Chương 5: A Mild Inconvenience

My heartbeat isn't just fast—it's thunderous. Heavy. Violent. It pulses through my skull until the world narrows into motion, breath, and instinct. The cut on my cheek is a warm trickle, already fading behind the far louder roar of adrenaline. Ten seconds. I've been conscious for ten seconds, and in that time I've avoided death twice and gotten caught in a four-on-one ambush. Any sane person would run. But instead, I turn. Feet plant. Shoulders square. Fangs bared.

My body moves before thought, settling into the stance I've practiced—poorly, inconsistently, maybe four hours total—but right now it feels like I was born in it. A reckless grin tugs at my mouth, and because my brain is made of questionable life choices, I toss a one-liner at them. … And it actually works? The leader—greasy hair, bad attitude, "I peaked sophomore year" energy—hesitates. His expression flickers like someone just unplugged his brain for a second. The others don't react at all, but honestly?

I'm ninety percent sure at least two of them aren't operating with full mental firmware. So I'll call it a successful intimidation check. Which means it's time to assess.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Warrior [Common] (Level 1 | Tier 0) Race: Human ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Warrior [Common] (Level 1 | Tier 0) Race: Human ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Warrior [Common] (Level 1 | Tier 0) Race: Wood Elf ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Archer [Common] (Level 2 | Tier 0) Race: Human ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Two sword wielding humans.

One elf warrior— taller, wirier, already glaring at me like I insulted his haircut. Probably because I kicked him between the legs. And the archer—a level higher than the rest, and the reason I have a very rude arrow wound across my face. The elf recovered fast from the kick earlier—too fast. High Vitality. Probably from his race, maybe free points too. Coward. Before I move, excitement begins sparking under my skin—bright and electric. The air feels sharper. Every heartbeat feels louder. I'm faster than them.

And that means—I can win. The first arrow comes exactly when I expect it: quick intake of breath, faint creaking of wood, then—a whistle. I lean left—not graceful, not pretty, but effective. The arrow slices the air so close it tugs at loose strands of hair and vanishes into the tree line with a hard thunk I feel more than hear. The warriors take that as their cue. The stocky one reaches me first, boots flattening grass as his blade sweeps low to take my legs.

I push off the ground—clumsy but instinctive—stumbling back, heels skidding slightly on moss. The greasy-haired one lunges next, sword raised high before dropping toward my throat in a reckless but practiced stroke. Mid-swing, the weapon accelerates—too fast to block directly. The Slash skill. I duck. Not intentionally skilled—just panic-powered foxkin origami —but it works. His blade cuts air where my head used to be. Close. Too close. While I'm crouched, I sweep my leg outward—a sharp kick to his shin.

He stumbles, grass tearing under his boot. Perfect opening— —and then my ears twitch. I don't think—I just move. I jump sideways, twisting mid-air. This time the arrow catches me—a sharp line of fire tearing through my arm. Not deep enough to stop me, but deep enough to make things personal. Annoyed, I pivot toward greasy-hair to punish the opening— —but the elf finally arrives, bringing his sword down in a strike so predictable I could've scheduled it on a calendar.

The other two have recovered, and three blades at once is optimism bordering on fiction, so I leap backwards, disengaging to regain space. We reset. I'm bleeding. They know it. And they move with new confidence—the kind that only exists when someone thinks they've seen all your cards. The archer circles left—smart—keeping the sun at his back, trying to force glare into my eyes. The other three close in, still not coordinated with each other, boots crushing grass in uneven rhythm.

Stocky Guy swings again—exactly the same attack. Telegraphed so loudly I could file a complaint with subtitles. The Slash skill again I step aside just enough to let it pass, staying in stance this time. Greasy Hair follows—using Slash again, thinking repetition equals inevitability. Stupid. My blade rises, twisting at the last second—steel meets steel, sparks snapping bright in the open sunlight between us as my Slash blocks his. I feel the strength difference—slight, but present.

He pushes harder, expecting the clash to end with his victory. Instead, I redirect—not blocking, not overpowering—just angling. His blade glances upward uselessly. He's open. I pivot—quick, smooth, instinctive—and right as I shift, I catch the glint of another arrow. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Too bad I already knew it was coming.

