The Silent Pact of a Wolf Babysitter-Chapter 70: Relax! I Only Cut Off Your Wrist

Ah, don't worry about me, reader!

Plot armor aside, unless it's lethal to my very life, even getting torn in half isn't enough to end me.

Of course, a critical spank from Sarvest or Levi would be troublesome to my continued existence.

Jorō must've thought I was dead, because she turned her full attention to the Phantom Fangs.

Can't blame her there.

Her gaze sharpened, and Phantom Fangs simply stared back—smirking, even. Spite glittered in their eyes.

She tensed, ready to launch—

—but stumbled.

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Her spider legs gave out beneath her, cut cleanly at the joints.

Silvery blood sprayed as she collapsed, her shriek echoing across the scorched and flattened plain.

She glared at me—wide-eyed, stunned—as she realized I was very much alive and well, standing behind her with a bundle of her severed spider legs slung casually over my shoulder.

Her body twitched.

Then, with a sickening crackle, new limbs burst out from the torn stumps—glossy, jointed, and wet with some sticky internal fluid.

Chitin plates snapped into place as each leg extended with jerky, unnatural precision. It was visceral, grotesque—and somehow worse than watching normally flesh regrow.

My own regeneration mechanism was regal; muscles and bones aligning, tissues sewing tight in lightning-fast succession.

No splattering blood. No mess. Just clean restoration. Beautiful.

She seemed to finally realize something crucial: I wasn't just another strong fighter—I was the mastermind here.

And if she wanted uninterrupted access to her precious crab corpse, taking me out was the best shot.

So she lunged.

A deep, guttural snarl tore from her throat—not a war cry, not a curse, just a sound. Primal. Barbaric. And void of meaning.

Which was a bit strange. I was using magic conversion. So even a sigh should've told me some of her intent.

But there was nothing.

Claws and scythes came at me in a whirlwind, each one aimed with lethal precision. She leapt high, her spider legs slicing down in an arc of glinting silver.

The air itself shrieked as she cut through it.

And given how easily she'd pierced my fine-looking skull earlier, I don't think it'd be a good idea to keep getting in harm's way like that.

So I evaded.

Because her strikes shredded my defense which, as we know, can withstand even Falling Star.

Not to mention, my body was heavy...

As if a heap of chains had dropped on me the moment she initiated combat.

My movement felt slowed, dragged down by invisible anchors. It took everything in me to stay ahead—only managing because I was, inherently, many times faster than her.

Still...

If it had been the Phantom Fangs in my place? They'd be dead. Seven times over.

And her PV? It wasn't even that much higher than theirs.

I suppose this is what Platform was referring to—having more combat force then your PV suggested.

Our battle carved itself into the earth like calligraphy of chaos—slashes and flares of fire etching cursive into the cursed, ashen field.

The ground trembled beneath our feet, cracked and flattened as our motions scarred its surface anew.

Her attacks grazed me more than once, drawing blood.

Mine? Never landed.

Because she wasn't instantaneously fast, I hadn't been cut a million times already.

It wasn't her speed.

It wasn't her strength.

This was too unnatural.

(Platform, do you think there's something else at play here?)

{Yes, Master. She's under the blessings of an enchantment.}

(You know...I'll really love it if you were to give me heads up, on big deals like that.)

But enchantment?

This deranged spider actually enchanted herself?

{It's most likely from an object. Perhaps something she picked up while looting treasures.}

(I've told you to stop reading my mind, though... But I can't find any item on her right now.)

{Possibly, it's hidden inside that silk sack. I'm still searching for it.}

I suppose I'm holding the fort till Platform's done with her little treasure hunt.

While she worked her magic, I was stuck in full evasive mode.

My defenses? Nigh meaningless. Since the enchantment made Jorō capable of bypassing them easily.

Then, finally—

{Detected: The source of the blessing truly is inside the sack.}

The nerve! To fight me and give me such a hard time, all the while holding a damn sack.

I'm being looked down on by a cockroach.

Platform added:

{I'll need time to disable the enchantment momentarily. When I do, you'll have a short window—either eradicate her, or take the sack.}

Operation accepted!

{Prepared: I'll halt the blessing for 0.3 seconds—in five seconds.}

That's more than enough.

Let's go.

Dark, crackling energy coiled up my left arm.

And then—

That Black Lightning Sword I devoured back in Chapter 13(?)—I don't remember—Reformed right in my palm.

Since we became one, I can summon as many as I like.

Kukuku.

They really should rename this story to "The Devouring Dark Fenrir Just Wants a Peaceful Life."

Five seconds ticked past. The blessing halted—

And I didn't budge. Just tilted my wrist.

0.3 seconds. Gone.

I met her mid-air, slamming my knee right into her disgustingly pretty face. Her features bizarrely collapsed inward, one eye nearly bouncing out like a broken doll's.

She hit the ground hard. Immediately regenerated, fixing her makeup. Then looked—

Her left hand was missing. And so was her lovely little sack.

I was holding it.

Oh? You're wondering what the wonder Fenrir did?

Let me enlighten you.

I used God Wolf Eye—with perception sharp enough to let me smoothly sever the link between her wrist and the sack it held.

So yes, I did move.

But it was such a seamless flash of speed, it most likely looked as if I hadn't budged.

A 0.001 second maneuver—critically calculated, riddled with flaws, but executed just right because she wasn't so unnaturally fast to counter.

It would've been a bloody tragedy if I tried this on the man with [Existence Jump] though.

Jorō stared at my hand in exaggerated shock.

Then, her expression darkened—burning with fury and something uglier: resentment.

Violet energy pulsed from her body, throbbing like a war drum as her hand redeveloped.

She gripped her head with one trembling hand, eyes wild, teetering on the edge of madness. And then—she growled. Loud and guttural.

Whoa, relax.

I just cut off your wrist and stole your sack—not wiped out your whole village and murdered your parents.

What's with that look?

...Though maybe the part where I started rummaging through her things in the sack didn't help?