Right place. Right time. Right force.
That's all it ever was. Strip away the fancy stances and the names they gave moves to sound clever—fighting was nothing but positioning, power, and timing. Footwork? Just moving yourself to where you needed to be. Technique? Hitting with the right amount of force. All of it came down to knowing when to strike. Get those three right, and you won. Every time.
I released my claws from the stone ceiling, gravity's pull turning into a low whistle as I dropped. The pot-bellied adventurer below didn't even flinch. Not until my claws were through his neck, anyway.
Right place: the soft spot where skin meets muscle and arteries snake through. Right time: when he had no damn clue I was above him, when his eyes were elsewhere, mind off somewhere chasing treasure or tavern girls. The poor bastard fell like a puppet with his strings sliced. Heart stopped shortly after. I stepped over him, wiping my claws without a look back.
Weakness was a sin. I'd already purged the dungeon of four sinners in the past two days—middle-aged, weary souls dragging rusty gear and reeking of cheap ale. Quick kills, maybe even painless. But after a week of this, my already shriveled morality might as well have been nonexistent.
I wanted strength. Killing things made me stronger.
Simple as that.
It wasn't all hack and slash, unfortunately. Word spread fast among humans, especially when life and death were on the line. Rumors flew like wildfire, and nothing burned hotter than the whisper of bodies piling up. Sure, people died in this hole every day—newbies getting mobbed by goblins, amateurs making rookie mistakes. But I couldn't risk going after them; too many adventurers around the first few floors, too many eyes.
So I targeted the bottom-feeders amongst the "veterans". The ones tough enough to get past the seventh floor, but soft enough not to survive my "Death from Above" routine. They had enough sense to carry better gear, enough skill to think they were safe. But their absences didn't go unnoticed—bet their drinking buddies had started whispering.
I could smell the fear creeping in already. Those I passed on the lower levels wore it like a cloak—eyes darting, weapons gripped tighter. The strong? They didn't give a damn. Probably thought it was some overgrown goblin or a hungry monster with a lucky streak. I doubted they suspected a human killer.
No women died, right? Can't be a human killer. At least I hoped so. I made sure to steer clear of them either way, even if they fit my criteria, anyway. No point complicating things.
My thoughts swirled like potion smoke as I gnawed on the sinewy heart of my latest victim. It tasted like all the others—like regret. Like nothing. He'd been worth little, just another stepping stone.
"..."
I didn't sigh, but the urge tugged at me.
Incomplete knowledge—it pissed me off. For all my growing strength, I still didn't know if developmental abilities started at level two by rule or by repetition. It was like trying to read a book with half the pages torn out.
"Doctor W. Moth, your expertise is needed," I muttered, mocking the quiet echo that answered back. The only reply was a weak, dying screech. Typical.
"Indeed, the tenth floor sounds most appetizing… Huh, what's that?"
My elongated ears twitched beneath my helmet, catching the distant shouts. Voices, growing louder.
.
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Golbin ran, each step echoing like a drumbeat in the cavern. Fear sank its claws into his chest, dragging each breath out as a shiver. His legs pumped, darting between pillars of stone that jutted up like the jagged teeth of a giant beast. The humans' footsteps, louder and heavier, kept pounding behind him, their shouts blending with the hiss of his own panting.
They were closing in. He could hear their voices—sharp, barking commands—and their armor clanged, a reminder of the steel they carried. Golbin knew the strength of steel. Knew it could cleave, split, and pierce. The tiny blade in his hand, dull and chipped, felt like a joke in comparison. But it was all he had, and he clutched it with a grip that turned his knuckles pale.
His heart thundered, a storm in his chest. Fear and despair twisted together, tightening, but they couldn't hold him. Not for long. Anger bubbled up, hot and sharp. Who were they to chase him, to hunt him down? He bared his teeth, feeling the edges of them press into his lips.
His muscles coiled. He spun around at the mouth of a narrow passage, his eyes finding the two shapes. The first, broad-shouldered and wrapped in a shell of steel, brandished a longsword that glinted even in the low light. The other, lean and precise, stalked forward with a spear, its point as steady as a wolf's gaze.
Golbin's snarl split the silence. He feinted left, and the spear shot out. He moved like a shadow, diving right, the tip grazing his skin, leaving a red line that stung. But he was in, right beneath the spear's reach, and his dagger flashed out, aiming for the broad-shouldered one's thigh.
Steel sang, and he felt resistance, just a moment, as his blade skimmed leather and flesh. The human jerked back, and Golbin's eyes flashed with triumph. But he wasn't done yet. The human roared, swinging his sword in a broad arc, aiming low. Golbin dropped to the ground, rolling, feeling the wind of the blade pass inches above his head.
The roll wasn't clean. A boot connected with his ribs, and the force sent him sprawling. Stone met his back, and for a heartbeat, everything blurred. The two humans loomed over him, shadows in the dim light. They thought they had him.
Laughter tore from his throat. Harsh, bitter, but alive. He scrambled to his feet, clutching his side. "You want me? Come and get me!" he hissed, voice echoing, but to the humans, it sounded like simple growling, he knew. He darted forward, springing at the spear-wielder again, moving faster this time, his feet a blur.
The spear thrust—a flash of silver—but he knew the move, anticipated it. He slipped past, his body a twist of motion, and then his dagger found flesh. The spear-wielder's eyes went wide as the blade sank into his neck. Warmth sprayed over Golbin's hand, and he bared his teeth, feeling the thrill of it.
But victory was fleeting. The other human moved. The broad sword came down, and this time, it found its mark. Golbin felt the blade slice through skin and bone, felt his own hand, still clutching the dagger, fall away. Blood, hot and bright, gushed from the stump.
He staggered, the world tilting. The cavern spun, the shadows swallowing everything. He dropped to his knees, eyes fixed on his severed hand, still holding the knife. It didn't seem real. The human was shouting, his face twisted with rage, but the words were just noise, he didn't speak Human after all.
Golbin lay back, his body growing heavy. The pool of his own blood spread out, warm and sticky beneath him. He watched the human's sword rise, the torchlight catching the edge. He felt the chill of death creeping in, and yet, there was peace.
"Maybe… next time," he whispered, lips curling into a smile.
The blade fell, and the cave filled with the final, ringing sound of steel.