Blood dripped from his hands, and wounds covered his skin. It was already late afternoon, and Oliver had no idea how many snake-men had met their end at the edge of his blood-soaked ivory fang.
"I can't take it anymore... I've been walking this damn path for hours and all I see is more of those fucking things."
The trees had shifted, standing side by side like a massive wooden corridor, and their thick canopies allowed more and more sunlight to break through. The heat was overwhelming, even with the sun close to setting.
Hunger and exhaustion were pressing down on him, but he had to keep going. Even if there was just the slightest chance Aline was still alive, he had to check. He forced his body forward, step after step, until eventually the wooden corridor opened up.
Any good RPG player would've recognized what had formed ahead. The trees were arranged in a circular formation, and another path emerged on the opposite side.
"Clearly a mini-boss arena..." Oliver muttered with bitter sarcasm.
His suspicion was confirmed the moment four hooded men stepped out from the tree shadows. He was beginning to believe this cursed forest could summon creatures on a whim—no way all of them had been hiding here this whole time.
"I'm running out of time. You guys gonna give some cliché villain speech or are we doing this?"
The hooded figures exchanged glances, and wooden staffs materialized in their hands. They each took distinct fighting stances, unlike anything Oliver had seen from the snake-men.
"They know what they're doing. These guys are smart... All this time I've just been fighting beasts in human form."
The four closed in on him in perfect sync, flanking him from all sides. His instincts kicked in, and he had no choice but to focus on defense.
Boom!
The first staff whooshed past his face, unleashing a shockwave that exploded against the ground beneath him. Dust erupted everywhere, forming a thick cloud.
"I could barely see that move... And with that kind of power, blocking their attacks might shatter my fang."
Fear and anxiety stormed his mind. Three more attacks followed in quick succession, and all he could do was dodge. The air was now dense with dust and flying debris.
It was as if the arena had been bombarded from every angle. These enemies were in a completely different league.
At one point, two of the men boxed him in, attacking simultaneously. He dove under them, barely avoiding their staffs, but didn't notice the third attacker launching his weapon.
The blow struck him square in the abdomen. The world blacked out for a few seconds. When his senses returned, he was sprawled on the ground, meters away, blood dripping from his mouth.
"The price of fighting all day... It's catching up. But I can't lose to these bastards."
He looked at his fang, cracked, bleeding and It still seemed eager to fight. It was like it was speaking to him, urging him not to give up. And so, he didn't.
Drawing a ragged breath, ignoring the burning in his lungs and the searing pain from the earlier impact, he raised the ivory fang and blocked the next strike. His hands tingled from the force, but he held firm.
Bip!
[Primitive]
[Combat: 24 → 30]
The notification lit up on his wrist. The world seemed to slow for just a moment, and Oliver seized it. He drove his fist into the solar plexus of one opponent and pivoted to deliver a kick to another's face. Both went flying.
His breathing was ragged, and his vision blurred from the dust, but he still saw movement ahead. He charged. A precise thrust pierced another attacker's gut before they could react.
Relief flooded him, until another staff came crashing toward his face. The world spun. Blinding pain erupted in his head. Warm blood streamed down.
More attacks came. He blocked them with the fang. With every hit, he felt its resolve, mirroring the same tenacity he'd sensed in the giant snake that had nearly killed him. That moment, back when four monsters almost slaughtered his team, had been his first true fear.
"My team... That's why I'm here, right?"
A fire ignited in his chest. Even if these enemies were stronger, he had people to protect. He couldn't fail now.
When one of the staffs swung down at him, he raised his left forearm and took the blow directly. Pain exploded and his bone cracked.
Gritting through it, he shoved the weapon aside, then with his good hand, drove the fang into the enemy's throat, decapitating them.
The agony clouded his triumph. He thanked every lesson his father taught him about adrenaline, without it, he'd already be dead.
But there was no rest. More strikes came. His left arm now useless, he kept fighting.
The clash of wood, screams, and cracking bones echoed through the dusty haze. He didn't know if it was his own bones breaking or the fang falling apart, but he and it fought on, together.
Finally, the dust began to settle.
Oliver stood alone.
Four corpses lay around him, bloodless. His body was battered, covered in fractures and bruises. The battle had taken its toll. And he had paid it.
After all, Oliver was no longer just the chubby kid.
He was a warrior.