Azrael looked skeptically at the small, trembling creature, then at the text floating in the air. "Taming." It sounded like some stupid side quest in an RPG, the kind he would immediately skip to get back to the main story.
— I don't have time for pets right now, — he grumbled, turning to leave. His goal was to find strong monsters, test the limits of his strength, not babysit some fox.
But he hadn't taken two steps before a pitiful whimper sounded behind him. He turned around. The Kitsune was sitting in the snow, holding its injured paw, looking at him with devoted, pain-filled eyes. It looked so miserable and helpless that something twinged even in his newly hardened, "killery" heart. It reminded him of the lonely stray cats from his past life, the ones he sometimes secretly fed.
— Damn it... — he cursed under his breath. — Fine. System, how do I tame it? A blood pact? Give it a name? Or just feed it?
The System was silent. Apparently, he had to figure out the instructions himself.
With a sigh of resignation, he approached the fox. It grew alert but didn't crawl away. Azrael slowly, so as not to scare it, reached out his hand—not to pet it, but to examine the wound. A sharp shard of bone, probably from the predator bird's previous victim, was sticking out of its paw.
— Hold still, kid, — he muttered, not expecting the creature to understand.
His fingers, which just minutes ago had held a sword with deadly precision, now moved with unexpected care. He grabbed the shard and pulled. The Kitsune yelped in pain but didn't bite him. Blood gushed out more heavily.
"Discovered: Minor Bleeding. Available: Apply Bandage."
— Of course, — Azrael snorted. — And where are my bandages? In my pocket of death?
He rummaged through his army uniform and was surprised to find a small individual first-aid packet in one of the pockets. "Thanks, system, or whoever you are," he thought.
Amid the fox's displeased growls, he managed to clumsily bandage the paw. The blood slowly stopped.
"Skill 'First Aid' unlocked. Level: 1%."
"Kitsune's Mood: Trust."
"Taming: 10%".
— Only ten? — Azrael was surprised. — Whatever.
He stood up, finally ready to move on. But the three-tailed ball of fluff also got up and, dragging its bandaged paw, took a step after him.
— No, — Azrael said sternly. — Stay.
The fox sat down, whimpering pitifully again. Its large eyes welled up with tears. Azrael rolled his eyes. He felt like a complete bastard, but the thought of dragging a wounded animal through a dangerous forest seemed idiotic to him.
He turned and strode away, trying not to look back. At first, he heard quiet whimpers behind him, which gradually faded. "Finally, it stayed behind," he thought with relief.
But after walking about half a kilometer, his "Assassin's Skill" picked up a faint rustling in the bushes about twenty meters behind. He spun around sharply. A familiar blue muzzle with a black button nose immediately ducked behind a tree.
— Are you kidding me?! — he yelled into the empty forest. — I told you to stay!
The Kitsune hid behind the tree again, letting out a guilty squeak.
Azrael realized he couldn't get rid of the fox. Giving up, he waved his hand.
— Fine! Follow me! But if you die, it's your own fault!
The happy creature immediately jumped out from behind the tree and, limping, ran towards him, wagging its three tails joyfully.
"Kitsune's Mood: Delight."
"Taming: 25%".
— At least it's not whining, — Azrael muttered, but a faint hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. For the first time on this long, strange day, he wasn't entirely alone.
They moved forward—a silent youth with a sword and a limping three-tailed guard. Azrael still craved to find a strong opponent, but now his goal was slightly more specific: find whatever had wounded the kitsune and test his strength on it.
Ahead, through the trees, a clearing finally appeared—the edge of the forest. And a new sound reached him. Not the roar of a monster or the howl of the wind. But muffled, scattered voices. Human voices.
Azrael froze, listening. The Kitsune immediately hid behind his legs, ears perked up.
People. Finally, people. But in this world he had created, people weren't always kind to those who were different. And he had not only a strange sword but also a System that was better kept hidden for now.
He made a choice. The "Assassin's Skill" activated on its own, making him blend into the shadows. He ordered the kitsune to stay in the bushes and moved silently towards the voices, ready for anything.
He crept up to the edge of the forest and peered through a gap in the branches.
On a small, snow-covered clearing stood a group of three people in the same army uniform as his. They were alive. But they didn't look like victors. They stood back-to-back, clutching their weapons—two rifles and a machete. Their faces were twisted in terror.
