Chương 32: Monster Wrestling

Fighting a monster was quite different from fighting a human. When pressed, people usually fell back on their training — to strike when a foe was vulnerable, to be cautious when wounded, and to reuse familiar patterns of attacks when pushed with no time to react otherwise. Alcyr could anticipate an axe's arc or a flanking manoeuvre when his enemy's mind worked the same way as his does — strategically, logically, and with self-preservation foremost in mind.

In such a dance, the application of deception, feints, and disruption of morale was as lethal as any blade. All of that didn't really apply when his opponent was a two-tonne, acid-breathing lizard who could fly. Alcyr ducked under the first blow, dodging the savage claws of the hovering beast. As the drake flew past him, he sought to stab its softer underbelly from below. Combat Sense notified him of the spiked tail swinging from the beast's rear. It came as fast as a whip.

Left with few evasion choices, Alcyr activated Perfect Parry. The timing was nearly off. It had been a while since he fought a bestial opponent — the transformed manticore from last night didn't really count, since he hadn't really clashed against it head-on. Against the warlord or the assassin in human form, repetition through the loops allowed Alcyr to memorise their attack patterns and fine-tune his parries. Such was not the case here, but Alcyr was no longer new to the skill's narrow timing.

Though the execution was a little clumsy, Perfect Parry still triggered. The drake's tail awkwardly bounced off his gladius, sending the beast shrieking to the ground due to the loss of its balance. Alcyr moved to stab it, but the giant lizard instinctively flattened itself, pressing its vulnerable underbelly to the ground and presenting only its hardened scales.

Even with Cleave activated, the gladius failed to penetrate, though the sheer strength of the swing still chipped off a chunk of its scale and slightly staggered the foe. If only I had my dagger, Alcyr sighed internally. Well, no point complaining. He could only work with the tools he had. Besides, perhaps the handicap was a blessing. The battle would be too easy if he could end it in an instant. Alcyr backed off calmly as the beast's acidic maw snapped for his legs.

Flecks of its caustic spit landed on his pants, eating through the thin fabric in an instant and biting at his skin. This wasn't the kind of fight he was used to. He had fought monsters and beasts before, of course, but his collective combat experience with them wasn't anywhere near as extensive as it was against human opponents. The drake lacked predictable tells and fought in a manner quite unlike human warriors or duellists.

There was another snap of the monster's maw, followed by the sudden gush of wind as it leapt several metres high to lash its spiked tail at him. Alcyr dodged in time, but more of the acid landed on his attire, eating away at his clothes. I'm not going to win this by fighting normally. The drake was in the High Elite tier, same as Warlord Bjorn, though Alcyr wagered its skills were nowhere near the formidable barbarian's levels.

Alcyr was a proficient swordsman and had a well-crafted blade in hand, but swordplay alone was a poor counter to bestial fury. Fists, grit, and brute force it is, then. And here I thought I was done with unarmed combat for the day… The drake swooped down once more, unleashing a breath of acid. Alcyr dodged the caustic spray as best as he could, but the wide spread of the liquid meant some of it inevitably caught the bare skin beneath his melted clothes.

His flesh hissed, soon turning raw, but the pain was nowhere near enough to slow him down. [New Skill: Acid Resistance 1 (Rare)] At least his mounting injuries gave him worthwhile rewards. He would gladly suffer flesh-eating acids for a Rare-tier elemental resistance skill anyday. The battle dragged on into its second minute as Alcyr waited for an opening. The clearing was awashed by the acrid stench of ozone and melting stone. The sight must have been comical.

He stood alone in the centre of the drake's courtyard, the hem of his ruined attire fluttering against his bare calves as he faced down a lethal predator. The layers of medical linen wrapped tight around his torso have started to turn red, the stitches beneath stretching desperately to hold together jagged wounds that should have kept him bedridden for another few more weeks. The world felt distant — a hazy tableau of sharp edges and muted colours.

