Re:Zero: No Job, No Magic, Just a Stupid Romance System

Alan's lazy voice floated into the camp on the night wind, drifting into the ears of the thieves.

Everyone was stunned.

The Leopard narrowed his eyes, focusing on Alan's face. In just a single breath, a flash of joy appeared in his expression.

The target is really here? The intel was right!

Grey Eagle reacted even faster and roared,

"Alan!! He's Alan! Lord Night Lion's information was correct—he walked right into our trap! Kill him! Lord Night Lion said he won't take a single coin of the one thousand gold bounty—it'll all be split among us!"

As soon as the words fell, the thirty-plus thieves standing at the edge of the camp paused. The air froze for a heartbeat.

Then—

Shing!

The sharp sound of dozens of blades being drawn tore through the silence. Swordlight flashed wildly under the torchlight.

"Kill him!!!"

At Grey Eagle's command, the thieves rushed toward Alan with vicious, feral expressions.

The chaotic stampede of over thirty people thundered through the clearing, stirring clouds of dust into the night.

Alan narrowed his eyes as he observed the scene. He stepped forward from the intersection of light and shadow—

Boom!

The mud beneath his feet exploded outward as his figure shot forth!

One man and over thirty adversaries charged toward each other.

Excited shouts rang out from the leading thieves.

"One thousand gold coins! Hahaha, I can finally go back to Rigate and enjoy myself! Kill!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, the speaker—a mid-tier swordsman of the Sword God Style—rushed forward with incredible speed.

Alan glanced sidelong at him and immediately saw through his sword swing. Twisting to the side, he dodged the slash and stepped around the man to his flank, assuming an awkward diagonal waist posture that looked powerless.

The two locked eyes for a heartbeat.

Alan pushed off with his toes.

The blade was drawn.

He soared into the air, swung his arms, and slashed upward with force.

"Northern God Style—Round Sky Slash!"

The swordlight carved beautiful arcs under the orange torchlight. The fighting spirit concentrated at the blade's tip, driving a burst of wind pressure forward.

The thief reacted quickly, managing to raise his blade to block.

Clang!

The two blades collided with a jarring crash.

But the next instant, to the thief's horror, his weapon shattered into pieces—and Alan's blade didn't slow for even a moment. It sliced cleanly through his waist.

The slash—

Pierced the liver,

Severed the ribs,

Sliced through the lungs,

Shattered the spine,

Penetrated the heart,

Broke through the scapula,

Tore through the flesh above the collarbone,

Split the cheek—

And shattered the teeth, which burst from the ear with the exit force.

The blade cleaved through the man's body in the blink of an eye.

Alan, now on one foot, stepped past the collapsing corpse.

The man behind him exploded into gore in the cold night wind.

Flesh was shredded by the air pressure, and formless viscera and pale bone fragments clung to Alan's shoulders as he passed.

The other bandits froze, staring in horror at the blood-drenched butcher standing before them—less a man, more a figure out of a nightmare.

But this slaughterhouse didn't process beasts or livestock. It processed people.

The butcher casually brushed the chunks of meat from his shoulder.

"Competitions restrict people's movements. You can't fully unleash the destructive power of practical Northern God Swordsmanship unless it's a true fight to the death. Now this… this gets the blood pumping."

As he spoke, he dragged the blade along the ground, leaving a long streak of blood. A faint green light flickered across his arm for half a second.

The regenerative magic pattern healed the bodily strain from using the Northern God Style's full-strength techniques.

Alan turned to the frozen bandits and grinned.

"What's wrong? Weren't you all charging?"

In the distance, the Leopard's expression darkened.

So he's not just a superior-level practitioner of the Water God Style—he's mastered the practical Northern God Style too...

Alan looked past the heads of the bandits and locked eyes with the Leopard—who stood shrouded in murderous intent. Then he looked at the silent mob that had encircled him but hadn't moved.

"Scared?"

The camp fell silent. Thieves who had always relied on numbers and sneak attacks hesitated—no one dared step forward. Everyone tried to retreat and let someone else take the lead.

And so, as if rehearsed, they all took a step back—perfectly in sync.

Alan laughed. He crouched down and rested the slightly curled blade on his right shoulder in a relaxed but hard-to-read posture.

"Just a moment ago, you were all yelling and bloodthirsty. What now? Afraid? If you are, kneel and kowtow. I'll give you a quick death."

From behind the crowd, the Leopard studied Alan with narrowed eyes. Grey Eagle, ever the agitator, opened his mouth to stir up the others to attack this arrogant swordsman.

But—

Before he could speak, someone exploded with rage at Alan's mockery.

"You bastard! So arrogant!"

A bearded thief's eyes flashed coldly. As he shouted, the ground beneath him burst outward, and he vanished from sight.

Silent Sword!

Advanced Sword God Style technique!

In just a blink, his figure reappeared in front of Alan, crashing into him at incredible speed!

The forest wind detonated from the impact, sending ripples of force outward in all directions.

The air split with the sound of torn flesh.

The two paused mid-air—locked for a fraction of a second.

Then—

The bearded thief's body fell apart like a crumbling tower of blocks.

Smoothly segmented pieces fell straight down, almost weightless.

Blood drenched Alan from head to toe, but his posture remained calm—blade still resting on his shoulder.

The clearing was silent.

From the distance, Leopard bit down the words forming in his throat. According to the intel, this was the starting stance of Allen Boreas Greyrat's self-created secret technique.

But the reports had said he could only use it defensively.

Yet now he'd used it offensively—and devastatingly.

Leopard turned toward the grim-faced Grey Eagle.

The intel was wrong.

But then… those body parts—falling vertically, without inertia—were perfectly consistent with the secret technique of the Water God Style.

What the hell is going on...?

At that moment, Alan finally spoke, commenting in a calm, casual tone:

"The Silent Sword he barely grasped… His release of fighting spirit was too erratic, focused too much on destruction and not enough on speed. Too easy to read."

He glanced down at the severed head by his feet.

"He didn't die unfairly."