Vikoff didn’t charge again right away. He touched his jaw, eyes gleaming murderously.

"Even after fighting a dragon, you still have this much stamina... If we had fought when you were at full strength, it would’ve been close."

"..."

"But a swordsman without a sword—the fight’s already decided."

With those words, Vikoff charged forward again.

Yeomyeong glanced at his fallen sword, then spread his hands, ready to counter.

But without his sword, close combat was inevitable.

A few exchanges of knifehand strikes later, the battle turned into an all-out brawl.

Knifehands cut into shoulders, fists slammed into faces.

Nose bones cracked, wrists snapped, knees drove into stomachs.

Each impact sent shockwaves rippling through the room, toppling desks, shattering monitors.

Yet neither of them backed down. Instead, they fueled their killing intent further.

Vikoff grinned through bloodstained teeth.

"With this bloodlust... this regeneration... Anyone would think you were the Dzhugashvili here!"

As if responding to his words, Yeomyeong whipped his left leg at Vikoff’s lower body.

A sharp crack echoed as his knee buckled—but Vikoff merely tilted forward and retaliated with a headbutt to Yeomyeong’s skull.

“Urgh—!”

For the first time, Yeomyeong groaned aloud.

But he gritted his teeth, steadied his footing—and headbutted Vikoff right back.

A sickening crunch rang out.

It was unclear whose skull had cracked. Maybe both.

Not that Yeomyeong cared.

Because at that moment, he collided his mana with Vikoff’s killing intent—and unleashed it all at once.

Are you planning to fight with mana itself instead of using martial arts?

Well, whatever miraculous elixir he took, Cheon Yeomyeong’s mana reserves were abnormally high.

Against any other opponent, this might have been a meaningful attack, but...

‘It means nothing to a Dzhugashvili.’

Vikoff was already certain of his victory.

"You still haven’t realized the true power of the Dzhugashvili school, have you?"

"..."

Their mana clashed, pushing against each other in a battle of will.

For a brief moment, Yeomyeong gained the upper hand—but in an instant, the crimson mana of the Dzhugashvili reversed the flow.

Vikoff stepped forward as Yeomyeong clenched his teeth and said,

"The Dzhugashvili school can convert killing intent directly into mana—whether it’s their own or their opponent’s."

The more killing intent one harbors, the more mana they generate. That was the ultimate secret behind the Soviet killing arts.

"It’s a simple truth. If you seek faster speed and greater strength for efficient killing, what’s the last thing you need?"

The Soviet answer was simple: Endurance.

Power that never wanes even after dozens of attacks. Stamina that never runs dry even after sprinting for miles.

That was the perfected Dzhugashvili technique.

"Your fatal mistake was not knowing your opponent."

Confident in his dominance, Vikoff pressed down on Yeomyeong even harder. He even took a moment to glance toward the door, wondering if his opponent’s allies would interfere.

There was no need to worry.

The three young women outside were too busy holding back the Rat Beastmen army to even look in their direction.

Once those girls were finished off, he could deal with them at his leisure.

Satisfied, Vikoff turned back to Yeomyeong, who was barely standing, his mana nearly invisible. The crimson mana of the Dzhugashvili was the only thing swirling around him now.

A pity, but it was time to end this.

Vikoff raised his knifehand and swung it down at Yeomyeong’s exposed throat.

But at that moment—Yeomyeong lifted his head and dodged the strike.

And in the same breath, he countered with his own knifehand, slicing deep into Vikoff’s chest.

"Kh—!?"

Vikoff stumbled backward, clutching his chest.

"How...!?"

Yeomyeong didn’t answer.

Instead, he moved his mana.

Not the wave-like mana of Pyangyeol, but the crimson mana of the Dzhugashvili—stained with pure killing intent.

"..."

Vikoff stared blankly at the red mana swirling in the air.

How?

Even if Cheon Yeomyeong were some kind of Dzhugashvili heir, this shouldn’t be possible.

To wield this technique, one had to fill themselves to the brim with killing intent, then undergo a complex process to suppress it.

Yet no matter how much he denied it, the truth unfolded before his eyes.

The endless stream of killing intent and mana—was suddenly cut in half.

"...Was I the one who miscalculated?"

Wiping the blood tears from his eyes, Vikoff murmured,

"Who... are you?"

Yeomyeong, his golden eyes cold and piercing, met Vikoff’s gaze.

"Cheon Yeomyeong."

"..."

"And the guy who’s about to beat the hell out of you."

