The fight was ugly from the start.
Not heroic. Not clean. Just survival stretched thin across too much open floor.
The room was big—wider than the pantry, with uneven stone and enough space to move if I kept my head. I used every inch of it. Kept circling. Kept my back to open air instead of walls. Forced them to chase instead of corner.
The Frog Shooter didn't move from its position near the main exit. Just sat there, massive and patient, blocking the only clear path out like a living barricade. Its eyes tracked me, but it didn't act. Not yet.
It was waiting.
Four goblins spread wide, staying low, darting in and out to test my flanks. Two kobolds circled higher, claws ready, looking for openings whenever I committed to a strike.
But they weren't the real problem.
The real problem stood at the center.
Two War Shadows.
Tall. Silent. Patient.
Claws longer than my forearm, moving in smooth, deliberate arcs. They didn't rush. Didn't need to. They advanced in sync, cutting off angles, herding me like prey.
And near the edges of the room, at least four more War Shadows lingered in the dark—the same ones that had trapped me in the pantry.
Watching.
Waiting for me to slow down.
Waiting for exhaustion to do their work for them.
The first War Shadow stepped forward.
I shifted my weight, angled the blade, and met it head-on.
It swiped high. I ducked low and drove the sword up toward its ribs.
It twisted—faster than I expected—and my blade scraped harmlessly off its side.
A goblin lunged from my left.
I spun, caught it across the chest with a backswing. It dropped.
The second War Shadow came in immediately, claw sweeping horizontally.
I jumped back. Barely. Felt the air split in front of my face.
A kobold leapt from my right.
I sidestepped, brought the blade down across its shoulder. Not deep. It shrieked and staggered back, bleeding but mobile.
Injured. Not dead.
Mistake.
The War Shadows adjusted.
Stopped testing. Started pressing.
One came from the left, claws high. The other from the right, low and fast.
I twisted between them, blade flashing in short, desperate arcs. Blocked one claw. Redirected another.
A goblin charged my back.
I spun, caught it mid-stride, and drove the sword through its neck.
Two goblins dead now.
But I was breathing harder. Arms burning. The weight of the sword felt heavier with every swing.
The War Shadows noticed.
They split wider. Circling. Forcing me to track both at once.
A kobold darted in from behind.
I turned too late. Claws raked across my forearm—shallow, burning—and I hissed through my teeth.
First blood.
The War Shadows pressed harder.
One feinted left. I committed. The other came in from the right, claw aimed for my ribs.
I twisted, barely avoided the strike, and slashed upward. Caught its arm mid-swing.
Clean cut.
The arm hit the ground, blood spraying.
The War Shadow pulled back, but it didn't retreat. Just adjusted. Kept circling with one arm like it didn't matter.
A goblin lunged.
I sidestepped and caught it across the side. It collapsed.
Three goblins dead.
But my shoulder ached. My legs were heavy. Vision tunneling at the edges.
The second kobold came in fast—claws aimed for my throat.
I ducked, drove the blade up through its ribs.
It dropped.
Two kobolds dead.
But I was slowing.
And they knew it.
They were bleeding my strength away, inch by inch.
The War Shadows started pushing.
Not attacking all at once. Just enough pressure to move me incrementally.
Left. Back. Left again.
Towards the Frog Shooter.
I realized it too late.
The tongue shot out—thick, muscled, faster than I expected—and wrapped around my sword arm before I could pull back.
Tight. Wet. Crushing.
Panic spiked.
I brought the blade down hard with my free hand, hacking at the tongue halfway down its length. Once. Twice.
It severed.
The Frog Shooter wailed—a sound that rattled the stone—and recoiled, its bulk jerking backward as blood sprayed across the floor.
But I'd stopped moving for a second.
And a War Shadow didn't miss its chance.
The claw came from my right.
I saw it. Tried to twist.
Not fast enough.
It raked across my back—deep, burning, splitting skin and muscle in one clean line.
My vision whited out for a second. Legs buckled. I caught myself on instinct, forced them straight, but the sword dipped.
Blood ran hot down my spine.
Big cut.
No. No. No—
The War Shadow stepped back, claws dripping red, and the others closed in tighter.
The last goblin charged.
I sidestepped—barely—and drove the blade through its side. It collapsed.
Four goblins dead. Two kobolds dead. One War Shadow missing an arm.
But I was done.
Exhausted. Bleeding. Vision blurring at the edges.
My back screamed with every breath.
And the War Shadows in the back finally moved.
All four of them.
Stepping forward. Slowly. Methodically.
Six War Shadows now.
Circling.
And for the first time since I'd entered this world, no joke came to mind.
No sarcastic quip. No self-roasting commentary to make it feel less real.
Just silence.
And in that silence, I realized something.
I'd been making jokes because I was scared.
The whole time.
Since the moment I opened my eyes in this world.
This dungeon didn't just intrigue me.
It terrified me.
And my mind had been trying to cope the only way it knew how.
By roasting itself into numbness.
The first War Shadow lunged.
I raised the blade. Blocked. Impact jolted through my arms.
The second came from the side.
Predictable pattern.
I twisted, redirected, slashed across its shoulder. Shallow. Not enough.
The third came low.
I jumped back. Stumbled. Caught myself.
The fourth stepped in.
Claw sweeping wide.
I brought the blade up to block—
Crack.
The sword snapped.
Clean break. Right at the hilt.
The jagged metal stayed in my hand. The rest clattered to the stone.
I stared at it. Breath ragged. Vision swimming.
The War Shadows stopped.
All six.
Then stepped forward.
Synchronized.
That unusual sound of their finger blades clattering together bloomed like a lilium of death—the hush before a shikigami's scythe fell.
This was it.
I raised the broken hilt. Useless. Pathetic.
They closed in.
My life flashed before my eyes.
"That sword. Might break any time. Find new."
Her word's...
This is it. I guess...
Then I heard it.
A voice. Young. Desperate. Panicked.
"STOP!"
Footsteps. Fast. Light.
A white-haired kid came around the corner, guild-issued short sword in hands, red eyes wide with panic and determination.
He didn't hesitate. Didn't stop to assess.
Just charged straight into the War Shadows with the kind of reckless bravery I'd only ever read about.
Bell Cranel.
Of course.
Saved by the protagonist.
I almost laughed.
Almost.
He was small. Scrawny, even. The sword in his hands looked too big for him, and his armor was the kind the Guild handed out to beginners who couldn't afford better.
Pathetic, really.
But he moved like he didn't know that.
Threw himself between me and the War Shadows without a second thought, blade raised, shoulders squared, ready to die if that's what it took.
Still pathetic.
But better than dying alone, I guess.
---
Author's Note:
Loving a world and living in it are not the same thing.