Surfacing in the main cave chamber, Lysander looked around.
Combat was already underway, with Crazy rampaging through the horde of people trying to kill him. Crazy's handsome features were marred by a manic expression, and his black hair was matted with dried blood.
Lysander, however, focused on Crazy's footwork. It was as confusing as ever, constantly shifting in impossible movements. It seemed as if Crazy's tendons could stretch infinitely and bend at inhuman angles. Lys flinched every time the man made these movements, feeling pangs of phantom pain in his ankles just from witnessing the feats.
Lys was no combat expert — quite the opposite, in fact. In his previous life, he was a gamer, and the closest experience he had with combat was watching boxing tournaments on television, thanks to his dad, who enjoyed them during dinner.
Despite this lack of experience, Lys knew without a doubt that Crazy's punches and kicks were humanly impossible.
By now, Lys's vision had fully adapted to the darkness, allowing him to distinguish the basic shapes and textures of objects and gauge their speed. Crazy's movements, however, remained the sole exception. They were rapid and wild, like bursts of wind, giving no one a chance to intercept him.
Whenever Crazy slowed down to engage with an opponent, it seemed he needed little more than a single blow, whether a punch or a kick, to defeat them, often inflicting severe injury or death.
Laughing dryly, Lys observed as the confidence he had built up over the last few days — boosted by a full stomach and the powers he had gained — melted away rapidly.
Well, he thought, it was lucky that I wasn't planning on charging to my own death like a fool. Lysander noticed that, with the disparity between his own speed and Crazy's nimble movements being as vast as heaven and earth, he would have to find ways to limit the effect of that on his own combat.
A few options Lys could consider were narrow spaces with less room to manoeuvre, which could be found prominently along the walls of the main cave chamber, or mossy and wet places that forced one to be more careful in placing their foot.
Lysander immediately chose the former. Crazy is more likely to be more precise and controlled in his footwork than mine. The probability of him slipping before me is nigh impossible.
He looked around the periphery, searching for a suitable crack. If he had to confront the lethal danger posed by Crazy, he might as well do it on his own terms.
Finding a crack that was neither too deep — small enough to prevent Crazy from capitalising on his movement speed — nor too shallow to allow him to deal any damage proved to be a manageable challenge. Soon, he spotted a suitable opening, slightly elevated and clear of stalagmites near a corner. Sprinting toward it, he casually snatched a sword from the corpse of a nearby victim.
Sorry, Lysander thought with a dry internal laugh, unable to believe that he was actually attempting this insane plan. Rest in peace, but I'll need it more than you do.
Lysander grasped the sword firmly in his hand. Fortunately, the opening he found was large enough for him to swing the sword freely. Although he had no formal training in swordplay, he figured it would deal more damage than his fists.
Without the sword, his reach would be similar to Crazy's, but Crazy would undoubtedly exploit that range more effectively than Lysander could. Barefoot, he practised a few basic sword movements — a swing, a horizontal slash, and a thrust — while he awaited the inevitable charge, knowing that Crazy would deliberately seek out the acolytes hiding in the shadows.
The centre of the cave was chaotic, littered with battered bodies. An eerie silence had fallen over the cave, as the bravest, loudest, and perhaps most foolish members of the attack group had already been dealt with by Crazy. They now lay as either dead or incapacitated victims.
Those left behind were typically weak acolytes who hadn't fought back and had silently endured the beating. Sounds of heavy breathing echoed softly in the dim cave; the breaths were wet and uneven, filled with fear and pain.
Then, a soft clicking sound reached Lysander's ears. It took him a moment to realise it was a jaw trying to clench around a set of broken teeth.
Lysander stood at the edge of his crack in the wall, half inside and half exposed, with the longsword clenched in both hands.
His grip was probably too tight because his fingers ached, and his joints felt strained, but he did not loosen them. He feared the sword might slip from his grasp, or that his hands might shake badly enough for Crazy to notice.
Forcing himself to calm down, Inhale, he thought to himself, exhaled.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
Over and over again
Lys repeated this until he felt calm enough to slip into a hyper-aware state of mind.
Then Crazy turned around.
The motion was neither fast nor startled. Crazy simply turned as if he had always known Lysander was there and had decided that now was the moment to acknowledge him.