****

Neti was struggling to hold the steel control room doors shut with telekinesis.

She had originally intended to slam them closed, but her strength only allowed her to keep them from opening fully.

Even then, if the Saint hadn’t blessed her, she wouldn’t have lasted even a minute.

But even that blessing was running out.

—"Ura! Ura!!"

—"Tch, tch! Push! Push!"

—"Fire! Shoot them!"

Beyond the steel doors, the shouts of Rat Beastmen and the crack of gunfire echoed.

Neti glanced toward the entrance, where her sister and the Saint were holding their position.

The two of them worked in perfect synchronization, firing and reloading in unison.

Most of the guns and ammunition came from the enormous bag the Saint carried, though Neti had no idea why a Saint was carrying such weapons.

No—more importantly, where the hell did she even learn to shoot like that?

Sure, her sister was forced to learn under the government, but what excuse did a Saint have for being this good at combat?

Before she could finish that thought—

BOOM!

A deafening explosion ripped through the control room.

Finally.

‘Brother-in-law...’

Neti turned her head—just in time to see something flying through the air.

WHAM!

The steel doors shuddered as a blood-soaked body slammed against them.

The gunfire ceased.

For a brief moment, silence reigned.

The first to break the silence was a Rat Beastman wearing a people’s uniform.

—"Tch, tch! First Secretary! The Secretary is down! Help him! Save him!"

At his cry, the Rat Beastmen’s eyes turned red.

Throwing aside their guns, they rushed toward Vikoff.

THUD THUD THUD!

Even as the Saint fired into them, they didn’t stop.

No—they ran even harder, desperate to protect their First Secretary.

But before they could reach him—

They all stopped at once.

Because Seti had Vikoff in a chokehold, a gun pressed against his head.

"Stop, all of you! If you move any closer, this old man dies."

Click.

With her finger on the trigger, Seti looked completely ruthless.

"...Damn, that’s my sister alright."

Neti finally released her telekinesis, sighing heavily. Her body throbbed from overexerting her magic.

She turned her gaze toward the center of the control room—where her brother-in-law stood before the central monitor.

'...Huh. That thing actually didn’t get destroyed?'

Now, all he had to do was input the code and take control of the nuclear weapons—then this goddamn battle would finally be over.

Still grinning, Neti approached her sister and the Saint.

As spent bullet casings rolled across the steel floor, Seti asked without looking back,

"Yeomyeong?"

"He’s inputting the code."

Only then did Seti and the Saint let out a breath of relief.

Just as everyone finally thought it was over—

Vikoff, despite having a gun to his head, smiled.

Blood dripped from every hole in his face, so neither ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ Seti nor the Saint noticed his expression.

But Neti did.

Because she remembered that exact kind of bloodstained smile from her family.

"...Why the hell are you smiling?"

Vikoff didn’t answer.

Something felt off.

Neti rewound everything in her mind—from the moment she first met Vikoff, to his conversation with Yeomyeong just moments ago.

And then, suddenly—she realized.

"...Why didn’t you ask Brother-in-law for the launch codes?"

"..."

No answer.

A chill ran down Neti’s spine as she turned—

But before she could move, Vikoff spoke first.

"Imperial Commemoration Day."

"...What?"

"Tomorrow is the Imperial Emperor’s birthday. A day when every noble and mage of the Empire gathers in the capital."

"..."

"Firing the missiles tomorrow would have been ideal. But... the meddlesome interlopers in my way were stronger than I anticipated."

What the hell is he talking about?

Sensing something wrong, Seti jammed the gun harder against his throat.

"Spit it out if you don’t wanna die."

"Cough... To launch all the nuclear warheads in this armory, yes, you’d need the launch codes. But just one?"

"..."

"The preparatory missile—the one used to check for proper launch functionality—only requires a temporary Party-issued code."

The Saint held her breath in shock.

But Neti snorted.

"Ha! What kind of lunatic would put a nuclear warhead on a test missile?"

Vikoff smirked through bloody teeth.

"Do you really think... that was hard to do?"

"Even so, it won’t work. Brother-in-law outranks you. His launch codes override yours."

"Kuh... Khuhuhu..."

Just as Neti finished speaking—Vikoff trembled, as if struggling to hold back laughter.

"Outrank me? Little girl... do you think I’m some cartoon villain? Do you really think, after decades of preparation, I would stall for time like this... without reason?"

"..."

"I already input the launch command... thirty-five minutes ago."