CHAPTER 16 - The Adept
The corruption was worse up close.
From a distance, Thornhaven had looked abandoned—tragic, but comprehensible. A village emptied by whatever nightmare The Pale Man had orchestrated. But crossing into its boundary revealed the truth: this place hadn't been abandoned. It had been violated.
Purple veins pulsed across every surface in synchronized rhythm, a heartbeat that belonged to nothing living. The timber walls of homes bent at angles that defied their grain. Shadows fell wrong—stretching toward light instead of away from it, pooling in corners where sunlight should have scattered them.
And the smell.
Even through the cloth masks Marcus had distributed, the stench invaded. Sweet rot mixed with something chemical, like flowers decomposing in battery acid. Each breath coated Chris's throat with a film that wouldn't clear no matter how much he swallowed.
"Tight formation," Marcus commanded, voice muffled but absolute. "Lyra, eyes forward. Call threats."
The rogue had already dissolved into the corrupted landscape, black leather blending with shadows that moved independently of their sources. Chris tracked her for three seconds before losing sight completely—even Shadow Sense struggled to maintain lock on her position.
They advanced slowly.
The first building had been a home. Chris saw domesticity frozen mid-moment through a broken window—table set for dinner, chairs pushed back as if the family had stood suddenly. A child's wooden horse lay near the doorway, missing one leg.
No blood. No struggle. Just absence.
"They vanished," Iris said quietly, staff ready but her eyes scanning the interior. "Just... gone."
"The Pale Man's signature," Brother Aldwin added, sorrow edging his gentle voice. "He takes them whole. No one knows where."
"Or why," Marcus said grimly.
They moved deeper. More frozen moments revealed themselves—a blacksmith's forge with tools laid out for work never completed, a well with bucket halfway drawn, laundry still hanging despite three days' exposure.
The ordinariness made it worse. These people had been living, and then they simply weren't.
Chris's hand tightened on his sword. Fifty people. Families. Children.
Gone.
Movement.
Shadow Sense flared warning a split-second before Lyra's whisper cut through their formation.
"Contact. Northeast, thirty meters. Four hostiles."
Marcus raised a fist—stop. The team froze.
Chris extended his awareness carefully. There—four presences moving between buildings with pack coordination, not random wandering.
Corrupted wolves.
"Standard formation," Marcus said. "I draw, Chris flanks, Iris supports, Aldwin reserves."
The team shifted into position despite never having worked together before. Professional competence overriding unfamiliarity.
The wolves rounded the corner.
Chris's first clear look at corruption's handiwork made his stomach turn. They'd been wolves once—four legs, fur, fangs. But everything was twisted. Spines bent at crippling angles. Purple veins bulged beneath patchy fur revealing diseased leather skin. Eyes glowing sickly yellow.
F-rank threats. Manageable.
Should be.
The lead wolf spotted them and howled—half animal, half something else entirely. The pack joined in, creating a chorus designed to inspire primal fear.
Then they charged.
Marcus met them head-on. His greatsword swept horizontal, catching the leader mid-leap. The blade connected with a sound like an axe hitting wet wood. The creature fell in two pieces that dissolved into purple smoke before hitting ground.
One down.
The remaining three split—two engaging Marcus, one breaking toward the backline.
Chris intercepted.
The corrupted wolf was fast, faster than its diseased body suggested possible. It closed distance in seconds, jaws wide, aiming for his throat.
Shadow Sense painted the attack a split-second early. Chris sidestepped, letting momentum carry it past, and brought his sword down in a vertical slash aimed at exposed spine.
Precision Strike activated. His vision sharpened, highlighting the weak point in warped anatomy.
His blade bit deep, severing the spinal cord. The wolf collapsed mid-stride, twitching once before dissolving.
Two down.
Wind blades whistled past Chris's head—Iris's magic cutting down the third wolf before it reached Aldwin. The creature's howl cut off mid-note as compressed air sliced through its neck.
Three down.
Marcus dispatched the final wolf with brutal efficiency, his greatsword coming down like an executioner's blade.
Four down.
Total engagement time: twenty seconds.
"Clean," Lyra whispered from somewhere invisible. "No additional contacts."
Marcus nodded, breathing only slightly harder. "Good positioning, Chris. You read the flank before I called it."
Small praise from someone who'd doubted him. Chris took it.
"Don't let it go to your head. That was basic tactics against F-rank threats." Marcus's storm-gray eyes swept the village ahead. "It gets harder from here."
They continued deeper, following the path Chris's midnight reconnaissance had mapped. The corruption intensified with each step—veins thickening, wrongness in the air becoming almost tangible.
More patrols appeared. Pairs of wolves. Corrupted livestock. Something that might have been a dog but was warped beyond identification.
Each encounter was brief and brutal. The team's coordination improved with every fight, their movements synchronizing despite minimal shared history.
Chris found rhythm. Training with Iris, the System's midnight drilling, Marcus's harsh critiques—everything crystallized into combat effectiveness that felt almost natural.