Their eyes met across the cave.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Crazy tilted his head, studying him still with a morbid smile on his face. Lysander felt it like pressure, like fingers probing at the inside of his skull, a smile also tugging at his own lips despite the feat, threatening to spill out. His heartbeat was loud enough that he wondered if it echoed.
Don't move, the Voices said, overlapping and echoing each other.
Don't blink.
Don't look away.
His legs burned from holding still. His old injuries throbbed dully beneath the adrenaline, a reminder that his body was still broken and one bad hit away from collapse. He calmed his mind and pulled on the edge of his new power, peeling away the pain, partly alleviating his focus.
The sword felt heavier by the second, as if the cave itself were pulling it down.
Crazy's mouth curved upward.
"Well," Crazy said lightly, stepping away from the bodies. "You didn't run this time."
Running away is cowardice! A Voice agreed. Glory in death! Glory in battle!
So he was aware of that last time, Lys thought, when I deliberately avoided combat.
The normal, casual tone of Crazy's voice made Lysander's stomach drop. It sounded far too calm for someone standing in the middle of a slaughter.
Lysander swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, and the motion hurt, so he remained silent.
Crazy took a step toward him.
Lysander's heart slammed harder in his chest. His instincts screamed at him to move, to retreat, to put distance between them, but he forced himself to stay planted.
Another step brought Crazy closer, close enough for Lysander to see the dark flecks on his skin and the way blood had dried in the creases of his knuckles.
Lysander's arms trembled.
He hated that most of all — the betrayal of his own body. The fear was there, cold and sharp, sitting beneath his ribs. Knowing that Crazy had a supernatural ability to incite fear in his enemies only heightened the challenge of facing him directly, without the chaos of multiple people around.
Lysander clenched his jaw until it hurt, forcing the tremor down into his shoulders instead. Crazy stopped just outside the crack in the wall where Lysander stood.
"You're holding it wrong," mused Crazy.
Lysander exhaled slowly, his breath fogging faintly in the cool air.
Crazy stepped forward again, deliberately slow, giving Lysander time to react. To run. To make a mistake.
Lysander tightened his grip and raised the sword fully now, the point angled toward Crazy's chest. His arms screamed in protest. Pain flared again, dizzying, but he pushed it away and locked his eyes on Crazy's centre of gravity.
If you charge, you die, the Voices collectively cheered.
If you hesitate, you die.
If you miss, you—
Crazy stopped an arm's length away.
He stood there, the space between them thin and electric. Lysander could smell him now — blood, steel, and something else, something sharp and unfamiliar.
Crazy leaned in slightly, his eyes bright.
"Go on," he said. "Show me what you learned."
Lysander's breath hitched despite himself. The ghost of a smile, manic, comparable to Crazy's crept up his face involuntarily.
Crazy shifted his stance.
It was subtle, almost lazy. His left hand drifted forward, palm half-open, fingers loose. His right hovered near his chest, neither clenched nor relaxed, as if he hadn't yet decided what shape it would need to take. His feet settled apart, knees bent just enough to absorb motion, weight balanced on his feet.
It was merely suppressed and contained violence.
Lysander swallowed.
He's coming.
He forced his breathing steady and pushed down on the pressure blooming behind his eyes.
The pain suppression answered immediately, dulling the screaming protests of muscle and bone into something distant and manageable — like hearing agony through thick walls.
One thing at a time. Stay upright. Stay conscious.
Crazy vanished from where he stood.
Lys barely registered the movement before a hand appeared inches from his face. He lurched sideways on instinct, boots scraping stone, and immediately regretted it as Crazy planted himself and snapped a kick into Lys's ribs.
Lys brought his arm up, twisting his body into the blow instead of away. The impact still rattled him, but he wasn't sent flying. Bone groaned. Something inside his arm protested sharply—
Then nothing.
Forcefully peeling away the pain, the power consumed it all. The Voices exploded with murmurs of incoherent laughter.
Crazy's knee followed instantly, slamming into Lys's side. Lys barely wedged his arms between them before the force folded him and sent him rolling across the ground. He hit hard, breath exploding from his lungs.
Crazy was already there.
A falling kick screamed down toward Lys's head.
He rolled again — clumsy, desperate, his body moving a fraction too slow. The kick struck stone where his skull had been a heartbeat earlier.
Too close. A Voice said, Faster next time, like the winds.
