The dust blasted from the door still filled the room.
His numb arm had yet to return to its original state.
A voice whispered inside his head.
Use it.
He spun around sharply, his breath caught in his throat.
"Am I losing my mind or what?! Why is that voice talking to me?!"
A growl answered behind him.
Low. Savage.
A mass burst out of the shadows.
Not a dog.
Not a normal beast.
A thing.
Powerful. Twisted. Alive like a nightmare.
Thick claws. Gleaming fangs. Eyes scorched red with rage.
Dark saliva dripped from its open jaw.
The mutant took a heavy step forward, and the ground vibrated.
"I'm fucked… it's going to tear me in half… shit… I don't want to die here!"
Sweat beaded on his forehead. His body trembled under the pressure.
No… I can't run. No way I'm dying here. Not like this. Not without fighting.
If I have to die… it won't be on my knees.
"[Demon Fist]!!!"
Energy erupted from his body — brutal, uncontrollable.
Scarlet filaments coiled around his arm like lines of living fire.
His heart hammered. Too fast. Too hard.
He sucked in a breath, clenched his teeth, and charged.
His veins lit up crimson.
Energy surged through his arm like a discharge ready to rip everything apart.
He pivoted on his feet and threw a punch.
FWOOM!
The air detonated at the moment of impact.
The blow grazed the creature's flank, but the force tore deep into its flesh, spraying dark blood.
The mutant howled and was hurled several meters before slamming into a collapsed wall.
Chunks of stone exploded everywhere.
The impact ripped open the wall behind it.
When the dust settled, the mutant was still standing.
Wounded. Its side torn open. But upright.
"What?! It tanked that?!"
That was everything I had.
He clenched his teeth and stepped back despite himself.
His heart was pounding out of control.
The beast growled, its muscles already tightening again.
It hadn't retreated.
It hadn't hesitated.
It was still coming.
"Shit…"
A violent explosion of earth and dust — the mutant ripped the ground apart as it charged.
It rushed straight at him, each step shattering concrete like glass.
Raw power.
Killing mass.
Unstoppable.
He rolled aside, narrowly avoiding the claws that tore through the ground behind him.
He sprang back up in the same motion, fist already cocked, and struck like a savage aiming to crush its skull.
If this doesn't work… I die.
Fist against skull.
A monstrous impact.
Bone shattered with a dull detonation.
Dark blood splattered the walls. Fragments of bone flew.
The mutant was launched backward and collapsed like an empty carcass.
Not a sound.
Total silence.
Psshhhh…
The dust slowly drifted down.
He stood still for several seconds, breathing hard, fist still extended.
Blood dripped slowly from his knuckles onto the floor.
The metallic stench hit his nose.
His arm trembled.
Not from fear.
But from tension.
From reality.
I did it… I survived.
He stayed bent over, gasping for air.
And the world had just given him its first lesson.
His gaze dropped to his wrist.
The mark was still glowing — darker, heavier, as if it had swallowed something.
A red inscription appeared. Sharp. Cold. Impossible to ignore.
[Demon Fist] — 3/4
He froze.
"What…? It went down?"
It doesn't regenerate…? It's limited?
A cold sweat ran down his spine.
Shit… that means if I use it too much… I'm dead.
And if another monster shows up… what do I do if I've got nothing left?
He scanned his surroundings without blinking.
Danger could come from anywhere.
Don't think about it. Not now.
The days that followed were hell.
No rest.
No respite.
No mercy.
Every night, beasts prowled, drawn by the smell of blood.
Every day, the heat crushed his muscles and hunger gnawed at his gut.
He hunted for days.
Not by instinct.
By necessity.
His first hunt was a failure.
Tracks too fresh.
Exhausted.
Sweat burning his eyes.
He stumbled over a rotting carcass and nearly vomited when he opened the belly of a corpse too old to eat.
But he tried again.
Again.
Again.
Until his eyes learned to read the ground.
One morning, he found tracks almost erased by the dust.
Too wide for a dog.
Too regular for a biped.
He crouched and pressed two fingers into the print.
Warm soil.
Recent.
He followed the trail.
Further ahead, he found a carcass still steaming.
Something had killed here.
Recently.
He understood.
Survival wasn't about strength.
It was about clarity.
Observe.
Track.
Wait.
Strike.
It was no longer luck.
It was a method.
His method.
The mark on his wrist pulsed one last time.
Then fell silent.
As if this world had just taken note of his existence.