Precision Strike highlighted weak points. His footwork kept him balanced. His combinations linked smoothly.
He was getting better.
But the final milestone still waited.
The central square appeared ahead—open space that had probably hosted markets and festivals when Thornhaven lived. Now it was a monument to abandonment. Collapsed stalls, rotted goods, ground warped into frozen waves.
At the square's far end stood the village hall.
The corruption's source.
The building had been impressive once—two stories of solid timber and stone, wide doors designed to welcome the entire village. Now those doors hung open like a mouth, and corruption pulsed from within in visible waves of purple energy.
"There," Marcus said unnecessarily. "That's our target."
"Could we burn it from here?" Iris asked, half-joking.
"Corruption this concentrated wouldn't burn," Aldwin said quietly, eyes locked on the building. "It requires purification. That requires understanding the ritual first."
"Which means going inside," Marcus finished. He turned to the team. "Lyra, perimeter security. Signal immediately if you see anything resembling The Pale Man—then we extract. Aldwin, you stay with her. We can't risk our primary healer."
"Understood," Aldwin said, though he looked reluctant.
"Chris, Iris, you're with me. Fast in, gather evidence, fast out. No heroics." Marcus's eyes found Chris specifically. "Especially you. I've seen your type—young, skilled, convinced you're invincible. You're not. Clear?"
"Clear."
"Good. Let's move."
The interior of the village hall was nightmare given architecture.
Corruption inside was absolute. Purple veins crawled so thick across walls they obscured original wood and stone. The floor rippled like liquid despite being solid, creating the sensation of walking on unstable ground even as each step found purchase.
The smell intensified beyond tolerance. Sweet rot amplified a thousand times, mixed with burning ozone—the scent of lightning strikes.
Chris's Shadow Sense screamed warnings. This place was poisoned at fundamental levels, reality itself warped.
The main hall had been converted into a ritual site. Corruption shards—dozens of them—were arranged in geometric patterns across the floor, creating designs that made Chris's eyes water when he tried to follow the lines. They pulsed in perfect synchronization, a heartbeat of wrongness resonating in his bones.
At the center stood an altar.
Rough stone stacked waist-high, symbols carved into every surface. The symbols writhed when Chris looked directly at them, his brain refusing to process what it was seeing. Dark stains covered the altar's top—blood. Old blood, new blood, and things that might not be blood at all.
"Gods have mercy," Iris breathed, her cheer completely absent.
Marcus approached carefully, examining without touching. His professional mask cracked, allowing disgust through.
"This is active. The ritual isn't complete, but it's ongoing. Feeding on ambient corruption, growing stronger."
"Can we stop it?" Chris asked.
"Destroy the shards, break the pattern, purify the altar—any would disrupt it. But..." Marcus gestured around the room. "Look at the placement. This is one node in a network. Destroying it might trigger response from the others."
"Or alert The Pale Man," Iris added.
Tense silence.
Chris's eyes caught something behind the altar, partially obscured by corruption. A map.
"There," he said, pointing.
Marcus moved closer, brushing away purple growth. The map revealed itself—hand-drawn but detailed, showing the region around Rendercity.
Marked on it, in twenty-four locations forming a perfect circle around the city, were symbols matching the corruption shards.
"Confirmation," Marcus said grimly. "Part of the pattern Aldric showed us. All twenty-four sites marked."
"What happens when the circle completes?" Iris asked.
"Nothing pleasant." Marcus pulled out a journal, sketching quickly. "We document this and—"
A sound.
Deep, resonant, coming from everywhere and nowhere. Not voice, not music. Just sound, vibrating through the corrupted building with a frequency that made Chris's teeth ache.
The corruption shards flared brighter, pulsing accelerating.
"Not good," Iris said, backing toward the exit.
"The ritual's responding to our presence," Marcus realized, eyes widening. "It's—"
The entrance sealed.
Not physically—there was no door. Reality itself flowed across the doorway like living tissue, blocking escape.
"OUT!" Marcus roared. "NOW!"
They ran for the blocked exit. Marcus's armored shoulder hit the barrier. The impact should have shattered wood. Instead, the barrier absorbed force and held.
"Trapped," Chris said, drawing his sword as instinct overrode panic.
The ritual site flared brilliant purple.
From shadows between corruption shards, creatures began emerging.
Not the corrupted animals from outside. These were different. Humanoid shapes made of shadow and corruption, forms shifting and unstable, lacking faces but radiating hostile intent.
Summoned creatures. The ritual defending itself.
"Back to back!" Marcus commanded, raising his greatsword. "We fight our way out. Break the barrier by destroying the ritual!"
Three creatures manifested fully, shadow-corruption bodies solidifying into something capable of violence.
Behind them, more were forming.
"Keep moving!" Marcus barked. "Don't let them surround!"