Lys kept moving, perhaps not enough to qualify as running, but rolling, scrambling, forcing distance whenever he could.
Sometimes he avoided the strikes entirely. Sometimes they landed, and every hit added weight, stole air, blurred his vision.
Without the suppression, he would've been dead from the pain alone, he was sure.
Crazy rushed for a reaction from his opponents, and failing to do so properly would kill you with the slightest mistake. Each movement flowed into the next — punch into kick, kick into knee, knee into elbow.
When Lys dodged wide, the follow-up punished him. When he dodged clean, the next strike came faster, harder, as if offended by the correction.
He's not serious, Lys realised dimly. He's just toying around to see what I have.
A punch glanced off Lys's shoulder. He ducked low, felt a knee pass over his head—
—and a high kick came down.
His arms snapped up just in time. Something cracked. He dropped to one knee, the impact shuddering through his frame.
Pain surged.
Lys shoved it down.
Pattern, he told himself. Find the pattern.
Crazy didn't let him breathe. A straight punch drove into Lys's chest and sent him skidding backward across the ground. He hit a stone and slid to a stop, vision swimming.
Punch. Kick. Knee. High kick, Lys catalogued. Then—
Crazy was already there, elbow cutting toward his jaw. Lys leaned back just enough to let it pass—
—and took a shoulder to the ribs that crushed the air from him.
Every time. Straight lines. Sequences.
The assault didn't relent. Hands struck like blades. Open palms twisted something deep inside him, leaving his organs aching in ways bone couldn't explain.
Elbows shattered his guard. And knees folded him like wet paper. Once, Crazy hooked him and slammed him into the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth.
Through it all, Crazy never looked strained.
And worse—
He was watching.
"You're quieter this time," Crazy said lightly as Lys staggered back to his feet. "Pain suppression? What a peculiar ability. How come you were able to call upon it without a spirit?"
Lys didn't answer. He didn't understand what Crazy was saying, and he didn't like wasting breath.
Crazy smiled. "I could lift it, you know. Like how I did that for the first time three days ago."
The words hit harder than any strike.
"But," Crazy continued, circling, "I won't. Not yet. This is more interesting."
Lys's jaw tightened.
He tried it again — the same state as before. Focus inward to find that destructive vision of reality, whereby anything felt they would break under his touch with the right blow to the right spot.
Narrow down the world. Reach for that strange clarity that had let him see Crazy's weakness once.
Nothing.
The moment slipped through his fingers like smoke.
Damn it.
Crazy lunged. Lys dodged left, too slow. A kick hammered into his side and sent him stumbling.
I can't force it, Lys realized grimly. I can't recreate that state.
His foot caught on uneven stone. He pitched forward, barely catching himself.
Crazy raised his hand—
And Lys had a thought so sudden it almost knocked him senseless.
If I can't see his weakness… Then I'll use mine.
The inspection surged inward instead of out.
His vision dimmed, then sharpened—not on Crazy, but on himself.
His body unfolded in his mind like a map of fractures, strain lines, stress points. Bruised ribs. Overworked joints. A single spot near his collarbone, already compromised, already screaming beneath the suppression.
There.
Crazy moves.
Of course he did.
His strike came exactly where it always came — precise, inevitable, cruelly efficient.
Straight toward the weak point. Lys stepped away.
He twisted at the last instant, letting the blow skim where it would have shattered him, and drove his shoulder forward at the same time. It wasn't strong, nor fast. Instead, it was—
Timed.
His forearm caught Crazy's wrist. His other hand snapped out with his sword, striking where Crazy's guard should have been if Lys hadn't baited him.
For the first time—
Crazy had to block.
The impact sent Lys to his knees. The suppression flickered. His vision tunnelled. But Crazy didn't follow up.
He looked down at Lys, eyes alight — not with anger, but with something close to delight.
"…Hah," Crazy murmured. "So that's how you did it."
Lys sucked in a ragged breath, barely conscious.
"A counter," Crazy continued, almost approving. "Using yourself as the bait."
He stepped back.
"Survive a little longer," he said. "I want to see what you become."
Then he was gone.
Lys collapsed forward, body finally giving in now that the danger had passed. Pain surged back like a tide he could no longer hold.
But through the haze, one thought remained sharp and burning.
I struck him.