The sun barely filtered through the dense canopy, turning the forest floor into a damp, shadowed hell. The air, heavy and saturated with the stench of rot and wet earth, clung to the skin.
Dylan panted, the sword too heavy in his sweaty hand, his muscles burning. In front of him, the beast—a disgusting cross between a boar and a scorpion, with a slobbering snout and a stinger snapping the air with a deadly hiss—scraped the ground with its hooves.
"So, my little bag of bones? Waiting for a written invitation?"
Julius was leaning lazily against a tree a dozen ters away, a twig between his teeth. He didn’t look the least bit concerned.
"It’s gonna charge!" Dylan shouted, his voice strangled by panic.
"Great. Bigger target. Drop your shoulders, hold your weapon like you want to hit, not like you’re giving it a gift."
The beast charged. A massive lump of muscle and rage, straight at him. Dylan wanted to flee, but his feet felt nailed to the ground.
"Wrist! Twist your wrist when you step forward, for fuck’s sake! This isn’t a village dance!"
The absurd command flashed through his mind like lightning. Instead of backing away, he stepped forward, twisting his wrist like an idiot. The blade, awkwardly angled, struck the beast’s flank instead of missing completely. A dull shock rippled through his arm. The beast, more surprised than wounded, grunted and veered aside, its stinger barely missing Dylan.
"There. Not as good as I’d hoped, but it’s a start. Now finish the job before it realizes you just got lucky."
Fear was acid in his veins. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the sword. The beast circled him, more cautious now, its small, black eyes gleaming with malice.
"It’s... it’s waiting for to move..."
"Bravo, you can read monster minds now. Listen, kid. If you don’t have the guts to strike to live, then die quick. I don’t have ti to wait around."
Suddenly, Dylan tripped on a treacherous root. He crashed into the mud, the sword flying from his hands. The beast saw its opening. It leapt, stinger aid at his chest.
"Julius!"
Julius let out an exaggerated sigh and pushed himself off the tree. He took one step, then two, as if to intervene. Dylan felt a flash of hope. But Julius stopped cold, eyes narrowing.
"No. Figure it out."
Ti slowed. The beast was airborne, its massive body blotting out what little light there was. Terror lted into pure, raw rage. A growl tore from Dylan’s throat, sothing he didn’t know he was capable of. His hand scrambled in the dirt, found a stone. He hurled it with all his strength. It was nothing, a flick. But it struck the beast’s snout.
Enough to distract it for a heartbeat.
Enough for Dylan, rolling to the side, to grab the sword’s hilt and—without thinking, without technique—drive it upward into the soft belly of the creature crashing down on him.
A piercing scream, a rush of hot, black blood, and a crushing weight collapsed onto him, smothering him.
He thrashed, panicked, until he managed to crawl free, gasping, covered in mud and gore. The beast was dead. He had killed it. Clumsily, stupidly—but he had done it.
A searing pain burned along his arm. The stinger had grazed him, leaving a red, raw cut. Imdiately, his stigma flared, that familiar tingling ready to close the wound.
"No." Julius’s voice was sharp, cutting. He had co up silently. "Let it bleed."
"What? But—"
"If you rely on your little magic trick to fix your screw-ups, you’ll never survive a real fight. Pain’s a damn good teacher. It’ll remind you not to land on your back next ti. Dodge first, heal later."
Dylan gritted his teeth, staring at the blood dripping down his arm. Each drop was a bitter reminder of his failure, of his clumsiness. Julius was right. The scar would teach him.
Julius kicked the beast’s carcass.
"Ugly. Sloppy. Made want to cry, honestly." He crouched, wiped the bloodied blade on the creature’s hide, then handed it back to Dylan. "But it worked. That’s a start."
A distant growl echoed deeper in the forest. Julius raised an eyebrow.
"Well. Looks like your next lesson’s on its way. You want a minute to breathe, or should we go straight on?"
Dylan didn’t have ti to answer. The ground trembled beneath his feet, and this ti the growl beca a roar. In the shadows, two reddish eyes appeared, low, nacing. Then another. Then three.
"...Oh, wonderful." Julius spat out the twig he’d been chewing and slowly drew out a polished stick, his eternal mockery of a sword. "Lucky boy. Looks like mommy ca to check why her little ass-stabber stopped squirming."
Dylan’s stomach twisted. The creature that erged from the thicket was twice the size of the first, the sa revolting mix of boar and scorpion, but its shell was darker, almost mineral. Its harsh breath made the air vibrate. Behind it, two smaller beasts slithered forward, drooling.
"Three. Three against... ?"
"No. Three against you and your legs. Better decide quick if you’re running or standing." Julius leaned lazily on his stick, as if the whole thing amused him. "I’m just supervising."
"You could at least—"
"No." Julius cut him off, voice sharp as a real blade. "Until you learn to trust your own arms, you’re nothing but dead weight. And I don’t train dead weight."
The three beasts stomped the ground in unison. Dylan’s fingers tightened on the sword’s slick hilt. He wanted to vomit, to flee, to vanish into the forest. But part of him, burning, refused. The sa animal rage that had saved him monts ago surged back, coiling in his throat.
He raised the sword.
"Good." Julius’s smirk was faint, but his eyes glinted, as if he’d just heard an answer he’d been waiting on for a long ti. "Alright, kid... let’s see if you last more than a minute."
The first beast charged. Dylan scread—not in fear this ti, but with pure will—and t it head-on.
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