Two surged forward. Marcus met the first head-on, his greatsword cutting through shadow-flesh with a sound like tearing wet cloth. The creature split shoulder to hip, dissolving into purple sparks.
The second lunged at Chris specifically, arms morphing into scything blades—one high, one low.
Without Shadow Sense, the attack would have been impossible to read.
With it, Chris saw every motion before completion.
He dropped weight onto his back foot, letting the low blade scythe past his thigh with barely a finger's width to spare, while his sword snapped up to deflect the high strike. Impact jarred his arm but his stance held.
Precision Strike lit up a weak point—a flicker of thinner shadow where a human chest would be.
He took it.
Twisting his hips, he drove forward in a tight thrust. The sword sank into that thinner shadow, resistance like stabbing gelatin.
The creature convulsed, form collapsing around the blade, then exploded into purple motes.
"Two left!" Iris called. "Left side!"
The third creature had bypassed Marcus, flattening against the ceiling before dropping toward Iris.
She was already moving. Wind magic flared around her like invisible shield. The creature hit the barrier and was thrown sideways into a corrupted pillar. Impact disrupted its form, body flickering like candle flame in wind.
Iris snapped her staff forward. Compressed air shot from the tip, bisecting the creature mid-waist. It unraveled into dissolving threads.
Silence for a heartbeat.
Then the ritual pulsed.
Purple light blazed from floor shards, brighter than before. Symbols carved into the altar flared in sequence, as if something beneath stone was breathing, waking, angry.
More shapes began rising.
"We need to destabilize the ritual," Marcus snapped. "Chris, target the shards. Iris, cover him. I'll handle these things."
Four new creatures clawed themselves from pooling shadow, forms more solid than the last set. Taller. Bulkier. Hints of armor forming.
Upgraded summons.
"On it!" Chris said, even as his heart pounded hard enough to make vision pulse.
He sprinted toward the nearest shard cluster.
The ground fought him. The floor—not floor anymore, something pretending to be—shifted underfoot. Sometimes stone, firm and unyielding. Sometimes viscous fluid, boots sinking centimeters with each step. Constant micro-adjustments made balance difficult, sapping stamina.
The shards were worse up close. No larger than a child's hand, but power emanating from them was immense—like standing too close to electrical transformers. Hair on his arms rose. Teeth ached with frequency.
He swung.
His sword connected with the first shard in downward cut.
Feedback nearly tore his arm off. It felt like striking solid steel bar with full strength—vibration roaring up the blade, muscles screaming. The shard cracked, spiderweb fractures blooming, but didn't shatter.
It screamed.
Not audibly. But something in the magic itself shrieked, and the ritual reacted.
Other shards pulsed frantically, dissonant rhythm. Creatures forming hardened faster, stabilizing with sudden clarity.
"Chris!" Iris shouted. "Heads up!"
He dove sideways on instinct.
A jagged spear of corrupted stone erupted from where he'd stood, skewering empty air. The spike was twisted substance—part stone, part flesh, part something else.
The ritual was adapting.
"I'm fine!" he yelled. "Shards don't like being hit."
"Keep hitting them!" Marcus grunted somewhere behind. Metal rang on shadow-flesh. "Ritual's too strong. We kill until it breaks or we do."
Another creature lunged, faster than previous ones. Limbs more defined—jagged armored plates forming along forearms, turning them into natural blades.
Chris met it.
They clashed in flurry—blade against corrupted pseudo-steel. The creature's attacks came from multiple angles, unstable anatomy allowing strikes in ways humans never could. Arms bent backward, torso rotated too far, head swiveling nearly 180 degrees.
Shadow Sense screamed attack pathways.
He obeyed.
Block high. Pivot left. Duck low. Thrust—no, feint—reverse grip—slash upward.
He moved through sequence with grace that would have shocked the version of himself who'd died in front of a truck. Training crystallizing into combat effectiveness.
His blade found purchase in the creature's chest.
Precision Strike did the rest.
Shadow-flesh split. The creature collapsed into mist.
More corrupted stone pillars erupted—jagged spikes forming loose cage around the ritual circle.
"We're getting boxed in!" Iris shouted, blasting a forming spike apart. "It's trying to pin us!"
"Then we break out before it finishes," Marcus snarled, cleaving a creature in half before smashing into a spike with enough force to shatter it.
The spike broke—but so did chunks of his blade edge. Corruption eating the metal.
"We can't sustain this," Chris said, dodging another spike erupting at his feet. "Even breaking the shards, these summons will tear us apart."
"Then we don't finish," Marcus said. "We gather intel and get out. We have confirmation it's active and part of the circle. That's enough."
Chris hesitated. Everything in him screamed that leaving this active was wrong.
But Marcus was right.
Staying meant dying.
"Fall back," Marcus confirmed. "Regroup outside, mark this site for future teams, haul ass to Rendercity."
"Go!" Marcus roared, slamming his shoulder into the corrupted barrier sealing the entrance. It held like thick glass. Then Iris added power—concentrated wind blast at the same point.
