Santvic pulled herself upright, using the blade buried in the ground as a crutch. Her balance wavered; she nearly collapsed again, saved only by keeping her weight pressed into the saber. Now that the hand gripping the hilt could no longer be ignored, the pain finally caught up—climbing from the wrist, up the arm, sharp and invasive. Letting go felt dangerous, as if something worse would follow. The body depended on that grip to remain standing.
"All right. Let me help."
Hallow couldn't suppress a flicker of admiration. The Curator stood with her skin burned raw, slime dripping from clothes and hair, reeking of decay—and still swayed upright, sabre raised, palm bleeding freely. That glare alone could have turned stone. An uncomfortable warmth spread through his chest: pride tangled with shame, threaded through with something dangerously close to joy.
There was no strength left to refuse. A single step forward ended in a near collapse, caught by instinct as the knight steadied her, forcing himself not to recoil from the stench so close.
"It hurts… damn you… it hurts." The words barely held together, teeth clenched hard to keep the sounds down.
"Listen. This'll be good for you. Breathe. I've got you."
"I'll… kill you…" Air came in shallow, ragged pulls.
"The slime's moving. Come on."
Hallow turned her shoulders toward it. The creature was closer now, larger—its bubbling audible, heat rising off its mass. Without the knight directly behind, retreat would have come easily. His grip tightened instead: a silent order. Stay.
Her body obeyed.
A second hand reached for the hilt. He stopped it, catching the wrist before it landed.
"Not like that," he murmured near her ear.
Despite the advancing mass, something steadied. She let him guide the posture: one hand pulled back, torso angled, a single shoulder offered to the target, one foot forward, the other ready to slip aside. The wounded hand remained on the sabre, lifted and aligned as Hallow adjusted the guard.
A marionette, trembling—held upright by something harder than fear.
"Almost perfect," he said. "Would be elegant, if not for the smell."
The urge to stomp his foot flared, quickly abandoned.
"It's coming. Watch how it moves. Don't let fear blind you."
Vision cleared through effort. The slime advanced by heaving its lower mass first, then flinging the rest forward, nearly collapsing into itself as it rolled. Predictable, slow. Mindless.
"…How did it dodge?" The question escaped her. "It only moves forward."
"You're not seeing the Antesystem yet. Every Anthemic beast shares one trick. Know what it is?"
Fear may have hidden it before.
"Dashing."
"Exactly. One chance. You're in guard now. It'll rush—then we answer. Relax. Let me guide you."
A breath in. Another.
The first unnatural shift came—a sharp, dry snap of movement. Closer than ever. Sweat slid cold down her brow. Predator and prey locked into the same moment: hunger without thought pressing against fear held barely in check.
"Don't retreat," Hallow said. Fingers tightened on the hilt. "Wait for the attack."
The slime flashed white.
Both bodies moved as one. A sidestep, guided cleanly aside, leaving empty space behind. The sabre followed through in a swift vertical cut, precise, satisfying. Blue mass tore away from itself, the creature warping in panic to seal the wound.
For a heartbeat, relief almost surfaced.
Then Hallow yanked her back hard. Balance nearly failed. A startled cry escaped as the slime surged into the space they'd just abandoned.
"You think it'll stand there and take it? Wake up!"
Fingers forced her chin up.
"You felt it, didn't you? The flow."
"…I think so. Its… desire."
"The Antesystem pulled you in. That white flash? Dash activation. Lose focus and you lose the sight."
"Does it dash twice? I thought—"
"No. But it'll keep coming if you freeze. It's a slime. That's all it does. Again."
The posture was rebuilt—arm back, guard raised, shoulder angled. Breath drawn. Focus reclaimed. When the slime closed the distance again, it flashed white.This time, movement came without force. A smooth slide aside. The sabre cut through blue flesh; posture recovered instantly. Another advance followed—no flash now, brute momentum. Another sidestep. Another clean slice.
