The clock in his head ticked like a metronome-scar: five minutes. 4:59. Kade felt none of the irony—only a cold weight in his chest. Elian pressed close at his side, a foreign body you had to carry. Ahead of them, the Widowmaw loomed half in shadow, half in light, a thing that warped the balance of the air.
Vox was already in the open lane, the axe slung over his shoulder, muscles coiled like taut ropes. Euthy moved at the edge of the clearing, so calm it seemed she let the blade breathe. Between them, Kade was barely more than a silhouette, eyes fixed on joints. He said nothing. He didn't need to.
The Widowmaw sniffed, six chitinous rails scraping the ground. It smelled every motion, every tiny scent of blood; the rhythm of its legs was a pattern you could read if you looked closely enough. Kade stepped half a pace forward, a minimal motion—no shout, only a wrist turning. Euthy didn't wait for a signal; she reacted. Vox dug his toes into the dirt, waiting for the moment the beast shifted its weight.
Kade let his dagger flash briefly. Not to cut— to disturb. A bright scrape at the base of a plate seam, so shallow almost nothing leaked. The Widowmaw twitched. One leg extended, a petty compensation. Exactly what Kade needed: a small misalignment.
Kade moved like a fishbone: short, precise, surprising. His blade slipped along a joint fold, seeking the hinge-line. Euthy leapt—not big, not theatrical—one lone, clean rotation in the air. Her blade found the soft fold and ripped a tendon. The leg buckled, the Widowmaw staggered, the movement matrix hiccupped.
Vox roared—not because he needed instruction, but because there's a sport to damage. He wound up: an arc of axe, and struck. The blade met chitin; sparks flew like mute stars—a blow meant to test, not kill. Vox wanted the sound, the resonance in flesh.
Kade used the tiniest fraction of imbalance. He pressed his body to the flank, deft fingers, and hooked the dagger into a gap. No slaughter strike. A lever. He pulled, and the side-balance shifted so two of the monster's legs had to reposition.
The Widowmaw reacted like a machine wired for pain: it twisted its torso and a leg lashed at Kade. He hadn't been fast enough. The blow hit his side with the force of a falling beam. Air punched from his lungs; he flew, slammed into a tree, tasted dirt and iron. For a moment everything was fog—the copper tang, the world a ripped film.
Euthy registered the deviation; her eyes widened, briefly. Vox, the destroyer, snarled like an animal, and the delight he took in the strike made his face onyx-hard. He launched forward, axe as a closing argument. Kade ground his teeth, spat blood, pressed a hand to his side, and knew: that hit could have taken him out—if not for the rules that had other plans.
More important than orders was the choreography: a look, a breath, a move that triggered the next. Kade took the burden and turned it into utility. He didn't flail back; he pulled again at the small lever, worked the opening Euthy had torn earlier. Her blade searched where chitin met flesh. Vox surged, concentrated mass behind the axe, ready to smash any gap.
Kade stabbed, and this time the dagger bit deeper—not for glory but to disengage a joint. The monster reared; its six legs convulsed in chaotic spasms. Vox found the opening; his strike was archaic, raw, but precise in its violence. The axe bored through, a groan as if an old ship had been ripped open. Black ichor sprayed, hot and foul. The beast bucked, one last frenzy like waves against a cliff.
That the choreography worked didn't mean none of them would get hurt. A foreleg, half severed, snapped back and caught Kade on the thigh. He didn't scream; to him, pain was a fact, not theater. Blood soaked his trousers; his step limped, ridiculous. The beast turned its head; eyes that were nothing human searched for meat, not vengeance.
Elian let out a small sound, squeezed between fear and helplessness. Kade moved despite the sting, despite the warmth spreading under his skin. He was the instrument the others read: an opening here, a cut there. No one was a friend. The acknowledgment came in Euthy's restraint from mocking him, in Vox's brief, devoured recognition.
They did it in a single wave: Euthy, a precise dance, severed another joint. Vox drove every ounce of power into one last blow—axe as a raised judge—and struck the chest seam. Kade threaded the dagger into the final rent, hunting the heart of movement, cutting the last fibers.
The Widowmaw gasped, a sound like metal in brine. Its legs tightened their angles, muscle after muscle, until the cascade of stopping came. Then it collapsed—not pretty, not mourned, no monument; simply loud and final. The ground trembled, dust flared. The air smelled of burned resin and hot iron.
Vox laughed, a raw sound that in Kade's ears felt like a threat. He patted the axe with oily hands and took what he needed with two grips. Euthy sheathed her sword, gave the dead a quick check, then let her gaze find Kade—a second, cold, like a judge noting someone who knew the rules. Elian stood trembling; the bracelet glowed warm.
Kade pressed his hand to the wound, breathing shallow. His body felt like someone who'd paid a bill and realized the change didn't cover it. He grinned once, crooked. "Not particularly pleasant," he said—not to Euthy, not to Vox—but to himself.
The system chimed, clinical and triumphant:
[ SYSTEM MESSAGE ]
EVENT COMPLETE: Widowmaw eliminated
Rewards: Efficiency bonus applied.
Top contributors:
Player #072 (Vox),
Player #055 (Euthymia),
Player #080 (Kade).
New rankings updating…
No handshake, no hug. Just the tally of points, the chill of numbers. Vox rumbled off, already divvying spoils, eyes wild. Euthy turned away, as if the sight of blood had simply completed her duty.
Kade kept Elian close, his rough hand on the boy's shoulder. "Don't run," he murmured, voice hoarse. "I don't ask twice." No tone of care—an order, short, in the register that fit him.
Elian nodded, uncertain. The world was a web of rules again, and on every edge there was a price. Kade wouldn't be softened. He glanced at the clock in his head: time kept moving. More tasks waited.
He was still here. For the moment, that was enough.