The barrier cracked.
"Again!" Iris shouted.
Marcus threw himself forward, every muscle straining. Armor screamed. Barrier fractured more, spiderwebs radiating from impact.
One more.
He drew back and gave everything in final hit.
The barrier shattered like brittle ice.
Light from outside poured in, washing over them cleaner than any magic Chris had experienced in days. Fresh air—tainted by corruption outside but better than concentrated wrongness inside—rushed to fill void.
"OUT!" Marcus bellowed.
They ran. Chris, Iris at his side, Marcus covering retreat with brutal economy—every swing buying another second of life. Creatures surged toward opening, cut down by steel or sliced by air.
They burst from the village hall into central square.
Outside felt almost mercifully sane—though only by degrees. Square was still warped, corruption still pulsing, but space was open, sky visible, air slightly less wrong.
Lyra appeared from behind warped statue, daggers already drawn. Brother Aldwin stood near square's edge, holy symbol raised, light magic flowing in slow steady rhythm that pushed worst corruption back.
"You're out," Aldwin said, relief visible. "Thank the Light."
"For now," Marcus said. "But ritual's active and knows we were inside. We leave before it does something we can't handle."
As if on cue, ripple passed through village.
Corruption veins brightened in unison, light traveling along them like electricity. Buildings shifted, leaning farther inward, as if Thornhaven were folding around them.
"Formation!" Marcus barked. "Pull back the way we came. Lyra rear guard. Chris, front with me. Iris, Aldwin, center."
They moved.
The village responded.
Corrupted creatures poured from alleys and doorways—wolves, deer, things that had been human. Forms more complete than earlier patrols. Stronger. Faster. Eyes burning with malice.
"Left!" Chris shouted, cutting down a creature lunging from doorway.
"I see it!" Marcus replied, greatsword turning another skull to mist.
"Focus on movement!" Iris called, conjuring wind wall that deflected leaping creatures. "Don't get bogged down—keep moving!"
Brother Aldwin's magic flared, circles of golden light appearing beneath their feet every few seconds. Each pulsed upward, washing over them, closing minor wounds and burning away corruption tendrils.
"Stay within blessing field!" he warned. "Outside it, corruption affects minds as well as bodies!"
They fought as they retreated, step by grueling step. Corrupted creatures pressed from all sides, forcing tighter formation.
Scout twitched in Chris's shadow, eager to fight.
Not yet. Not while everyone could see.
"Street ahead!" Marcus called. "Same route we entered. We break through, full retreat to treeline."
Lyra darted past in blur—daggers flashing, throats opening in sprays that evaporated before hitting ground. Beautiful in terrifying way—violence at peak efficiency.
They hit main street and pushed forward.
For a moment, it looked like they might make it.
Then the village shifted again.
Ground beneath Lyra's feet glowed sickly purple.
"Lyra—!" Chris shouted, warning too late.
The street collapsed.
Not physically. Reality folded inward, creating shallow depression—chest-deep—but everything inside looked wrong. Colors muted. Sound dulled. Even Shadow Sense fuzzed when Chris tried focusing on that zone.
Anti-magic field.
Lyra fell into it, landing in trained crouch. Three corrupted creatures leaped after her, movements awkward in warped space but still deadly.
"I'm fine!" she called, already moving, daggers slashing. "Keep going, I'll—"
One creature caught her side with wild swing.
Lyra hissed, staggering. Blood darkened black armor.
"Break left!" Marcus ordered, adjusting route. "Circle back! Lyra, disengage and—"
Chris extended Shadow Sense into depression.
Nothing.
Where awareness should have painted threats, there was only static.
Anti-magic field wasn't just suppressing spells.
It was blinding his power.
"System?" he thought, body on autopilot deflecting charging deer. "What is that?"
[ANOMALY DETECTED. UNSTABLE ANTI-MAGIC FIELD. SHADOW ABILITIES CANNOT PENETRATE.]
"Can I enter it?"
[AFFIRMATIVE. PHYSICAL FORM UNAFFECTED. HOWEVER, ALL SHADOW-RELATED ABILITIES—INCLUDING SHADOW SENSE, BLINK, SHADOW CONTROL, AND SHADOW RISE—WILL BE SUPPRESSED WITHIN FIELD.]
"So I'd be fighting blind."
[CORRECT.]
"Chris, MOVE!" Iris shouted.
He snapped back, pivoting just in time to see corrupted creature lunging for throat. He cut horizontal, removing its head. Body dissolved.
"Don't freeze!" Iris snapped, eyes blazing. "We need you moving or we all die!"
Lyra's voice cut through chaos—steady but strained.
"Can't disengage! Field's messing with footing—pulls me back every time I try to jump out! Three hostiles, maybe more forming!"
Chris risked a glance.
Lyra fought like cornered animal. Low strikes, feints, evasive footwork, attacking joints and throats. But creatures kept coming, and field distorted movements—steps too slow, dodges fractionally off.