The corrupted god-blood he drank last night began to exert its powerful influence, turning his tormented nerves into warm honey. It blissfully masked the agony of his torn muscles, but it also left a dangerous, floating disconnect in his movements. In his right hand, the weight of the gladius felt both alien and distant. Above, the drake circled, shrieking with a sound like grinding metal before banking sharply and diving for him again, breathing acid as it did so.

A glob of bright green bile hissed through the air. Alcyr pivoted, his bare feet skidding on the melted stone. The acid splashed where he had stood a heartbeat before, dissolving the ground into a bubbling, fuming slurry. Here is good enough. The beast tucked its wings, speeding up as it dove. It opened its maw, the internal glands glowing with a sickly bioluminescence as it gathered another lethal shot of acid. Now.

Just as the drake's throat constricted to fire, Alcyr's arm snapped forward, launching the gladius like a spear. The silver blur vanished into the darkness of the beast's open gullet. A wet, muffled thud echoed from the creature's throat. [Throwing Discipline has improved to 35] [New Skill: Fated Hand 1 (Rare)] It was an impossibly precise hit, more luck than skill. Even Alcyr was surprised by how accurate the throw was when he saw that the blade had somehow ruptured one of the creature's primary venom sacs. Also…

Another Rare-tier skill? What's going on? He pushed the thought aside. The drake's head jerked back as its own toxic fluids leaked into its nose tissue, causing it to froth and panic. It hit the ground hard, folding into a mess of tangled wings and frantic claws as it slid across the courtyard and crashed into the base of a stone pillar. Alcyr was on it before the dust even settled. The waning godblood running in his veins allowed him to ignore the sensation of his stitches popping.

A warm dampness soaked through his bandages, passing him through the threshold towards death once again. Mortal Defiance triggered, blessing him with a fresh wave of strength. Alcyr nimbly vaulted onto the beast's back, his massive arms wrapping around its scaly neck. Any onlooker would have thought the wounded soldier mad, and perhaps he was. He was entering hand-to-hand combat with an acid-spitting lizard several times his body weight. But his madness was not without reason.

His high Physical Conditioning gave him a massive edge over other Elite-tier opponents. Contrary to popular belief, the skill didn't dictate raw strength or physique — otherwise there'd be no variation in build among people at the same level. Instead, the skill acted as an amplifier, multiplying an individual's base strength and fitness to superhuman heights. The stronger and healthier someone already was, the more the skill enhanced them.

Alcyr hadn't inherited powerful bloodlines or blessings, but his genetics had given him a naturally robust body. And when that powerful body was boosted by a level 44 Physical Conditioning skill? That drake never stood a chance the moment Alcyr got a good hold on it. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. The poor lizard bucked, its spiked tail swinging wildly in fright, but Alcyr was an anchor of pure strength.

Like some ancient god of war, he squeezed both his mighty arms around its neck. The drake's eyes bulged as it struggled to breathe. Hardened scales scraped against his bare skin, but Alcyr didn't let go until he saw the whites of the beast's eyes. When it was on the verge of falling unconscious, he leapt off the beast's back, wrenched its head down along with him, and then slammed it powerfully against the ground.

Though he did not see it, those watching the spectacle nearby — handlers, soldiers, even the other drakes — all winced at the loud crack on impact. [Grappling has improved to 2] Alcyr wasn't finished. He stood, blood pouring down his chest. Bleed Resistance prevented the blood loss from being too severe. He still had enough strength for one last move. His hands grabbed the underside of the drake's torso, finding purchase on its scale. The spectators watched, jaw-dropping, as Alcyr lifted.

Slowly, impossible, he hoisted the stunned drake up and above his head. His body was trembling as he took on the full, impossible weight of the two-tonne predator, the creature's belly exposed to the sky. Even so, no one could miss the bloody, triumphant grin on his face. He was having fun. With a titanic heave and a roar, Alcyr slammed the drake back down onto its back. The impact shook the earth, kicking up a storm of dust. The crackling sound of shattered scales echoed across the clearing.

