Two or three hits to his head should finish him off, He calculated, his eyes cold and focused as he tracked Desmond's dwindling health points.
Desmond's instincts screamed a warning. He dodged the second projectile with a quick tilt of his head, only to see another javelin racing toward his exposed side.
His head spun as his body screamed in agony, his health bar hovering dangerously low.
Blood dripped from the jagged hole in his helmet, streaking down his face as the sharp edges of Hot Dance's second javelin punctured through his left ear.
He didn't have time to focus on the pain; his survival instincts roared louder than the agony.
Desperate to regain control, he pivoted on his heel, spinning rapidly to balance himself.
The movement sent a fresh wave of pain shooting through his skull, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward.
In the same motion, he hurled the katana in his right hand with all the strength his battered body could muster.
The blade spun violently, its edge catching the dim light as it tore through the air, hurtling straight toward Hot Dance.
It's his last-ditch effort, Hot Dance thought, his eyes narrowing as the deadly projectile closed in. I just have to defend this and he would be dead.
Instinctively, Hot Dance raised his arms to shield himself, angling his body to protect both his chest and part of his face.
"Wrong move," Desmond growled, his voice a guttural rasp.
Without missing a beat, he hurled the katana in his left hand with equally deadly precision.
"What the hell!" Hot Dance shouted, panic overtaking his voice as Dreamscape's first katana sliced cleanly through his Jem Armor and his right arm before embedding itself in his neck.
His health points plummeted—forty-five points gone in an instant from his previous sixty seven points.
He staggered, choking on his breath as blood seeped from his neck wound.
"How can hi—"
His sentence ended in silence as Desmond's second katana reached its target.
The blade ripped through Hot Dance's helmet, the force shattering its reinforced plating.
The weapon drove deep into his skull, splintering bone and obliterating the last remnants of his health bar.
Hot Dance's form flickered and disintegrated into shimmering particles, vanishing into the simulated forest.
Desmond stood frozen, his chest heaving as the adrenaline coursing through his veins began to ebb.
He reached up and pulled off his helmet, letting the cool air touch his bloodied face.
He directed his gaze towards the health bar displayed above his head.
(Health: 4/100)
"Too close," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.
He let out a shaky breath, his grip on reality loosening as exhaustion took hold.
The forest around him dissolved, replaced by the sterile white of the simulation chamber.
His body sagged, knees threatening to buckle under him.
But as the simulation notifications flickered into view, a wave of relief washed over him as he read through them.
(Enemy Eliminated: +100 League Points)
(Stone League: 200/700)
His gaze lingered on the points, the number a reminder of how close he'd come to losing it all.
Before he could fully process his victory, another notification appeared, glowing faintly above the first.
[Mission Passed]
[Reward: +3 Strength, +3 Agility, +3 Stamina, +3 Constitution, +1 Affinity]
Desmond let out a slow, shaky breath as the white enclosed space materialized around him once more.
The simulated forest and the chaos of battle dissolved, replaced by the sterile void. His body was still trembling, echoes of pain flaring through his nerves as his brain struggled to process the trauma.
He stood motionless for a moment, staring into the endless white expanse.
The pain isn't real, he told himself.
It was a mantra, a lifeline as he forced his mind to accept what his eyes now showed him: there was no blood, no javelin piercing his chin, no katana in his hand.
The simulation seemed to sense his struggle.
With a subtle twist, the space shifted, his perspective flipping upside down.
He found himself standing on the ceiling, looking "down" at the floor below—a disorienting yet oddly calming effect.
The shift worked. The surreal position made his body accept what logic had been telling him all along: None of this is real. And neither is the pain.
After a minute, the phantom aches ebbed away, leaving Desmond steady on his feet once more.
Kenny, his thoughts called forth, his eyes hazy from exertion. Would the M134 Minigun I envisioned have worked against Felix?
The question gnawed at him, unresolved since his clash with Hot Dance. It wasn't just about his victory—it was about understanding the limitations of his gift and his strategy.
Kenny's voice echoed in his mind, calm as always.
[You already have your answer, Desmond. Without a certain level of familiarity, you can never envision what you desire]
Desmond mulled over the response. The answer was blunt, but it made sense.
"Felix would be so mad if he learned of this," he muttered, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he pulled up the leaderboard panel for the Stone League.
The rankings flickered into view, his position highlighted in faint blue.
(202. Dreamscape: 200/700)
His gaze lingered on the number, a mixture of satisfaction and frustration swirling in his chest.
Satisfaction for his steady progress, and frustration for how close he was to losing.
"If Winter had fired properly, I would've ended the battle dozens of seconds earlier," he grumbled, his tone laced with annoyance.
Determined not to repeat the same mistake, he navigated to the armory panel, which displayed every hot weapon available to him in the simulation.
One by one, he selected each gun, inspecting their intricate details, memorizing their parts, and summoning them into existence to test their functionality.
The sterile white space around him became a controlled testing ground as he cycled through the arsenal.
"Constitution really does play a huge role in the mental and emotional state of the body," Desmond murmured, his voice edged with surprise as he realized how quickly he was committing each weapon's structure to memory.
His mind felt sharper, his focus more precise than it ever was in the world outside Crown of Glory.
Holding the sniper rifle, Hades, he let his fingers trace its sleek barrel. A thought crept into his mind.
If I could get close enough to an opponent and envision Hades right in front of their head… instant death. Not even someone wearing level two Jem Armor could survive that.
The idea was brutal but efficient. The rifle's raw power wasn't something to take lightly.