She took another hit to the thigh. Her leg buckled before she forced it to support through sheer will.
"How long?" Chris thought.
[ESTIMATED SURVIVAL: 90 SECONDS.]
A minute and a half. Less if she took serious hit.
Marcus was shouting orders. Aldwin tried extending protective fields, only to see magic unravel at field's edge. Iris hurled wind blades that dispersed like mist crossing the boundary.
Lyra was alone.
And she was going to die.
The path Marcus was carving would circle back from different angle. Tactically sound. Minimize team risk.
But it wouldn't be fast enough.
Chris knew with same certainty that had told him he'd die in front of a truck.
If they did nothing, Lyra Nightwhisper would die here.
And he would live. Safe. Intact.
Carrying that weight forever.
The System's voice slid into thoughts, quieter now.
[MILESTONE OPPORTUNITY DETECTED.]
The notification appeared translucent and insistent.
╔═══════════════════════════════════════════╗
║ !! MILESTONE OPPORTUNITY !! ║
╠═══════════════════════════════════════════╣
║ Milestone [4]: Fight without magic ║
║ Anti-magic field detected ║
║ Shadow abilities suppressed ║
║ ║
║ Ally survival: 90 seconds ║
║ Your survival if entering: 22% ║
╚═══════════════════════════════════════════╝
[What defines you, Chris?] the System asked quietly.
The world narrowed.
Battle noise receded. Only the depression remained. Lyra limping but fighting. Creatures closing. And the choice.
Enter and probably die.
Or stay safe and watch someone else die.
In his old life, he'd been the sort of person the world happened to. Fear made his decisions. He watched others live while he occupied space without really existing.
Then he'd died.
Been given second chance.
He'd promised himself he wouldn't waste it being who he'd been.
"Chris!" Iris grabbed his arm. "We have to move! We can come back for her—"
"There's no time," he said.
Her eyes widened. "What are you—"
He met her gaze, letting everything show. Fear. Resolve. Bone-deep refusal to go back to being who he used to be.
"If it were you down there," he asked quietly, "would you want me to run?"
Iris's mouth opened. Closed.
Answer was in her eyes.
"No."
Chris pulled free gently.
"Then you know why I can't."
He stepped toward field's edge.
The System spoke one last time.
[CONFIRM CHOICE.]
"Yes," Chris said aloud.
And stepped into the dead zone.
The moment Chris crossed the boundary, the world changed.
No thunderclap. No flash. No melodrama.
Just loss.
The constant hum of power he'd grown used to—subtle pressure of shadows at awareness edge, intuitive lines tracing future movement through Shadow Sense—vanished.
Like losing a sense.
One heartbeat, he could feel village as living diagram—threat vectors, angles, trajectories.
Next, nothing.
But this time, unlike every other time he'd felt powerless, he wasn't alone.
[SHADOW SUBSYSTEM DISCONNECTED.]
System's voice cut clear. Calm. Unfazed.
[CLARIFICATION: ANTI-MAGIC FIELD BLOCKS LOCAL MANA EXPRESSIONS. I AM NOT LOCAL. CORE FUNCTIONS REMAIN ACTIVE. I WILL NOT LEAVE YOU.]
Chris exhaled breath he hadn't realized holding.
"Good," he muttered. "Because I'm going to need you."
Air inside depression felt thicker, like humidity drained of warmth. Sound came muffled, as if wearing headphones with volume down. Colors desaturated, flattening into grays and sickly purples.
Real absence was internal.
He reached for Shadow Sense.
Nothing answered.
Pushed for Blink.
Dead silence.
Skills weren't on cooldown. They simply weren't there.
[STATUS: ALL SHADOW ABILITIES SUPPRESSED. PHYSICAL CAPABILITIES UNCHANGED. SYSTEM SUPPORT UNAFFECTED.]
"So it's just me," Chris said.
[CORRECTION. IT IS YOU AND I, MASTER.]
Dark laugh almost bubbled out.
"Great. We'll die together."
[PROBABILITY OF DEATH: 78%.]
"Not helping."
[YOU STEPPED IN ANYWAY.]
No time to answer.
"Chris!" Lyra's voice tore through muted air, sharp with anger and underlying fear. "What the hell are you doing?!"
She stood ten meters ahead, depression's center.
Up close, distortion was worse. Entire bowl of reality seemed bent. Angles didn't line up. Ground looked simultaneously closer and farther. Object edges blurred in cold shimmer.
Lyra's situation was concrete.
Blood soaked her left thigh in thick dark patch spreading with each heartbeat. Another tear showed gash along ribs, pink flesh beneath. Breathing came in short sharp pulls.
Four corrupted creatures stalked around her.
Closer now. Too close. Forms tighter than patrol beasts—corruption woven deeper. Skin, bone, wrong essence melded into seamless horror.