[Physical Conditioning has improved to 45] [Unarmed Discipline has improved to 43] [Grappling has improved to 3] [New Arte: Power Strike 1 (Uncommon)] Alcyr mounted the beast. He punched its snout — once, twice, then three times — in quick succession, turning his knuckles red and dripping with blood once more. Each hit thundered like the sound of a hammer against stone. Alcyr then held its neck down and started to choke it again. He stared straight into its eyes, unblinking.

The drake's golden gaze, once full of predatory rage, returned Alcyr's stare with genuine terror. After a minute — trapped as it was, its belly exposed, barely able to breathe — it finally gave up. The drake went still, its wings sprawling limp against the stone in a clear sign of submission. He released the creature then, allowing its breath to come in ragged, defeated wheezes. Alcyr stood slowly, his attire completely torn to pieces. What little remained was stained with blood and grime. His chest was heaving.

The adrenaline rushing in him was euphoric. Laughing joyfully, he looked down at the broken predator. A proud, High Elite beast — beaten into surrender, if not complete obedience, by his bare hands. A grand feeling of conquest enveloped him. A System notification came, the colours of the screen changing from their usual blue to a familiar vigorous amber hue. [Warning: You have drawn the attention of a higher entity.] [The Saint of Violence is entertained by your actions.] [New Skill: Wildheart 1 (Rare)] A whole arsenal of skills and Artes has just been gained. As he suspected, fighting the drake had been worthwhile, despite the dangers. One wrong move, and the High Elite warbeast would have torn him to shreds. But he had won. Victory washed away all sins, especially that of recklessness. The soldier briefly considered killing the creature, but then decided it had had enough.

There was little to be gained in such an act now that the battle was over, and there would be severe consequences if he slew a valuable mount of the Drake Cavalry. Besides, the creature — and, by extension, the other drakes watching — had learnt its lesson. It would not dare attack him again anytime soon. He dismounted from atop its belly and stepped back, leaving the drake whimpering through its ruined maw in the ruins of the courtyard. The spillover acid hissed upon his bare feet, leaving his soles raw and red.

[Acid Resistance has improved to 2] It was then he finally realised that he was not alone. A small crowd had gathered — an expected consequence of the drake's shrieking earlier. He walked away from the field, ignoring the disbelieving or furious stares of the onlookers. Victory was a heady tonic. Subduing such a mighty warbeast — while injured and alone, no less — left him ecstatic. But he was still rational enough to be aware of the cost of that fight. His wounds had reopened. He was bleeding badly.

Even through his numb nerves, he could feel the tears within his body greatly worsen due to his early exertion. Alcyr had to give credit to the assassin's godblood, blighted though it might be. If not for how thoroughly they dulled his senses, he suspected he might have passed out by now. As it was, he still stood on his two feet, albeit exhausted and a little dizzy. His movements were a little jerky — likely from muscle tears — but he could walk. His ruined pants and shirts barely concealed his dignity.

The bandages across his torso were all but soaked through with his blood. A trio of Regulars stepped in his way — each far more powerful than the soldiers he met at the mess hall. All three were well-armed and armoured. Two of them had hands already placed on the pommel of their sheathed gladius. High Elite, at least. One of them feels close to a Master. None of them were wearing helmets. And all three had golden, slanted eyes. 3rd Platoon, at last. The one in the lead was a tall, scarred-face veteran.

To his left was a shorter female, though the slighter stature did not diminish the raw rage felt in her gaze or posture. The last soldier to the lead's right was a giant of a man, taller than Alcyr and enormously broad-shouldered. His presence, ironically, felt the least dangerous, as he was the only one not gripping a weapon. He greeted Alcyr with a thoroughly amused — and familiar — smile. You again. Alcyr's attention was drawn aside when he saw Vormas hanging back a bit, waving to him frantically.

