THE VILLAIN'S POV Chapter 740: Against the Joker (2)

Something held Gehrman back from launching his assault.

That factor boiled down to something straightforward... a fleeting exchange he'd once had with a particular figure.

Far in the ancient times... amid the age of strife, back when Nameless yet drew breath.

Gehrman had once been seated beside an odd character... a bizarre fellow whose form consisted entirely of dark steel, like he was a weapon come to life.

A singular container, among Nameless’s wildest inventions... the toughest one ever made.

His appearance was crude and rough-hewn, but the soul dwelling within was insane... completely deranged.

During one encounter, the two of them swapped tales on a fascinating topic...

How they had met their ends.

It proved a captivating chat, drawing in the top figure of the Shadow Sect... Gehrman,

alongside the second-in-command, the Martial Arts Master, Alexander Rybak.

“You’re incredible, Gehrman,” Alexander remarked, slouching against the surface of the table where they sat.

“Your last foe turned out to be the Demon King himself... none other.”

The location shared zero likeness with Earth whatsoever.

Its heavens stretched in a profound scarlet hue.

Alexander Rybak wobbled a bit while gulping down an odd drink, grumbling every sip that it no longer thrilled him like it did in his former flesh... which had long since perished.

“Oh... you want to know how I met my demise?” Alexander asked after another swig.

“It’s not an exciting tale. Nor a glorious finale, for that matter.

My rival wasn’t the Demon King, nor any of the Ten Seats... not even the Dukes of Hell.”

“Pathetic, isn’t it?”

Alexander showed no delight in recounting it—not one bit.

“I gave my life shielding the homeland of my birth from a demonic onslaught,” he went on.

“I held the line strong... I’m no feeble fighter, as you’re aware. Things progressed smoothly... until he showed up.”

Alexander’s brow furrowed, his face growing somber.

“He was a demon in a mask. I’d never encountered tales of him. I knew zilch about the guy.

He matched me blow for blow, forcing me to unleash my full arsenal just to edge ahead.”

“Yet it wrapped up the instant he unleashed his power.”

“It was accursed... a dark mark on my legacy.”

Alexander Rybak despised dwelling on it.

That clash stood as the deepest scar on his existence... since he’d fallen without grasping the method.

Following his demise, Alexander blanked out on all that transpired from the second his foe triggered that force.

Put differently...

Alexander Rybak, the mighty fighter who could crush multiple of the Seven Great Powers,

had perished without ever comprehending the manner of his slaying.

And that disgrace trailed him eternally.

“He seems harmless... but he’s utterly perilous,” Alexander cautioned.

“He dons a grinning mask and dark garb. His presence feels ordinary at most—but a beast hides beneath that facade.”

“I’ve never heard you praise anyone like this before,” Gehrman responded, taken aback.

Alexander’s voice grew stern.

“Gehrman... stay wary if you cross paths with him.

My gut screams that this demon conceals something nightmarishly awful.”

Those remarks echoed in Gehrman’s mind for ages.

In time, the massive conflict ignited—and concluded—without that demon surfacing once more.

So completely, indeed, that Gehrman ultimately erased him from memory.

Yet now...

In the current moment, Gehrman stayed ever vigilant.

Regardless of how intently he gazed at Amon, memories of Alexander Rybak’s alert flooded back unbidden.

Amon stayed quiet, scrutinizing Gehrman with equal intensity as Gehrman did him.

The quiet didn’t endure.

“Did a companion of yours mention me?”

Gehrman’s gaze sharpened right away at those words... validating Amon’s hunch.

“That clarifies your over-the-top wariness,” Amon noted evenly.

“A shame... it would’ve been splendid if you’d charged in blindly so we could wrap this up fast.”

Without fanfare, Amon lifted his hands and started applauding... out of nowhere.

“You chose wisely, Saint. I am Amon... Host of Nightmares, and an Eleventh-Rank High Demon.”

“All my previous opponents dismissed me the second they heard my level.”

“They all fell to me... utterly helpless.”

“Tell me, Saint...”

Abruptly, Gehrman’s frame trembled fiercely as Amon’s whisper slithered near his ear.

“...will you prove the outlier?”

Before awareness dawned...

Amon had already positioned himself at his rear.

Gehrman reacted in a flash, pulling back at full throttle.

“...!”

Right then, Gehrman’s calm shattered... and he forfeited all control.

‘How did he get behind me?!!’

Gehrman hadn’t caught sight of him. Hadn’t sensed a thing.

Amon had seized the ideal chance for a killing strike—yet willfully held back.

This spelled catastrophe.

“From the beginning of existence, I’ve declined to climb higher in ranking,” Amon stated aloofly while Gehrman withdrew, rattled.

“I opted to linger at Rank Eleven—serving as the barrier to the elite Ten High Demons.”

“Thus, no feeble demon could infiltrate the higher tiers.

Any who sought to advance had to overcome me first.”

“That kept the Top Ten as a genuine benchmark of strength... untainted by the average.”

“However, this day...”

“The Tenth lies slain. The Fourth has tumbled.”

“Which leaves me questioning... did any of it hold meaning?”

“Our sire—the Demon King—split us, his offspring, into dual duties.”

“My older sibling handled the Great Ones and that bizarre land emerging from thin air—since they pose the supreme danger.”

“Meanwhile, I got assigned to tackle the leftover Shadow Sect and Nameless... the lesser focus.”

“I figured Wesker could manage it.”

“Yet he let me down.”

Amon shared these details with Gehrman like they meant nothing.

Still, each phrase deepened the shadow on Gehrman’s face... for he’d grasped a vital truth.

“You mean... the sibling you spoke of is—”

“I am Amon,” he declared steadily.

“The younger kin of the Red Moon, Crimson—the entity you dub the Prime High-Ranking Demon.”

Amon unveiled his authentic self.

The predicament soured in a heartbeat.

Kin to a fiend... would inevitably be a fiend as well.

“Pardon me, Saint,” Amon uttered icily.

“I’m not in high spirits today... so let’s conclude this swiftly.”

The instant his words ceased...

Amon disappeared once more, materializing at Gehrman’s back with that same horrifying velocity.