Limbs too long, joints bent wrong. Plates of hardened purple-black carapace jutted from shoulders, forearms, shins. Eyes burned with sick focused yellow.
One bore dozen shallow cuts—proof Lyra hadn't gone down easily.
All four turned as he stepped in.
Four heads swiveled. Four pairs of eyes fixed on him.
Lyra spat blood-laced saliva. "Get out," she snapped. "This field—your tricks are dead. You can't help."
Chris lifted sword.
"Then it's good I brought this."
Nearest creature lunged.
It moved wrong. Acceleration uneven, as if parts obeyed different gravity. Claws elongated mid-charge, joints rearranging so limbs could scythe from impossible angles.
Normally Shadow Sense would paint entire attack—wireframe of threat vectors, highlighted danger zones.
Now he had only eyes.
And what his body remembered.
[ADVICE: DO NOT WAIT FOR PERFECT DATA. MOVE NOW.]
He moved.
Leading foot slid back half-step, weight dropping low. Blade came up into high guard almost on its own, position drilled into nervous system.
First claw came for neck—high and fast.
Steel met corrupted keratin with jarring impact. Strike drove arms down and back, shoulders barking. Second claw swept for midsection, timing clever—staggered half-beat to catch survivors of block.
He didn't try full parry.
Twisted torso, letting strike edge catch leather armor and slide rather than bite. Pain flashed along side but surface-level—cut, not disembowelment.
Close now. Too close for wide cut.
So he stabbed.
Right foot anchored. Hips rotated. Shoulder followed. Blade punched forward in tight economical thrust.
Not System skill. Just thrust.
But creature's shape, weaker shading at center—it matched what Precision Strike taught him to look for. Years of fencing translated through fantasy combat nights.
Sword tip sank into jellylike corrupted flesh below where human sternum would be.
He pushed.
Thing convulsed, limb-blades flailing wild—too high, too low to hit anything.
Then collapsed, dissolving into vapor stinking of burnt meat and rot.
One down.
Chris staggered sideways, sucking burning air. Arms trembled. Block impact and thrust recoil set tendons singing.
[ASSESSMENT: YOU ARE AT 63% PHYSICAL CAPACITY. BLOOD LOSS MINIMAL. ADRENALINE ELEVATED. CONTINUE.]
"Wasn't planning on stopping," he rasped.
Other three adjusted.
They spread—uneven triangle with Chris and Lyra at center. One left, one right, largest directly opposite. Watching.
Smart ones always last, Chris thought.
"Master," System said, tone unchanged, [RECOMMENDATION: PREVENT ENCIRCLEMENT. CONTROL ENGAGEMENT ANGLES. LET THEM REACT TO YOU.]
"Working on it."
He moved first.
Every instinct screamed retreat, buy space, fall back where magic existed. Where Shadow Sense made this trivial.
He ignored it.
Cut sideways toward nearest creature.
It hissed—sound like leaking steam—lunged to meet him, claws widening into hooked blades.
Expected him to back off.
He did opposite.
Dove in.
Stepped so deep into reach that limbs became disadvantage—too long to hit comfortably at that distance. One blade clipped upper arm, tearing fire across muscle, but lacked leverage to go deeper.
Then he was at its side.
Sword came up tight arc.
No room for theatre. No big hero slash. Just cold ugly efficiency.
Blade kissed side of its knee.
Resistance—bone, cartilage, sick hybrid structure—but whole body behind cut. Edge tore through tendons.
Joint failed.
Creature's leg buckled sideways at grotesque angle. It dropped, something like screech strangled in muted air.
Chris didn't let it finish.
Reversed grip, drove point down at neck back.
Arms shook. Angle imperfect. Blade jammed halfway, grating against something dense.
He snarled, bore down with everything in shoulders and back.
Something gave.
Thing spasmed, went still.
Two.
"On your six!" Lyra shouted.
He didn't think.
Dropped flat.
Claws passed where spine had been. Displaced air tickled neck hairs.
He rolled, grit grinding into side wound. Leg screamed as torn muscle protested twisting.
Third creature landed where he'd stood, momentum carrying it extra half-meter before sliding on warped ground.
He came up from roll, sword already rising.
Cut wasn't perfect. Too much arm, not enough hips. But commitment made up for it.
Blade bit into creature's forelimb below elbow.
Not deep enough to sever, but enough to lodge.
"Shit."
It shrieked, twisted, tried pulling back, dragging sword with it.
He let go.
Creature staggered away thrashing, trying to shake weapon stuck in limb. It succeeded—Chris's sword tore free, clattered to ground meter away, slick with whatever passed for blood.
He didn't go for blade.
Went for creature.
Closed distance before it finished adjusting to pain. Hands moved without thought—years of fencing, months of System-corrected form, Iris's endless insistence feet matter as much as hands.
Stepped to dead side where injured limb couldn't reach.
Fist came up tight hook, slamming into what passed for jaw.
Pain shot through knuckles—punched bone—but shock staggered it.
