Chương 26: Breaking

I didn't need a second invitation to start contributing to the chaos. While Dimitri was busy being the world's most enthusiastic human anvil, I took off into a sprint, my boots skidding over the churned up dirt and moss. I leveled the Training Prototype 7, squinting through the heat haze radiating off the monster's iron ribs.

"Revolver Style Tier 1: Arcane Discharge," I whispered, mostly to convince myself I was as cool as I looked in my head. The hammer dropped and the gun didn't just fire; it barked with a sapphire fury. A bolt of concentrated mana hissed through the air, trailing blue sparks like a miniature comet before slamming into a patch of dark ore on the creature's flank. The impact sent a spray of glowing dust into the air, and for the first time, the Monarch's movements hitched.

It seemed the "can opener" was officially starting to peel back the lid, and the beast was starting to realize that I wasn't just a noisy insect. Apparently, it didn't appreciate the realization. The Monarch ignored Dimitri's polite invitations for a second and tilted its massive, mountainous bulk toward me. It began to rotate again, gathering a terrifying amount of momentum as it transformed back into a hill sized steamroller.

"Oh, come on! Go back to the guy with the shield!" I yelped, digging my heels into the earth. I pulled a desperate sidestep, diving to the left as the wall of moss and iron thundered past me. While I was mid-lunge, I squeezed the trigger twice. Two basic mana slugs zapped out, catching the beast in its spinning side with a satisfying sizzle.

I was feeling pretty good about my dodge until I realized I was currently standing in the path of the jagged, splintered remains of the windmill that were still trailing behind the Monarch like a tail made of toothpicks. I was braced for the impact, preparing to be turned into a human shish kebab by a stray wooden beam, when a massive, calloused hand clamped onto my shoulder.

"The wind may blow, but the mountain remains firm, my brother Arthur!" Dimitri's voice boomed right in my ear, sounding like a choir of angels with a heavy Russian accent. He didn't just pull me; he hoisted me off the ground with a grin so wholesome it probably could have ended wars. With a surge of pure, unadulterated muscle, he launched me through the air like a very surprised, very aerodynamic projectile.

As I achieved accidental flight, sailing through the sky with my stomach somewhere in my throat, my instincts took the wheel. I leveled the revolver mid air and squeezed the trigger twice. Two more blue bolts screamed across the distance, and this time, they didn't just splash against the armor. They bit deep. I heard the distinct, sickening sound of magic meeting flesh as the projectiles finally punched through the weakened iron plating.

The Iron Ribbed Monarch let out a roar that wasn't just loud; it was agonizing. The sound was a jagged, pained bass that vibrated the very air, confirming that the "Lethal Weeb" and the "Russian Wall" had officially drawn first blood. The battlefield fell into a tense, heavy silence for a few fleeting heartbeats, a brief intermission in our struggle against the geological catastrophe.

I stood there, sucking in air that tasted like pulverized stone and ancient moss, while the Monarch loomed like a grumpy mountain range waiting for its coffee to kick in. This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. We were all catching our breath, the kind of momentary truce you only see in high-stakes boss fights or very awkward elevator rides.

"Just a little more," I wheezed, my thumb clicking the hammer of the Training Prototype 7.

"I can feel the stacks building. We're practically one good opening away from turning this guy into a very large pile of scrap metal." The Monarch apparently didn't appreciate my optimism. It hunkered down, its pillar-like legs tensing as a low, ominous vibration began to thrum through the earth. I knew that look. It was winding up for another Seismic Pulse, the kind of ground-shaking tantrum that usually ended with me being launched into the next postal code.

"Iron Vow!" Dimitri bellowed before the beast could finish its tectonic tantrum. My Russian guardian angel erupted in a fierce, crimson aura that was so bright I half-expected it to have its own theme music. The sheer audacity of his shout seemed to short-circuit the Monarch's brain. The shimmering earth-energy dissipated instantly, the beast forced to abandon its big flashy move in favor of stomping at the glowing, tracksuited man who was currently insulting its entire lineage with pure kindness.

Dimitri stood his ground as the Monarch began a series of heavy, uncoordinated leg slams, and I knew this was the window I'd been waiting for. I leveled the revolver, feeling the mana pool in my arm hum with a sapphire intensity that was starting to feel personal.

"Arcane Discharge!" I yelled, letting the magical recoil travel all the way up to my shoulder. The concentrated mana bolt didn't just hit; it punched. Thanks to the armor-shredding stacks I'd been meticulously layering on like a coat of magical paint, the bullet whistled right through the iron-infused carapace. It buried itself deep in the monster's soft tissue with a wet, heavy thud that made the creature's entire mountain-sized frame shudder.

The Monarch threw its head back and let out a pained, ear-splitting shriek, but the victory lap was cut short. A strange, sickly emerald light began to seep out from the moss and grass covering its back, pulsing with a rhythmic, organic glow that looked far too much like a health bar going in the wrong direction.

"You have got to be kidding me," I groaned, watching the jagged wounds on its flank begin to knit themselves back together under the green shimmer.

"It is healing! It's literally using its own lawn to patch itself up!" I saw the green glow and figured it was now or never, so I charged in like a man who had actually thought his plan through. I was ready to deliver the final, sapphire-flavored exclamation point to this whole disaster, but the Monarch had other ideas. One of those pillar-sized legs moved with a speed that absolutely defied the laws of physics for something that heavy.

It caught me mid-sprint with the force of a high-speed freight train made of chitin and spite, sending me sailing through the air like a discarded candy wrapper. I did a very ungraceful somersault across the dirt, tasting silt and regret as I finally came to a stop. I sat up, blinking against a sudden, rhythmic throbbing in my skull that felt like a tiny blacksmith was trying to work his way out of my forehead.

I reached up to touch the source of the agony, and when I pulled my hand away, my palm was slick with something dark and warm.

"Oh, look at that," I muttered, my voice sounding distant and tinny in my own ears.

"I'm leaking. That is definitely my internal premium juice on the outside." Before I could process the medical implications of having a hole in my head, a curtain of crimson draped itself over my right eye. My vision went half-red, turning the battlefield into a blurry, high-stakes horror movie. My heart decided it wanted to win a sprinting gold medal, thumping against my ribs so hard I could hear it over the sound of the wind. I wiped the gore away as best I could and looked toward the center of the clearing.

It wasn't a pretty sight. Dimitri, my lighthouse of Russian positivity, was currently being treated like a piece of laundry in a very violent washing machine. One of the Monarch's massive legs had snagged him, and he was being flailed around with a bone-rattling intensity that would have ended a lesser man. Even while being used as a living flail, I could see him trying to keep his grip on that rotting barrel lid, probably thinking of a quote about how being shaken builds character.

The panic started to recede, replaced by a cold, sharp focus that tasted a lot like adrenaline and iron. I pushed myself off the ground, my boots finding purchase in the muddy grass as I forced my shaky legs to lock into place. I gripped the Training Prototype 7 with both hands, my fingers molding into the weighted grip until the metal felt like an extension of my own arm.

"Alright, you overgrown garden ornament," I hissed, squinting through the red haze in my right eye.

"You had your turn to play with the squishy humans. Now I am going to close your tab." I leveled the barrel right at the glowing green center of the beast's chest, my heartbeat steadying into a rhythmic drum of pure, unadulterated intent.

"Let us bring this saga to a close," I said, and for the first time today, I didn't sound like I was joking.