Unseen by the three Regulars, the lieutenant mouthed to him urgently:'Don't. Provoke. Them.' Alcyr met their inhuman gazes without flinching. He then calmly gestured at the unconscious rider he had struck earlier.

"If you are going to hit me, be warned that I am in a foul mood and will not be holding back as I did for your friend on the ground behind me." Vormas brought his hands to his face. The lead soldier frowned slightly.

"He's no friend of mine, but even still, he's a member of the company. If that's your definition of holding back, I hate to see the results when you get serious."

"You still might. Get out of my way." The female soldier on the left snarled. To Alcyr's surprise, her mouth had fangs.

"Arrogant peasant. I'll rip your tongue out before I—""Peace, Nerma. I do not wish to test this pup," the large male soldier on the right said.

"I've seen the corpse of the warlord he killed. It was not pretty." A pause.

"Also, he just wrestled Keagar's drake into submission while bare-arsed and wounded. That earns him a drink in my books, and I can't treat him if he's dead."

"Bold of you to think I'll be the one dead," Alcyr said.

"Tell me which pocket you keep your coins in now so I can still get that drink from you after I leave your body on the ground." The large soldier blinked, then burst into laughter. The snarling female on the left — Nerma — looked even more furious. Only the lead soldier remained silent, though the edge of his lips twitched. Whether in amusement or insult, Alcyr couldn't tell.

"I can see why our captain likes you," the leader said.

"Be at peace, Cadet Alcyr. I am Senior Lieutenant Garron, leader of First Squad, 3rd Platoon. These two are my aides, Lieutenant Nerma and Ural. The three of us simply wish to ensure no further commotion disrupts the drake pens." Alcyr nodded at the three of them.

"Well met. I noticed none of you were interested in intervening earlier."

"You looked like he had it in control." Ural shrugged.

"It was Keagar's turn to handle the pens, and that fool's blood is too blue to be good company. Good job knocking him out, by the way. I suppose I owe you two drinks now."

"I might have also stabbed his hand," Alcyr admitted.

"Ah, I see." Ural stroked his beard.

"Three drinks it is, then." Alcyr couldn't help but chuckle slightly. It seemed not every Regular was dead-set on making him his enemy. Garron coughed.

"Enough. Cadet Alcyr, we have orders to bring you in. Resist, and we will use force."

"Counteroffer," Alcyr said.

"You tell me where my dagger is now, otherwise I'll start dislocating limbs until someone talks."

"Enough of this," the female hissed. She lunged forth with blistering speed. With contemptuous ease, Alcyr moved back and grabbed her wrist before her claws could gouge out his eyes. He twisted his hips, threw her over his shoulder, and slammed her against the ground. [Dodge Counter has improved to 2] Before Garron could intervene, Alcyr placed a foot on Nerma's back and, still holding onto her arm, wrenched it to the side. There was a loud pop that made Ural wince and Nerma howl in pain.

"That's one limb down," Alcyr said mildly.

"Shall I continue?" Garron's eyes narrowed. Ural took a step back. Before anyone could do anything, a halberd came flying out of nowhere and smashed into the ground between them. Garron leapt away. Alcyr did the same, using Nerma's back as a springboard. The woman cursed as she scrambled to her feet, her arm hanging wrong.

"That bastard, I'll kill him!" she screamed. She tried to lunge once more, only to get brutally knocked face-first back into the ground when Ural violently backhanded her head from behind.

"Stop embarrassing yourself," the giant chided gently, as if he hadn't just struck her hard enough to kill.

"Our platoon's not going to have any reputation left to spare for your childishness at this rate." The newcomer who threw the halberd interrupted their banter.

"What in all hells are you doing?" she demanded. There was a hint of genuine anger in her voice. Alcyr almost felt guilty. Almost. He turned around, meeting the furious and lovely gaze of physician Lenore. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, the Captain of the 3rd Platoon.