Grabbed fallen sword hilt with off-hand, reversed grip, drove point up into jawline.
This time angle was perfect.
Point punched into soft tissue, drove up through whatever passed for brain, emerged from skull top in gout of black-violet ichor.
Creature collapsed, dragging sword halfway out.
Chris ripped blade free, panting.
Three.
[STATUS: HP AT 41%. MULTIPLE LACERATIONS. RIGHT LEG MOBILITY REDUCED 37%. LEFT ARM OUTPUT 63%.]
"I did not need percentages right now."
[INFORMATION AIDS SURVIVAL. I WILL NOT LIE ABOUT YOUR CONDITION.]
Couldn't argue.
Last creature still stood.
It hadn't intervened during his flurry.
It had watched.
Learning.
Towered above others by a head, proportions closer to humanoid than bestial. Not enough to pass as human, but enough to make wrongness more intrusive. Limbs long but proportionate, armored in overlapping corruption plates. Where face should be was smooth oval of shifting shadow, broken by two burning yellow eyes staring through him.
Took step forward.
Warped ground didn't disturb balance. Moved like it belonged.
"Master," System said, [DESIGNATION: ELITE-CLASS CORRUPTED CONSTRUCT. ESTIMATED THREAT RANK: MID E, APPROACHING LOW D. YOUR CURRENT CONDITION REDUCES EFFECTIVE COMBAT RANK TO LOW F.]
"So this is bad idea."
[CORRECT.]
"Noted."
Advanced anyway.
Could have waited. Held ground, played defense, hoped for opening.
But everything learned—goblins, Vance, dire wolves, Iris—taught simple truth:
If you let something stronger choose engagement terms, you lost.
He chose.
Stepped forward deliberately, blade in middle guard. Not high, not low. Flexible. Adaptable.
Creature mirrored him.
Flowed into motion mimicking stance—perverted echo of human training. Right limb shifted, forearm plates elongating into hooked blade. Left arm retracted, hand-like claws flexing.
Preparing combination.
"Pattern," he said, focusing himself. "Long limb for reach, then closes with other if inside."
[CONFIRMED BASED ON OBSERVATIONAL DATA. RECOMMEND DISENGAGEMENT.]
"Not option."
They closed.
Opening exchange was brutal.
Blade-limb snapped out faster than anticipated, diagonal cut that would've opened chest shoulder to opposite hip.
He stepped inside arc, just as Iris drilled hundred times.
Don't outrun limb. Out-think it.
Lead foot crossed over, hips turning, body rotating with incoming strike. Blade came up tight angle, not to meet head-on but slide along.
Steel kissed corrupted carapace.
Purple sparks flew.
Weapon-arm slid off sword and past, impact redirected.
Close now. Very close.
Too close for full reach.
Claw-hand came from left, predicted.
He ducked under, dropping weight, drove shoulder into midsection.
Like slamming door frame.
Pain flared down entire right side, but hit shifted balance fraction.
Fraction was enough.
Blade snapped up, stabbing toward what would be human throat.
Creature twisted away last instant, point grazing neck side instead of plunging through.
Blood—if that's what it was—splattered across face. Burned like acid.
He stumbled back, blinking away sting.
[WARNING: FOREIGN SUBSTANCE DETECTED NEAR OCULAR REGION. DO NOT RUB EYES.]
"Figured that out, thanks."
Creature pressed.
Sensed hesitation.
Blade-limb, claw-hand, even legs became weapons—trying to stomp wounded leg, drive him down.
He gave ground. Not choice. Necessity.
Guard grew sloppier. Blocks heavier. Recovery slower.
Burning out.
"Status," he grunted mentally.
[HP AT 27%. RIGHT LEG MOBILITY REDUCED 53%. GRIP STRENGTH DECLINING. REACTION TIME DEGRADING.]
"So I'm losing."
[YOU ARE APPROACHING CRITICAL THRESHOLDS.]
"Nice way of saying losing."
[YOU ARE STILL ALIVE. YOU CAN ADJUST. YOU HAVE NOT USED EVERYTHING YOU LEARNED.]
Creature came again, more measured. Testing. Few feints. Half-committed slash pulling back instant he started responding.
Doing to him what he'd done to lesser opponents.
Learning.
He forced deeper slower breath. Way Aldwin advised. In through nose, out through mouth. Don't let panic control lungs.
Focused not on monster's claws, teeth, eyes, grotesque form.
Focused on center of mass.
On feet.
Marcus's voice echoed memory.
*Everything lies. Faces lie first, weapons lie second. Feet tell truth. Watch where weight goes. That's where they're going next.*
Creature's center dipped.
Weight shifted back foot.
Right limb tensed.
Coiling.
When it came this time, it would commit.
No more tests.
Kill shot.
"Master," System said quietly, tone different. Almost anticipatory. [OBSERVATION: YOU HAVE BEEN REACTING. IF YOU CONTINUE, YOU WILL DIE. RECOMMENDATION: STOP REACTING.]
