look like a goblin. More like a brick wall with eyeliner and serious demolitionist vibes.
Her shield spins through the air like a buzzsaw chugging espresso shots.
I dive. Too slow.
Lightning lashes out from the spinning disk—crackling, snarling—and slams straight into the arrow still jammed in my back.
Every nerve lights up like I just licked a power socket in a rainstorm.
[Status Effect: Lightning Damage]
My left arm ghosts out. Numb. Dead weight hanging off my shoulder like a sack of wet laundry.
Seriously? Who designs a system where lightning supercharges your injuries?
Tiger-Lady doesn't give me time to file a complaint.
A blade whistles toward my ribs.
I twist—sloppy, but alive—and barely deflect it with my right arm. No time to parry the next one. She’s faster. Sharper. Meaner.
I sidestep—more stumble than dance—and feel the next strike kiss the air where my face used to be.
She's on me like regret after a one-night stand. Fast. Precise. Moves like she’s got wire-fu in her blood and a chip on her shoulder. Beautiful, in that “please stop trying to murder me” kind of way.
Then she makes a mistake. Minor. But enough.
In the blur of slashes, her blade snaps the arrow shaft still buried in my back.
The pain that hits isn't just pain—it's a damn elemental buffet. Lava. Ice. Lava again.
[Debuff Applied: Severe Blood Loss]
Left arm’s still dead. Gun’s slick with blood now. Drip. Drip. Drip. Floor’s logging my DNA like it wants to summon me later.
No choice.
I grit my teeth. Beg a finger to twitch.
BOOM!
Shotgun barks. Recoil kicks like a pissed-off mule. Didn't hit anyone—wasn’t supposed to. Just needed space.
It buys me that. Dust. Noise. Breathing room.
Then the elf moves.
Arcane orbs—perfect, glowing little death balls—zip toward me with clinical indifference.
One of the constructs leaps into their path. Takes the hit. Explodes in shimmering sparks.
Window.
I dive sideways. Heat scorches the air behind me. Air turns to razors. I land hard. Dirt. Blood. Everything spinning.
And then—I feel it.
A tingle.
Left arm’s rebooting. Tingling like it just woke up from a coma.
I rack the shotgun. Pain flares—sharp, bitter—but manageable. Distant, like an old memory.
BOOM!
Recoil shoves me back. Arm’s still shaky. Gun jerks in my grip.
“Shit...” Not ready yet.
But getting there.
The elf lifts her hand, fingers flicking like a bored ballerina at a school recital. A shimmering arcane barrier snaps into place midair—taut, humming, smug.
I squeeze the trigger.
My shot slams in and fizzles. No bang. No impact. Just a pathetic pffft, like setting off fireworks in a thunderstorm.
She doesn’t even flinch. Just tilts her chin like she’s already won.
“Surrender,” she says, cool as ice in a cocktail. “I’d rather not kill you.”
I wipe the blood from my lip. Iron tang. Grit. Smile crooked and tired. “Why is everyone trying to kill me?”
That gets her. Just for a second—an eyebrow twitch. Something human behind the mask.
She starts to speak—“I… we—”—but her squad doesn't hesitate.
They move like they’ve done this dance before. Precision. Formation. Zero hesitation.
And me? I’m the guy bleeding out in the middle of their perfect waltz.
Half-limp. Out of breath. Low on tricks. Still alive though—so, silver linings?
Then her shield smashes into my ribs again. Goblin girl. Zero chill. Pure rage with a metal discus.
Something cracks. Rib? Cartilage? Sounded expensive. Felt like static under my skin. No time to care.
She’s already pivoting. I try to match—
Too slow.
Wolf-girl lets another arrow loose—center mass? No. Thigh.
It hits with a thunk, like a punch full of nails. My leg seizes. Dead weight. Balance goes out the window.
I stumble. Right into the tiger-kin.
She’s on me. Fluid, fast, and feral. Twin daggers flashing like a Blade Runner reboot.
One of them buries in my side. Deep. Hot. It scrapes something vital on the way out. I don’t scream—lungs won’t let me.
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Tunnel vision hits. The edges of my sight start peeling like old film stock.
Breath’s a wheeze now. Wet. Labored. Every inhale tastes like blood and lightning.
Too many hits. No backup. No plan. This is bad. Like, final-season-of-a-canceled-series bad.
The constructs that someone summoned? Gone. Just smoldering scrap piles with better posture than me.
I try to turn. My neck moves like a rusted turret.
“What the hell—?”
Then I see him.
Oh come on.
A gnome. Of course it’s a gnome. Because why not?
Not just any gnome. He’s got soot in his hair, a manic grin, and he’s riding one of the constructs like it owes him rent.
