Surviving the Game as a Barbarian Chapter 781: Month 13 (8)
Previously on Surviving the Game as a Barbarian...
Explosive breaths escaping. Gaze brimming with intense resolve and unyielding grit. Even fingers and arms quivering from overwhelming thrill. Barbarian fighters possessed a profound fixation on possessions. Naturally so, as I'd intentionally fueled that avarice since initiating property ventures in the Sanctuary. Owning a home equaled being a top-tier fighter. That equation had embedded itself firmly in every fighter's thoughts, and that belief grew even more solid now.
Upon reflection, it all aligned logically. Even after departing the Sanctuary, most barbarians preferred settling nearest to it, often in District 7. Yet Districts 7 and 8 got utterly demolished, leaving Commelby as the nearest option, but its costs soared too high for fighters. District 9 stood as the subsequent closest spot. It avoided the conflict and remained in much superior condition compared to inflation-ravaged Commelby, yet...
“Having a home... means no more outdoor sleeping!”
“District 9’s rents have jumped fivefold from normal...!”
“Right! Plus, it’s distant from the Sanctuary, so I lack companions there...!”
By now, nearly all barbarians had reverted to Sanctuary living, bunking collectively under the pretense of group solidarity. And that made sense entirely. The conflict sparked a huge influx of displaced people, crippling the city with a severe lack of housing. With accommodations costing a fortune and the dungeon locked, warriors found no income sources. Covering rent proved utterly unfeasible.
‘At least labor jobs kept us ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) alive...’
Warriors now ventured citywide for grueling manual work, scraping by for daily survival. And amid this chaos, dangling a “house” as reward?
“I—I’ll take the first shot—!!”
“No way! Mine first!! I’m going in!!”
Warriors erupted in fervor, news racing until every Sanctuary barbarian knew.
‘If I refuse here...’
My backing would plummet. Popularity mattered little to me personally. Yet I couldn’t bear witnessing our barbarian fighters slumping through the celebration.
Thus...
“Ainard.”
“N-No! This must proceed! B-Besides, Bjorn! Can’t you devote one day to us?! You’re our leader—!”
“Settle down. I’m not refusing.”
“...What? For real?”
“Yes. Let’s shift locations. Too tight here.”
“Great! To the Land of Proof then!”
Accordingly, we proceeded to the Land of Proof alongside all warriors.
‘Long time since last visit...’
The Land of Proof formed a vast excavation amid the woods, reserved for sacred warrior combats. I’d visited upon claiming the leader’s role.
“Attack me...!!”
Discarding arms and balling fists, warriors’ faces shifted. Though vying for a home prize, this appeared as blatant disregard toward them. So they perceived.
“Chieftain or not, unarmed is tough!”
“Quiet and charge!”
“Behell—RAAAAAAAHH!!!”
Challenge combats commenced. Naturally, shedding weapons didn’t invite feeble foes.
“Challenger: Velikta, Ruman’s offspring!!”
“Dragon Slayer Velikta!!”
“WOOOOOOOO!!”
Immediately, prominent tribal figures advanced, met with my full effort. Inevitably...
‘Why’s drawing blood so damn difficult...? ’
Matches extended due to mutual resilience, yet against any opponent, I avoided wounds. Barbarians favored brute force harm. Given shield barbarian essence lies in bodily toughness, bleeding me proved near impossible.
“...Defeated. Chieftain proves unmatched might...”
“Solid effort.”
“Ugh... Chieftain’s unbeatable...!!”
“He’s monstrous!!”
With each prominent fighter falling, crowd zeal faded rapidly. Seeing victory impossible, drive evaporated.
‘What now? [Giant Form] unused still...’
Glancing at Ainard, she appeared conflicted, hesitant. Strangely, her coming-of-age rite expression resurfaced—lost en route to the city as “guide,” bearing that identical gaze.
‘Tch. Seems I must assist once more.’
“Break time!”
Halting duels briefly, I approached Ainard. Suggested a mood-reviving notion, delighting her as she proclaimed to warriors.
“Duels conclude...!! Now, we all partake in drinks!!”
“...Drinks?”
“Rules straightforward! All swig simultaneously, last standing claims victory!!”
“Same reward?!!”
“Absolutely!! Outlasting Bjorn earns a custom house!!”
...Hold on, houses for each? I hadn’t consented.
“UOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
“Behell—RAAAAAAAHH!!”
Ainard’s bold announcement dazed me momentarily, but uttered words couldn’t retract.
“This becomes a drinking contest...! A holy imbibing rite!!”
“Drinking contest! Drinking contest!!”
“UOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”
Warriors embraced Ainard’s impromptu title, bellowing enthusiastically.
‘Haa... whatever...’
Unwilling to quench this vigor, I held quiet. After preparations, the holy imbibing rite—potentially birthing a tribal custom—kicked off.
“First round incoming...!!”
At Ainard’s call, thousands in the Land of Proof lifted vessels.
“Down it...!!”
United, they guzzled spirits swiftly. Repeated. And repeated.
Second, third, fourth, fifth...
As cycles progressed, dropouts emerged.
“Ugh... mmrgh...! PFFFFTTT—!!”
“Karubo, Bulrak’s son, spewed! Eliminated!”
“DAMN IIIIIT!!”
Pace accelerated early, most warriors tipsy from festivity indulgences...