"Then what? I can't see future without Shadow Sense."
[YOU DON'T NEED FUTURE. YOU NEED PRESENT. YOU HAVE ENOUGH DATA. TRUST IT.]
Creature lunged.
This time Chris didn't wait to see full motion.
Instant weight shifted, instant right limb tensed, he moved.
Stepped in.
Everyone retreated from killing blows.
That was instinct. Fear.
He stepped through fear.
Injured right leg screamed driving forward, but held. Torso turned into attack, not away. Blade didn't go up into high guard.
It dropped.
Lower than any sane instructor would advise, leaving head horribly exposed.
Blade-limb scythed toward face.
He didn't try stopping it.
Redirected.
Sword caught limb below hook curve. Instead of blocking, let motion of own swing carry limb aside, using creature's momentum against it.
Steel slid along corrupted armor in spark shower.
Killing strike diverted.
Skated past ear instead of through skull, cutting white-hot pain line across shell, missing vitals by millimeters.
Same time, blade traced arc every training hour prepared but none executed this perfectly.
Counter Slash.
He hadn't unlocked skill formally. Not with System neatness and glowing notification.
But body knew it.
Years of corporate drudgery taught you became what you practiced. Two weeks living as adventurer sharpened that to razor edge.
Practiced this motion thousand times.
Now, perfected it.
Sword sang through air, momentum built from enemy attack redirection, hips and shoulders aligned perfect harmony.
Blade cut across creature's centerline.
Not hopeful swing. Not desperate swipe.
Perfect anatomically efficient cut intersecting movement at weakest angle.
Edge bit at joint between torso plates, where corruption left seam.
Kept going.
Through carapace. Through whatever pulsed underneath. Through pseudo-spine holding shape together.
Heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then body came apart.
Upper and lower halves separated, top sliding off with horrible grace before both hit warped ground.
Didn't immediately dissolve.
Spasmed. Twitching. Tremors along severed nerves.
Then finally unraveled into drifting violet motes vanishing into dead air.
Silence.
Chris stood there, chest heaving, blade angled down, tip inches from warped ground. Every breath hurt. Right leg shook so hard wasn't sure actually supporting weight or just pretending.
Covered in blood not entirely his.
Anti-magic field shuddered.
He felt it.
Not through Shadow Sense—still dead—but in air ripple. Purple haze above depression flickered once. Twice.
Then shattered.
Like surfacing from deep dive.
Sound slammed back—roar of Marcus's voice, shrieks of creatures still fighting at field edge, Iris yelling his name, Aldwin shouting prayers as light flared.
Color rushed back, harsh overwhelming. Shadow Sense reconnected with snap, battlefield lit in mind like tactical display—too bright, too much.
He dropped to one knee as perception rush overloaded him.
[MILESTONE COMPLETED.]
Notification appeared clean and sharp.
╔═══════════════════════════════════════════╗
║ !! MILESTONE COMPLETE !! ║
╠═══════════════════════════════════════════╣
║ PATH OF THE BLADE — FINAL TRIAL PASSED ║
║ All conditions met: ║
║ ✓ 100 practice strikes ║
║ ✓ 10 confirmed kills ║
║ ✓ Critical hit in live combat ║
║ ✓ Victory without magic ║
║ Final rewards unlocking… ║
╚═══════════════════════════════════════════╝
Another window overlapped.
╔═══════════════════════════════════════════╗
║ TITLE ACQUIRED ║
╠═══════════════════════════════════════════╣
║ BLADE ADEPT (I) ║
║ Initializing knowledge link to ║
║ Combat Archive… ║
║ Warning: Full integration unsafe while ║
║ user in critical condition. ║
║ Deferring major transfer until stable. ║
╚═══════════════════════════════════════════╝
"Wait," Chris managed thinking. "What does—"
Legs decided they'd had enough.
Ground came up faster than should, but strong arms hit before it did, slowing fall. Voices overlapped, too loud and far simultaneously.
"—Chris!"
"—Light preserve, killed them all—"
"—pressure on wound, now—"
"—idiot—"
Warmth spread from chest outward—Aldwin's magic. Cooler sharper sensation layered over—potions. Someone—multiple someones—working on keeping him alive.
[YOU DID WELL, MASTER.]
System's voice cut through chaos, clear as it'd been in Copper Coin room quiet.
"Still here?" he thought, words slurring even mentally.
[I DO NOT EXIST INSIDE OR OUTSIDE MAGIC. I AM SIMPLY HERE. I WILL REMAIN AS LONG AS YOU DO.]
"Good," Chris thought, as darkness rushed from perception edges, swallowing world edges.
Caught flash of Lyra's face—pale, eyes wide, expression that might've been disbelief and gratitude tangled.
Then everything went black.
This time, when he fell into void, he didn't fall alone.
System fell with him.
[End of Chapter 16]