Chương 25: Rolling Hill

According to the System, my handy little prototype has a specialty for shredding armor, meaning if I keep peppering this walking tectonic plate with sapphire slugs, I can eventually crack that shell like a walnut at a Christmas party. The problem with that plan was the math of survival. Given the way the Monarch was currently glaring at me with its wet, twitching eye-stalks, I had the distinct feeling I was going to be a human-shaped smear on the grass long before I made a dent in its hardware.

I didn't even have time to negotiate a surrender before the beast decided to demonstrate why it was the king of the hill. It slammed its pillar-like legs into the dirt with a synchronized thud that felt like a localized earthquake. [Warning: Monarch has activated Seismic Pulse. Environmental stability compromised.] The ground beneath me didn't just shake; it rippled like a disturbed pond.

A massive wave of dirt and kinetic energy tore through the field, and even a man as sturdy as Dimitri wasn't immune to the laws of physics. I watched in horror as Big Sunshine was hoisted off his feet, sent tumbling backward like a very muscular, very confused tumbleweed. I fared significantly worse. I wasn't just knocked back; I was launched. I achieved a brief, terrified moment of flight before gravity remembered I existed and slammed me into the earth.

I rolled across the silt, my vision swimming with cartoonish stars as every joint in my body screamed a different profanity in unison.

"My ribs! I'm pretty sure my ribs are now just a collection of very sharp puzzle pieces!" I wheezed, trying to blink the grit out of my eyes. I tried to scramble to my feet, but the shadow falling over me was a bit of a spoiler for what was coming next. The Monarch had shifted its massive bulk, tilting that iron-ribbed ridge toward me as it began a slow, terrifying rotation. It was using Mountain Tumble.

The beast was turning into a hill-sized steamroller, and I was the very flat pavement at the end of its to-do list. As it gained momentum, the poor windmill perched on its back finally gave up the ghost. I watched the wooden sails shatter and the structure splinter into a thousand toothpicks, sacrificed to the gods of momentum.

"The hat! You've ruined your jaunty little hat!" I yelled, though it was mostly a high-pitched frantic squeal. Adrenaline, the only friend I had left, kicked my survival instincts into overdrive. I didn't just stand up; I teleported into a desperate, lurching sprint. I dove sideways, my boots skidding on the mud and cracked stone created by the pulse, as the massive wall of dark ore and moss thundered past the spot where I had been laying just a second prior.

The wind from its passage nearly knocked me over again, and the ground groaned under the weight of the beast's roll. I tumbled into a patch of tall grass, gasping for air and checking to make sure I still had all my limbs attached. I had survived, mostly by the grace of being too small and too panicked to hit easily, but the mountain was just getting warmed up. I looked up from the dirt just in time to see a wall of Russian muscle and tracksuits plant itself firmly between me and certain death.

Dimitri had recovered from his tectonic flight and was already back in the game, bracing his boots against the churned earth. He raised that notched slab of iron and his barrel lid, staring down the Iron-Ribbed Monarch with a look of pure, unadulterated affection. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

The beast, meanwhile, had finished its first lap as a hill-sized bowling ball and was currently digging its massive chitinous pillars into the ground, clearly gearing up for a second attempt at turning me into a decorative rug. I needed to know if my pea-shooter actually had a prayer of hurting this thing. I looked at the floating blue interface, my eyes frantic as I searched for a loophole.

"Hey, System! Since I'm currently one bad roll away from meeting my ancestors, could you explain the math behind this armor-shredding gimmick? I need to know if I'm actually making a dent or just giving this thing a blue-flavored massage." [Calculation Parameter: Revolver Skirmish Quirk. For every successful projectile impact registered on a consistent target, you effectively erode 5 percent of the entity's defensive layers. This degradation caps at a total of 90 percent. As your projectiles carry both physical and arcane properties, you are simultaneously stripping away physical carapace and magical insulation. Note: This cumulative effect will immediately dissipate if you engage a secondary target with this weapon.] I blinked, my brain doing a quick bit of terrified arithmetic.

"Okay, so I just have to keep shooting the same spot and eventually, it becomes as soft as butter. Got it. But what about the damage stacks? Give me the good news, lady." [Supplemental Data: Stacking Offensive Calibration. Each consecutive successful hit delivered via the Revolver increases the base damage against the current target by 1 percent. There is no predetermined limit to this escalation. This specific damage bonus remains tethered to the target for a duration of one hour even if the user shifts focus. However, this bonus is non-transferable and must be re-established for each individual adversary.] The gears in my head finally stopped grinding and clicked into place with a satisfying, albeit terrifying, metallic thud. So, the damage multiplier only hits the reset button when I start picking on a new victim, but it sticks to the current mountain-sized target like a clingy ex for a full hour. This was spectacular news.

It meant that as long as I didn't get bored or dead, I would eventually be hitting this thing with the force of a falling moon. The longer this literal tectonic shift of a battle dragged on, the harder I would be punching through that iron-plated exterior. I wiped a smear of mud from my cheek and checked the weight of the Training Prototype 7 in my palm. It was time to talk strategy before the rolling hill decided to take another lap.

"Listen, Big Sunshine, we have a bit of a math problem," I shouted over the sound of the Monarch's heavy, rhythmic breathing.

"This walking landmass has some seriously annoying magic resistance, but my revolver is basically a magical can opener. I can shred that armor into confetti and ramp up my damage until it actually feels something, but I need time. I have to keep the hits coming to build up the stacks." Dimitri didn't even blink. He adjusted his grip on that legendary rotting barrel lid, his face shining with a level of pure, unadulterated heroism that made me feel slightly inadequate.

He looked like a man who had just been asked to save the world and was delighted that it was finally his turn.

"So the melody of your justice requires a steady beat to reach its crescendo, my brother Arthur!" Dimitri boomed, his thick Russian accent turning the tactical explanation into a glorious prophecy.

"You wish for me to stand as the wall that does not crumble, protecting the flame of our hope until the darkness is finally pierced? Then our path is as clear as the morning dew! I shall be the mountain that does not move so that you may be the lightning that does not miss! We have a magnificent plan!" Without waiting for a countdown, Dimitri launched himself forward. He didn't just run; he charged with the unstoppable momentum of a freight train fueled by pure kindness and a questionable tracksuit.

He ate up the distance between us and the behemoth, his boots kicking up clouds of silt as he closed the gap.

"Iron Vow!" Dimitri bellowed, his voice echoing across the meadow with the authority of a man who genuinely believed that being a human punching bag was his sacred destiny. Suddenly, a fierce, crimson light pulsed from his massive frame, acting like a giant, magical middle finger directed right at the Monarch's face. The effect was instantaneous and incredibly effective.

The Iron-Ribbed Monarch, which had been very much focused on turning me into a smudge, snapped its eye-stalks toward Dimitri with a collective click of pure, unadulterated hatred. The beast forgot I even existed. It reared up, its pillar-like legs casting long, terrifying shadows over my companion before it began to rain down a series of devastating, earth-shaking stomps. Each chitinous leg slammed down with enough force to crater the ground, but Dimitri didn't flinch.

He met every tectonic blow with his notched iron slab and that glorious, rotting piece of wood, the sound of impact ringing out like a rhythmic construction site as he held the line. ••••• For those who are curious, here's Dimitri's skill. Name: Iron Vow Tier: 1 Type: Active Class: Guardian Cost: 1 Mana Limit Break: 0/1 Cooldown: 20 seconds Description: The Guardian lets out a provocative roar, forcing nearby enemies to focus their attacks on them for a short duration.

While the taunt is active, the Guardian's resolve hardens, granting a bonus of 20% Physical Defense.