‘This way, victory might be mine...’
That notion bolstered me. Should over a thousand persist, tribal finances would collapse. As leader, averting that scenario was imperative.
“Down it...!!”
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen... Increasing intake deepened inebriation.
‘...When’s the last time I felt this intoxicated?’
Honestly, my threshold remained unknown. Never passed out in this form. Since regeneration and toxin endurance surged, intoxication faded rapidly, hindering sustained drunkenness.
“Now, seventy-third round...!!”
Dropouts mounted—retching, collapsing, or rushing aside—hastening the rhythm. Preparation time dwindled.
“Refill! Hundredth round!!”
“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”
...Hundred already?
Surveying, cup-holders dwindled sharply.
‘Roughly a hundred remaining...? ’
Exact count escaped me, but abdomen swelled. Liquid neared throat, bladder protested.
‘Hundred homes... monetary equivalent...’
Mere contemplation sharpened focus. I invoked a power. With stomach stuffed, then—
「The character has activated [Giant Form].」
—enlarge capacity.
Indeed, expanded frame relieved pressure. Bladder gained room too. Yet another threat loomed abruptly.
“Hundred fiftieth round!!”
...I’m perishing.
‘...Thirty survivors?’
What manner of beings? Stomach pockets? Alternate beverages?
Nonetheless, lingering foes showed clear impairment.
“Heeheeheeheehee... hehehee...”
“Driiink... hihihi... hehehe...”
“My houuuse...! Mrrgh...!”
Even crumbling utterly, home craving persisted. Observing their undead visages, I steeled resolve.
‘Nearly there...’
Endurance holds. Familiar trial. Icerock’s ordeal surpassed this.
Indeed... thus...
“Hundred fifty-first round!!”
Gulp.
Amid whirling sight, several toppled simultaneously.
“Hundred fifty-second round!!”
Battle experience taught me.
This marks the pivot.
“Hundred fifty-third round!!”
Mere cycles away.
Endurance crowns the victor.
“Hundred fifty-fourth round!!”
As anticipated, more succumbed. Truth reaffirmed.
“Hundred fifty-fifth round!!”
My agony mirrors theirs amplified.
In ruthless rivalry, survival to the ultimate instant prevails.
“Hundred fifty-sixth round!!”
Victory remains mandatory. Defeat forfeits essentials—
“Hundred fifty-seve—enth—roooound!!”
Oh no, this turns dire... ...How many persist?
“Siiixty—sev—eeenn—!!”
Sounds receding.
Vision tunneled, tunnel-bound.
“Siixtyyyy—sevvv—ennnn!!”
Ah...
“——— ———!”
Sensing limit breached, narrowed gaze caught final fighter. Intended exit at three left, but...
‘...Eh?’
That sole survivor revealed profound anomaly.
‘That individual...’
Human form enduring such volume?
‘He’s... relieving himself mid-drink...? ’
Truly—such entity in existence?
Barbarians draw boundaries too.
Yet he shattered norms, humanity, natural bounds.
I gaped, awestruck. Not repulsed—admiring.
“Ah...”
Astonishing. Unwavering will to triumph, defying all tenets.
Concealed therein—
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh—
Release. Accepting inflow, reciprocating outflow.
“Ah, ahhh...”
Indeed... taiji cycle’s enigma...
“Ahhh... ah...”
That drenched figure embodied nature raw.
‘From inception...’
Nature knows no embarrassment. Unfettered by codes. Nature exists purely. As mountains do.
‘From inception... this contest was unwinnable for me...’
As simple mortal—how defeat nature’s fusion?
Thus, I graciously conceded defeat.
“I... lost...”
Final recollection.
*
Eyes fluttering open revealed nightfall. Body ached, yet hangover proved mild unexpectedly. Gut and mind felt decent. Beyond anticipated.
‘Bathroom first...’
Recalling climactic transcendence, I hastened relief. Yet perhaps overheard?
“Awake at last, it seems.”
“Amelia?”
“Hydrate. Honey-infused water.”
“...Appreciate it. Wait, guarding outside?”
“...Hardly. Merely passing, caught noise, guessed your stir.”
Reassuring. I quaffed Amelia’s offering, inquiring,
“Outage duration?”
“Daylong.”
“Festival concludes today.”
“Regretful? Missing closing?”
“Never. Festival’s end hastens fresh starts. Relieved.”
Amelia’s mild revulsion prompted topic shift. Curiosity burned.
“Incidentally... victor’s identity?”
Infinite flux etched indelibly, face unseen clearly.
“Vekta. Rumor says Kiltau’s third heir.”
“Vekta, Kiltau’s third...”
Name rang bells. Identity...?
“Ah...!”
Recalled. Initial chieftaincy, first rite oversight—he attended. Rigid demeanor, eyes darting. Rookie evident instantly—
“...Pause, wait...”
Frame rigidified. Basilisk toxin parallel. Muscles locked, chills sweat trailed spine.
“Issue? Ill?”
Amelia queried worriedly, yet inescapable horror dawned.
Vekta, Kiltau’s third. Nature-united barbarian, taiji via relief achieved. Urinary mastery etched eternally.
Surely... he’d been...
“...Impossible. Fuhuhu...”
Likely grave error.
‘No modern soul could embody that.’
Impossible, surely?