I dodge before he releases—and the shot sails into the trees instead of my skull, vanishing into the dense green with a crack that makes birds somewhere above rethink their life choices. The elf arrives last—again—and shockingly, he uses the same overhead swing. At this point I wonder if they all only learned one attacking method and decided that emotional commitment could carry them through. I slide my blade up to meet his—not stopping the swing, instead redirecting it.

His sword skids down mine, sparks spitting, momentum carrying his weapon dangerously close to the ground. He's wide open. My sword is angled wrong to follow through—so I use my fist. My punch connects with his jaw so cleanly it feels scripted. He crumples to the grass with a noise like someone stabbed a goose. And then—silence. The reset this time feels different. The clearing is scuffed now: flattened grass, churned moss, streaks of exposed soil. Sunlight still pours down, indifferent. Greasy-hair studies me.

The stocky warrior hesitates. The archer draws, but doesn't loose. The elf—on the ground—looks like a toddler denied snacks and dignity. Then greasy-hair speaks.

"Okay… new idea. Wanna join our gang?" I blink. Gang? That is… an interesting choice of phrasing.

"…I'm sorry?" He shrugs.

"You're strong. Killing you sounds like wasted effort. If you join, we all win." Before I reply, the elf screeches—his voice so shrill it cuts straight through the forest and probably startles a deer three clearings over.

"She PUNCHED me, JACK! I'm killing her!" So the leader's name is Jack. That's adorable. I'm still calling him Greasy. Greasy sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Then maybe don't sprint in alone like a boar with brain damage?" I politely do not mention that all of them rushed me one by one like they were taking turns at a carnival booth. The elf was just the slowest. Their argument keeps going—escalating into something loud, pointless, and deeply pathetic. Which gives me time. Now that the adrenaline isn't dragging me from one swing to the next, I finally feel it—the strange current behind my eyes that started to speed up in the middle of the fight.

It churns and spirals there, quick and restless, like it's thrilled to exist and impatient for me to catch up. It had been building the whole time, accelerating with every clash, every dodge, every heartbeat—and I hadn't had the time to study it until now. Curiosity wins. I push at it, just a little—a cautious mental tap. It surges outward instantly. The energy races through me—down my spine, through my arms and legs, to the very tips of my fingers—all of it responding to my will with unnerving precision.

Concepts surface alongside it, familiar in a way that makes no sense: Light. Heat. Gravity. They don't feel learned. They feel remembered. I latch onto gravity first—not because it's safest, but because it's the easiest to picture. Everyone understands weight, pressure, falling. It's simple. Concrete. I spread the energy evenly and imagine gravity loosening its grip—not gone, just… lighter. My body responds as if it was waiting for that exact thought. The heaviness leaves my limbs. The world sharpens.

And suddenly, movement feels effortless. Faster. Cleaner. And right as I finish, the four idiots finally wrap up their emotional meltdown. Greasy looks at me.

"So? Final offer. You joining?" There's an expectation behind the question. A threat. I pretend to think. Then let a slow, cold smile unfurl across my face. I turn—not to Greasy. To the elf.

"That's interesting. You don't seem to be thinking for yourself." Silence. Processing. Rage. Then—"I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!" He charges—too suddenly for Greasy to stop him, too furious to think. His sword swings downward again. Same mistake. Different outcome. With gravity loosened, dodging isn't effort—it's art. I step aside, fluid and clean, feeling the air rush where steel should've met bone. His sword buries in the dirt. My momentum spins me—elegant on the outside, feral underneath.

Both hands grip my blade. The world sharpens.

"Slash." The word is a verdict. Steel tears through flesh. His arm separates first, then the blade carves into his chest, deep enough to drown him in his own heartbeat. Blood erupts across his front—a violent, wet bloom of red. The clearing quiets. The others finally move. Too late. The archer shoots—I dodge with casual ease. My sword remains embedded in the elf's torso. I leave it. Insurance.

I stoop only long enough to pull his fallen sword from the dirt, twirling it in my hand as I look at the last three with bright, predatory interest. Then a clean leap backward puts distance between us, gravity still light under my feet. My lips pull back just a fraction further.