Fatigue crept in. Mud dragged at her feet. Tension gnawed at the stance. Still the slime pressed forward, indifferent. A short hop back created space.
Another parry would fail. Time was needed.
Hallow, still holding the stance, allowed it.
"Perfect, boss. Perfect."
Santvic backed away a few steps, matching the slime's advance. Mud tugged at her boots with every movement. Hallow murmured, low:
"Can I let go?"
She hesitated for a heartbeat; the body wanted to fold. Shoulders straightened, guard restored. This had to be done alone.
"…yes."
Hallow stepped back. The dance began — mud, drizzle, the steel of her saber and the living mass of the beast. Two steps from the creature. One from Santvic. The rhythm was set across the field, attention split between trees, the nearby stream, the swampy ground. Left hand behind her back, blade in guard, one shoulder offered, the other drawn away. Two steps from the beast. One short, measured step from the Curator.
The slime closed in and the world collapsed into focus. A white flash tore through the mass — a dash — and the sharp pull hit her body before thought could form. Santvic slid out of the attack line; a quick cut, the saber slicing through gelatinous flesh. The blade vibrated, heavy, as posture was recovered. The mass recoiled, knitting itself together in haste, fragments left behind. An opening — the creature stepped forward — but Santvic circled fast, another cut ripping through its body.
Wait. Evade. Parry. Repeat. Beat by beat, waiting, evading, parrying, repeating until the guard wavered; then a short leap back, a deep breath stolen.
The slime advanced again, heavier now, its crawl uneven. Two steps from the creature. One retreat from Santvic. Mud splashed. Another white flash — shorter this time. A quick circle, a lateral cut, slime sliding down the edge of the saber. The arm burned as the guard came up; breath slipped from the rhythm she fought to keep. A hop backward, time bought, lungs filled.
Two steps from the creature. One from Santvic. The fencers' symphony.
From a distance, landing a hit on her seemed impossible, but Hallow saw the imbalance — the wounded hand, the fatigue creeping in. Even so, Santvic's focus was absolute. Connected to the beast's flow, sensing impulse before motion, following its cadence, waiting for the mistake. The flash came — and she was already gone. Cut. The slime tried again, too close: a sidestep, another cut. Again. One step. Cut. Wait, evade, parry, repeat.
Unhurried, rhythmic. With every charge, the creature lost mass; its body shrank, its advance warped. Santvic held the guard, saber steady despite the tremor running through her. Victory came one step at a time.
But eventually, the body failed.
The symphony broke when Santvic caught her foot on a thick root hidden beneath the mud. The ground gave way, balance vanished; she rolled across the earth as the world spun in brown and gray. The saber slipped from her grasp and slid away into the mire. Turning her head, she found the beast looming ahead.
The body trembled. Memory surged back—burning skin, suffocation, panic. The slime flared white. Santvic forced her eyes shut, bracing for impact, every muscle shaking at the recollection of pain. Then came the sound: a wet, heavy tear.
Gelatinous flesh being split apart.
When her eyes opened, the bluish mass stood pierced through its center by a wide, gaping hole. The body convulsed, struggling to reform, failing. Without ceremony, it collapsed across the ground, losing shape, dissolving into mud. All that remained was an uneven puddle soaking into the drenched earth.
Santvic shifted her gaze. In the distance, Hallow's sword was embedded deep in the ground, driven there with violent force, still trembling from the throw.
[ VICTORY ]
[ Assist — +100 XP ]
[ 2 points available for distribution. ]
[ Access combat logs for further details. ]
Santvic buried her face in the mud, exhausted. Only then did she realize her glasses were gone.
"Boss," Hallow approached. "Boss."
"Leave me, fool. I'm resting."
The knight looked down at his fallen charge—covered in mud and drizzle, defeated, and still alive. Pride rose again in his chest, pulling a genuine smile from him.
"You need a bath, boss."