They were surrounded by five creatures. Tall, skinny, with skin like cracked clay and long, razor-sharp fingers. SP-07. "Clay Men." Azrael remembered them. They were slow but incredibly strong and felt almost no pain.
One of the soldiers, a guy about eighteen, raised his rifle with a trembling hand and fired a burst. The bullets tore into one of the monsters, ripping out chunks of flesh but not stopping it. The creature took a step forward.
— Damn it! They won't go down! — the soldier yelled, retreating.
Azrael watched this with cold, analytical interest. His "Assassin's Skill" was already highlighting weak points on the monsters' bodies—the base of the skull, the joints. He knew he could kill them all. Quickly. Silently.
He looked at the soldiers' faces—at their fear, their struggle. These weren't lines in a text document. These were living people.
And for the first time since waking up, he was faced not with a question of survival or testing his strength, but with a moral choice. To be a shadow that observes? Or to become what he felt himself to be—a predator that protects its... pack?
His fingers tightened around the sword's hilt.
A decision was made.
A decision was made. His fingers, clenched on the sword's hilt, slowly relaxed. The power that had called him to battle just minutes ago receded, replaced by a soul-chilling realization.
He watched. He was an invisible witness to the scene unfolding in the clearing.
Three soldiers. One, in his twenties, his face twisted in horror, kept firing at a monster. A second, with a machete, charged forward with a wild cry. The third, the youngest, ran towards an armored SUV, clearly hoping to find salvation or a weapon there.
The bullets tore into the monster's body, ripping out chunks of cracked clay flesh. But the SP-07, without making a sound, didn't stop. It just kept moving forward, relentless as death itself.
The man with the machete, with strength born of desperation, raised the weapon over his head and brought it down on the creature's stomach with all his might.
Thwunnk!
The sound wasn't what he expected. It wasn't the crunch of flesh or a dull impact. It was a ringing, metallic clang, as if the machete had hit an armor plate. The weapon bounced back, nearly flying out of the soldier's numb hands.
The man slowly raised his head in horror and looked straight into the "face" of the monster—into its eyeless, cracked mask.
The monster didn't hesitate. Its long, unnatural arm shot up like lightning and closed around the soldier's head with its razor-sharp fingers.
— A-a-a... — a choked, gurgling sound escaped the unfortunate man's throat.
His eyes began to bulge from their sockets under the monstrous pressure. A stream of blood mixed with fragments of teeth poured from his mouth. With a horrific crunch, his skull began to slowly deform, shrinking in size.
The first soldier, the one firing the rifle, froze in horror. He saw his partner dying in agony, his head about to burst like an overripe fruit. His own eyes reflected not just panic, but a real, bottomless abyss of despair. He saw his comrade's suffering and understood that helping him was already impossible.
And then his face contorted into a grimace of unbearable pain and... a strange resolve. His own trembling fingers shifted on the trigger.
He sharply lowered the barrel, aiming it not at the monster, but at the head of his dying friend.
— Forgive me... — his voice broke into a whisper that no one but him could hear.
The shot rang out, short and loud, cutting through the hellish chorus. The bullet entered precisely at the temple, ending the suffering in a split second.
The silence that followed the shot was more deafening than any scream. The monster, as if surprised, unclenched its fingers, and the lifeless body crumpled into the snow. The second soldier stood, empty, the smoking barrel in his hand, staring into nothingness. He had just killed his friend. To save him from agony.
Azrael watched it all, holding his breath. His own recently acquired power, which had seemed so mighty, suddenly paled in the face of this world's pure, unjustified cruelty and the terrible, inhuman choice that soldier had just made.
This wasn't a page from his novel. This was real pain, real death, and the real price of survival.
The monster finally shifted its attention to the surviving soldier. It took a step forward.
And at that moment, Azrael could no longer remain in the shadows. Horror was replaced by rage. The cold calculation of the "Assassin's Skill" merged with a hot, human thirst for revenge for what he had just witnessed.
His fingers closed around the sword's hilt again. This time—with a death grip.
He didn't just see the monster's weak points. He saw a target.
And before he even realized it himself, his body was already moving out of cover, stepping silently onto the bloodstained snow.