"One." ✦⋆✦⋆✦ How the fuck is this possible? She's level two. Level fucking two. So why is she stronger than all of us combined? Jack's earlier confidence doesn't just crack—it collapses completely, replaced by something sharp and suffocating. His heartbeat hammers against his ribs, too fast, too loud, as he stares at the fox girl— No. Not a girl. A monster. She stands there, smiling faintly, watching Tyler's last breath slip away like it's something mildly interesting. Then she moves. No warning. No buildup.

Just motion—so fast Jack doesn't process it until she's already halfway across the clearing, sprinting low through ankle-high grass, sword trailing behind her like a predator's tail brushing the ground. Leaves scatter in her wake. There's no technique to it. No form. It looks sloppy, wild—something any instructor would call reckless. But at a speed completely unlike what she displayed before. Damian doesn't stand a chance. She closes the ten-meter gap in a heartbeat.

Her upward slash comes in a clean arc toward his torso—and Damian barely gets his sword in the way. Steel clashes, but it's useless. She activates Slash mid-swing, and his blade flies from his hands like it was never meant to be there in the first place. Another arrow whistles toward her skull—Ryan's already firing in panic—but she just tilts her head back with the casual nonchalance of someone avoiding a raindrop instead of a fatal projectile. Her grip shifts. One step. One breath.

The grass beneath her feet flattens, pressed down by something unseen. Then her sword falls. She calls the skill softly—almost musical—and the blade passes through Damian from shoulder to hip as if his body were warm butter instead of bone and flesh. The cut is so clean, so absolute, that even his severed torso seems… delayed, like it hasn't quite realized what just happened when it hits the ground a heartbeat later.

She follows through, the blade biting into the dirt, spraying soil and crushed greenery as she slides one foot back to steady herself. Almost stumbling. Almost clumsy. Almost.

"I see," she murmurs under her breath, giving the blade a small shake.

"That was more effective than I expected. I'm going to have to be careful with that one." She looks up. Expression unchanged. Tail flicking lightly, like she's just discovered a new toy.

"Two." Ryan glances at Jack. Jack doesn't look back. He's already running. His mind isn't strategizing or thinking or planning. There's no bravery left, no camaraderie, no pride. Just raw animal survival. Branches whip at his arms as he crashes through the undergrowth, boots pounding uneven earth slick with moss and fallen leaves. Shrubs tear at his clothes. Thorns scrape skin. His lungs burn, every breath sharp and shallow.

His heartbeat drowns out everything—even Ryan's ragged breathing as his friend veers off in another direction. Good. Let the monster chase him. Jack doesn't look back—not at first. But paranoia wins. He risks a glance. Just trees. Shrubs. Sunlight filtering through leaves. No white hair. No blade. No nightmare fox girl sprinting after him with that fucking smile. For a second, hope flickers. Then exhaustion slams into him like a wall. His body shudders. His vision tunnels.

Every step feels like dragging cement blocks strapped to his bones. He's forced to stop or collapse—and stopping feels like dying. Panting, he checks his Stamina out of reflex— and instantly regrets it. Zero. Not low—empty. He's tapped into his health just by running. He can't move. Not without killing himself faster. So he stays there—shaking, gasping, sunlight filtering uselessly through the canopy—praying to whatever gods might exist that she chose Ryan instead of— Footsteps. Soft. Light. Growing louder.

Jack's knees nearly give out. His breath turns ragged, shallow, every muscle trembling as the sound threads between the trees, slipping through branches and brush like it belongs there. Like she belongs there. She steps into view a moment later— Skipping. Actually skipping. Her sword rests loosely on her shoulder, angled without care. Blood—his friends, as well as her own—has dried in faint, dark streaks across her cheek, contrasting sharply with her pale skin. Her expression is calm. Thoughtful, even.

She slows as she approaches, nose wrinkling ever so slightly.

"…You seem scared." The words aren't mockery—they're observation. Jack chokes on the terror. His voice fractures as he forces it out.

"P-please—don't kill me. I'll do anything." She pauses. Tilts her head. Taps a finger lightly against her chin, considering him with a softness that feels deeply, deeply wrong.

"Hmm," she hums.

"That's a shame." Hope flares anyway.

"B-because—?" She meets his eyes. Direct. Unwavering.

"Because you were already dead the moment you decided to attack." His breath catches— The blade moves. A clean arc of silver, effortless and smooth—the kind of strike that looks almost careless until you realize how perfectly it lands. Then— Darkness. Silence. And a single system message. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ You have died. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━