Chapter 24
In truth, Gazel never really needed a reason.
Not when it came to killing demons.
He hunted the ones he knew he could face and slaughtered them whether they offended him or not. It was simple. Clean. Honest.
What bothered him was everything else.
Saving a human.
He did not like that.
Gazel believed himself selfish by nature. Other people's lives did not matter much to him. Stepping in earlier should not have happened at all. It was a mistake. One he had no intention of repeating.
Killing the demon now would mean avenging the human it tried to eat.
That did not sit well with him.
So he had decided to leave.
He truly had.
Then the demon healed its shattered skull in the most disgusting way possible.
Flesh crawled. Bone knitted. Wet sounds filled the air.
Gazel lost his appetite.
And worse.
His dinner was ruined.
For someone as prideful and overbearing as him, that was reason enough.
The demon did not hesitate. Whether it understood Gazel's words or not did not matter. Its eyes burned with maddening frenzy as it lunged forward with terrifying speed.
Gazel dodged easily.
No relief crossed his face. Feeling relieved in a fight against a demon was the fastest way to die.
The instant he avoided the first lunge, he dropped low. Two other limbs tore through the air where his head had been moments ago.
Got you.
He surged upward, knife flashing. The blade pierced cleanly through the demon's neck. One clean cut more and the head would come off.
Then the demon moved.
All four of its limbs twisted at once. Before Gazel could react, they wrapped around his arm, locking his knife in place. Two more coiled around his neck.
The fight turned ugly.
Gazel strained, trying to slice through with his unnaturally sharp blade. The demon held his hand still while tightening its grip around his throat.
It was trying to kill him.
Gazel pushed forward.
The strength he possessed far exceeded what someone his size should have. Stronger than most grown men. Possibly twice as strong.
Still, the knife would not go through.
Worse.
Air was leaving his lungs.
Pressure crushed his throat. His windpipe screamed in protest. If this continued, it would break.
Two options.
Force the blade through and hope the demon dies first.
Or die before it does.
No matter how tempting the gamble was, Gazel was not ready to stake his life on it.
He released the knife.
With both hands, he tore the demon's grip from his neck. His legs twisted upward at an unnatural angle, muscles coiling with explosive power.
He slammed his heel straight into the demon's head.
The impact launched them both off the ground.
They crashed into a pile of garbage several meters away, debris scattering violently.
Gazel staggered back, clutching his neck, skin red and bruised from the strangling. He sucked in painful breaths.
Slowly, his breathing steadied.
He straightened.
For a moment, he wanted to believe it was over.
He had struck the demon where it mattered. Even through the pain, his attack should have ripped the head apart. That should have ended it.
But reality was rarely that kind.
The pile of garbage exploded outward.
A screech tore through the night.
The demon rose.
Grotesque. Whole.
Its head was intact, as if it had never been torn apart at all.
Gazel clicked his tongue.
"Figures," he muttered. "Advantages of being a demon."
The creature's eyes burned brighter with rage as it lunged again.
Gazel moved too.
This time, neither backed down.
Steel and flesh clashed under the moonlight.
Instinct met instinct.
Not as a boy.
Not as prey.
But as a seasoned battle veteran.
Gazel did not have any flashy martial skills or refined weapon techniques.
No elegant forms. No legendary manuals.
Just a knife. Just his fists. And just enough skill to not die first.
He had been hunting demons for over four years now. That did not make it easier. If anything, it made it worse. Every encounter was harrowing. Every fight felt like the last. He had nearly lost his life more times than he could count.
Maybe it was spite. Maybe it was hatred. Or maybe it was because he had no idea what else to do with his life.
Whatever the reason, he kept hunting them.
He kept fighting. He kept killing.
Dragged himself out of battles shredded and bleeding, one step away from death every single time.
He must have been extremely lucky. Or a damn cockroach.
The fact that he was still alive was not proof of success. It was proof of suffering.
Self-inflicted suffering.
Near-death battles had sharpened him. He did not have the smooth edge of a trained master or a polished weapon. He had the rough edge of a hunter. A survivor.
Every strike was treated as fatal. Every attack carried killing intent, or the intent to create an opening to kill. The two were the same.
That was the only way to fight demons.
Stabbing their hearts meant nothing. Ripping them open meant nothing. Hesitation meant becoming their meal.
Years of experience hardened his will as much as his body.
Then his body slammed into a building.
The impact detonated through the street with a deafening boom.
Gazel crumpled, pain flooding every nerve. He had been doing this for years. He was stronger now. Smarter. More skilled.
So why was it still a gamble?
He pushed himself up shakily. Blood dripped down his face. His vision blurred, then slowly cleared. He looked down at himself.
He was worse off than he thought.
Slashes covered his body. His clothes were torn. His skin was split open. He looked like a corpse that had clawed its way back to life.
He looked up.
The demon was in worse shape.
Three of its arms were severed, though new ones were already crawling out of the stumps. Its legs were nearly sliced apart, hanging by mangled flesh, yet it still stood. Still moved.
That alone felt wrong.
Gazel stared at it calmly.
Then he grinned. Wide. Twisted.
"Guess you had it rougher than me," he said hoarsely. "Guess I'm a meal you shouldn't have tried to eat."
The demon did not answer.
It just kept muttering.
"Treat. Treat."
Then it lunged.
Gazel groaned inwardly. He had hoped to stall. To breathe. To recover just a little.
That hope died instantly.
Smart demons were dangerous. But dumb ones, driven by pure hunger, were worse.
He exhaled slowly.
Then he charged straight at it.
The street shattered beneath their feet as they crashed together.
To be continued...