The slain gravekeeper collapsed, its frail body falling into the mud with a thick splat. Michael slowly dropped his arms, drenched in vile blood and rotten meat, and paused for a moment.
It wasn't the first abomination he had killed, neither one that looked like a human, but... he still felt sick to his stomach. Killing the wolves back in the blizzard, he felt strangely empty about what had transpired. He wasn't really fazed by taking their life, be it evil or not.
Did the pain wash away his sense, morals, values, and principles? Even though Michael despised Nightmare Creatures as much as the next person, they were the embodiment of all that was corrupt, after all. But still, he never thought about ever killing one, or how he would feel.
How should he feel? Should he be prideful? Should he revel in the feeling of eradicating evil? Should he experience cold rationality, indifferent to the feelings and purely focused on the duty all Awakened bear?
Michael never expected to feel... nothing. Was it merely the agony that blinded his mind in those moments, or something part of him?
He didn't know, because the suffering wouldn't end.
The twitching gravekeeper standing before his feet, its head turned into a foul pile of meat and bone oozing with rot, how was he supposed to feel killing it?
'No, it's a damned monster. Nothing is different.'
His mother interjected his thoughts.
"But he wasn't always one, right?"
Was it really possible for a human to turn into a monster?
Would Michael turn into a monster?
How would someone feel when they killed him?
Michael had so many thoughts, ones that were close to him, his humanity... but he couldn't focus on them. His mind was already strained from the pain and exhaustion, and he had more important things to prioritize right now.
Will he get a moment to truly consider and think through his thoughts? He hoped so.
Michael turned his body and rushed to the stunned beast he threw his dagger at previously. He grabbed the weapon lodged in the creature's face and mutilated it, twisting and mincing. At the end of the day, it still was an Awakened Monster, so it took longer than he liked.
[You have slain an Awakened Monster: Wretched Gravekeeper.]
He ripped the dagger from the abomination, a trail of blood and mucus dripping from the blade like saliva, and took a moment to analyze his surroundings.
Seven gravekeepers scattered across the clear opening of bloodied mud. There was one group of two close to him with three swiftly close behind. The final two stood near the alleys, faraway from the conflict but still stumbling with rapacious craving.
'Seven.'
Michael sprinted to the nearest abomination, lifting their scythe high above their head for a diagonal strike, as if it was reaping a harvest... whatever that meant. He sidestepped the descending blade of death but couldn't completely escape it, the rusted metal scraping against his steel mantle.
The monster was completely open for a strike...
...But Michael didn't take the chance.
He rubbed his gauntlets across the scythe's handle, commanding his blood to flow and converge on the wood. As crimson glided up the beast's feeble arms carrying surprising strength, Michael passed and went for the second monster closely behind.
Michael attempted to grab the scythe, but the abomination intelligently pulled it away. As if he was planning for it, Michael messily collapsed and sliced the sickly leg covered in infected rags. The creature staggered and fell, not even able to retaliate before feeling serrated bone slide across its neck.
[You have slain an Awakened Monster: Wretched Gravekeeper.]
'Six.'
Michael stumbled onto his feet and grabbed onto the gravekeeper squirming from having its insides toyed, puncturing its skull with several unsuccessful stabs.
[You have slain an Awakened Monster: Wretched Gravekeeper.]
'Five'
It seemed that no matter how hard Michael tried, his actions just wouldn't always turn out like his imagination. His weapon control was terribly awful and quite honestly, appalling. Michael wanted to stab the abomination's skull once, quick and clean, but he couldn't even properly pierce something that was staying still without multiple attempts.
Sometimes he would pull off something quite well, only to mess up shortly after as if his whole survival was just luck. Was he getting arrogant and cocky that fast? Or was his groove getting interrupted?
'The groove? What the hell am I thinking...'
Wait... maybe that train of thought had something to it. Michael sorely needed to improve his skill in fighting, quick. He had no doubt he would be facing danger much, much harder than this in the future. And even if it stayed the same, he couldn't.
Michael had no clue how to fight. He had never even fought before, always using his speed or mouth back in the outskirts. Nightmare Creatures weren't exactly going to listen to him, and if they could, they would probably only grow more fierce.
All his knowledge came from watching others fight, either being on the wrong side of those punches or observing his brother destroy a sandbag.
Michael smiled faintly, remembering some classic childhood trauma.
'Sometimes I would be the sandbag. Ahh... good times.'
How was Michael supposed to fight? How was he supposed to learn? No one was going to teach him, which meant he had to do it himself.
It would be hard, incredibly difficult, painfully torturous. Michael would have to push himself even further to practice, learn how to properly throw punches against sandbags that could easily kill him.
But he knew that would come overtime as he fought, as he suffered and cried... and he knew those lessons will only be useful if they built upon a stable foundation.
That foundation had to focus on two aspects of himself, his skill and his mind.
The basis of his entire future needed to keep him focused and paced. Escaping this hell wasn't a sprint, it was a marathon. He couldn't go all out at every possible moment when danger could end his life any moment.
And even when that threat was plainly in front of him, he needed to focus entirely on that and nothing else. Michael had to learn how to analyze the entire situation with no exceptions and generate solutions on the fly. Michael needed to be able to plan ahead and improvise in a way where even if everything went to hell, he always had a contingency in place.
Analyzing the enemy - finding their weaknesses and flaws - was crucial, perhaps the most important aspect. If he discerned the enemy was resistant to most of his attacks and abilities, then he had to figure something else out.
The second aspect was his technique and skills.
It would be impossible to survive without skill in even the most basic of moves. Michael had to figure out the basic principles of combat, and evolve them to better accommodate his abilities and available methods.
And in the long term, when he finally learns the fundamentals and acquires the necessary mindset, he had to develop his own style.
A style perfectly suiting him, a style that can seamlessly be used in any situation, against any enemy. There were no set rules in the Dream Realm, Michael had to be prepared for absolutely anything, especially in this hell. He had to adapt, evolve with his environment, and that applied to both his style and mindset. And as Michael refined this style, he had to constantly develop everything else simultaneously, incorporating anything and everything into one.
All of this, Michael had to do himself with no experience or assurances of his safety, and the best way he could think of to smooth this difficult obstacle was to begin with a foundation concerning both his body and mind.
But what could that foundation be? What could he change about himself or do?
Michael remained still and glared at the three nearing monsters, gasping shallow breaths and preparing to move his tired muscles. His lungs burned, his bones ached, his eyes were heavy, but what else was new.
'What am I missing?'
Just what could become the foundation to help him concentrate, pace himself and improve his skills?
'Ah...'
Two abominations lunged together from either side, one planning to pierce his back and the other his chest.
'I understand it now...'
The situation before him was simply too nefarious to escape unscathed. He was forced to choose, decide which was worth the pain. Michael had to analyze the risks and benefits, which one would give him the upper hand to slay the monsters and win.
And so Michael stood didn't move with a grimace, anticipating the paralyzing agony that was to come.
Rusted, stained blades pierced his chest and back. The scythes failed to puncture his organs, thanks to the mantle's masterful design and resilience, but still dealt serious damage. And then, Michael looked down at his chest, blood spilling from the wound and painting the mud in gruesome crimson, but he didn't make a sound.
He just whistled an ear-wrenching, strident tune.
'I just need a groove.'