Whether it was due to his own hubris or blind faith in his ability, the young man dared to look again.
His eyes burned as his aura-sight pierced the being standing before him and all he could see was death. It surged like black ichor, thick and endless, spilling outward in waves that drowned everything else. There was no humanity left in that shape, no warmth, no soul he could reason with.
Only extinction.
"I have to kill you here and now," he said, raising his curved bone dagger, forcing his trembling hand to steady. His grip was slick with sweat and blood. "If I don't… something far worse will happen."
Xavax smiled, his sharp teeth catching the dim light, his expression one of quiet amusement. "That's the spirit," he said softly. "Come at me with all you've got."
The young man dashed forward without a moment's hesitation. A part of him screamed that it was a trap, that every instinct begged him to turn and run but he couldn't. Not after what he had seen. Not after confirming what stood before him.
He ignored the burning agony radiating from where his arm had once been, the blood loss making his vision blur at the edges. He moved anyway.
At the last second, he threw a feint and dashed to the side, expecting retaliation, expecting something.
There was none.
Even as he drove his dagger into the side of his opponent, there was no reaction. No flinch. No resistance beyond the unnatural hardness of flesh. Fear surged through him, and he leapt backward, placing distance between them as his heart hammered violently in his chest.
"That's not possible," he said, breath ragged. "Why are you still standing? My dagger has poison enchantments."
Xavax spoke calmly, his voice flat and unbothered.
"Strike One."
There was no emotion in those words. That terrified him more than any roar ever could.
Gritting his teeth, the young man charged again, pouring everything he had into the second attack. He thrust the bone dagger into his opponent's ribcage with all his strength—
—and it felt like stabbing adamantine steel.
Pain jolted up his arm. His eyes widened as dread settled deep in his gut.
"Strike Two."
"Shit!" the young man stumbled back, cursing under his breath. His second chance was gone. One remained.
This time, he didn't rush in.
He watched.
Observed.
He asked himself whether the thing before him was even human. Whether it could even be killed at all. If it could, it wouldn't have granted him three strikes so casually.
There had to be meaning to this. A reason.
'Why did my ability lead me here?' he thought desperately. 'If I don't kill this thing… the world will be in danger.'
A renewed sense of purpose ignited within him, heavy and crushing. He felt chosen. Burdened. Elevated and condemned all at once.
He had been gifted the Unholy Eyes an attribute meant to seek out evil and erase it from existence. This was his trial. His judgment.
All he had to do was commit.
Fully.
He focused on Xavax.
The being didn't move. Arms still open. Gaze indifferent.
That was when he saw it.
"The neck," he whispered. "If I cut the neck deep enough, he'll bleed out. That's my only chance."
He tightened his grip on the dagger, knowing this was his final chance not just because it was his third strike, but because his body was failing. Blood loss had already begun to claim him.
'Don't miss,' he told himself. 'Strike true. You were chosen for this.'
He ran forward as if guided by a divine hand. Every step carried purpose. His vision sharpened. His heart thundered so violently it hurt. The enchantments on the dagger hummed, as if reassuring him.
He swung.
The blade sliced cleanly through the soft flesh of Xavax's neck, cutting deep, severing vessels, tearing through muscle until it struck bone. He tried to push further, but the dagger would not budge.
It didn't matter.
It was enough.
Blood should have poured. Poison should have spread.
He stepped back, breathing heavily, admiring what he believed was the end.
Then—
"Strike Three."
The words shattered him like glass exploding into several million fragments..
Xavax smiled wider, something ancient and cruel flickering behind his eyes. He reached up slowly, wrapped his fingers around the dagger lodged in his neck, and pulled it free with ease, tossing it aside.
Before it hit the ground, the young man watched in horror as the wound sealed itself shut, smooth and unblemished, as if it had never existed.
"No…" he whispered.
He turned and ran.
Crying. Wailing.
"No, it can't be! That was my divine purpose! This can't be, I don't want to die!"
He didn't get far.
A hand impaled him through the chest, halting him instantly. His body shuddered violently as ribs shattered like brittle twigs. The hand emerged from the front of his chest, drenched in blood.
Clutched within it—
—was his still-beating heart.
He stared at it in disbelief, wondering if fear alone was what kept it pumping so violently.
Then it slipped from Xavax's grasp and fell to the ground.
His vision dimmed.
His body followed.
Xavax stood over the corpse for several seconds, breathing in deeply, a look of nostalgia crossing his face.
"Oh," he murmured, smiling, "how I've forgotten the smell of blood after all these years."