He’s cackling—full-body, wild-eyed, unhinged—like a toddler with a grenade launcher.
[Warning]
One more mistake and I’m game-over. No respawns. No phoenix downs. Just rot and regrets.
The goblin charges again. Shield high, eyes wide and murder-hungry. No whites—just red-rimmed fury.
I pivot—too late.
Tiger-girl’s already airborne. A flash of muscle and fury and death. Dagger raised. She’s aiming for my throat.
[Status Effect: Severe Wound – Heavy Bleed Applied]
Red warnings explode across my HUD. Like Fourth of July at a funeral. Every alert pings like it’s mocking me.
I’m out of time.
Then—
“Well… not perfect. But it’ll do.”
A voice.
Female. Smooth as silk sheets. Sharp as a scalpel.
“What?”
“How about a boost, darling?” she purrs.
The world snaps into focus.
Pain dials down to background noise. Air sharpens. Everything else goes quiet.
Heartbeat. Calm.
Breath. Steady.
Blood. Still leaking, but distant. Like it belongs to someone else.
Claws scrape tile. Ozone stings my nostrils. Leather burns.
Thirty seconds. That’s all I’ve got.
Guess it’s time to see what I can wreck before I fall apart again.
Muscles wake up.
Focus narrows.
Grip tightens.
The rush slams back into me like a needle straight to the heart. My grin spreads before my brain’s caught up.
“Oh, now we’re talking,” I mutter, just loud enough for her to hear. “Appreciate it, ma’am.”
I lunge.
Shotgun kicks. That deep, shoulder-bruising punch. The recoil climbs my spine, shakes the cobwebs out of my skull.
Follow-up’s automatic—blade, fast and clean. The goblin blinks. Hesitates.
Wrong move.
She doesn’t scream, just bleeds. I twist with her momentum, boot her in the gut—hard.
She hits the stone like a sack of wet laundry. A whoof of breath bursts out of her as she folds.
And Tiger-girl? Already airborne. Too fast, too committed. No time to pivot midair. Her eyes flare—panic, regret, math that won’t add up in time.
I turn, raise the stock—
CRACK.
Ribs fold like kindling. She drops.
Barrel rises. Point-blank.
BOOM.
She twitches. Not dead. Dreaming.
Lucky.
Elf-girl’s already casting. Hands a blur. Sigils blooming like golden lotus petals in fast-forward.
Healer. Of course.
Fast, too. Too fast.
“Shit.”
“Explosive round,” I bark.
System chirps, all chipper:
[AFFIRMATIVE – Round Loaded]
Click. Hiss. BOOM.
She should’ve shielded.
She didn’t.
Wolf-girl did.
She dives in. No hesitation. Heart first.
Blast slams her mid-center. Armor rips, blood mists. Flesh cooks. That smell—like burnt bacon wrapped in bad memories—hits me hard.
The elf catches her, barely. Knees buckle. Sigils stutter, then fizzle out mid-air. Snuffed like candles in a storm.
I hesitate.
The voice cuts through. Cold. Familiar.
“Don’t think. Survive.”
Right.
I bolt. Boots pound stone. My heart’s a war drum. Breath tastes like fire and iron.
And there she is.
The orc. Tower of muscle and murder. Still as stone. Axes big enough to take out support beams.
“Non-lethal,” I snap.
Shotgun hums, switching loads. The voice groans like a coach who’s seen me screw this up before.
She swings—both blades. Wide, brutal arcs.
All rage, no finesse.
I duck. One axe misses by a whisper. The air it shears turns cold.
I fire.
BOOM. Gut shot.
Smoke hisses from her armor. She stumbles, folds like bad scaffolding.
Down.
And then the gnome.
Still laughing. Still spinning. Because of course he is.
He pulls a pin on something that looks like a tangerine from hell.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
That sound—heartbeat of oh-no-you-don’t.
He throws.
I dive.
Explosion. Heat claws my back. The shockwave punches my ribs like a bar brawl. Ears scream. Vision warps.
I hit stone, roll, aim—
BOOM. Golem’s leg explodes into metal shrapnel and fire.
Sparks rain. Screams of steel.
The gnome fumbles, fingers flying over glowing glyphs like a piano prodigy mid-nervous breakdown.
Too slow.
I close the gap. Boot meets chest.
He yelps.
He flies.
CRACK.
Wall meets skull. He doesn’t get up.
Victory’s close. I can smell it.
Tastes like copper and ozone.
And then—impact.
Like getting hit by a goddamn freight train.
Air gone. Lungs collapse. Everything goes white.
[Status: Massive Impact – Instant Knockdown]
Pain explodes. HUD flickers. Static crawls in like frostbite.
System crash?
I twitch. That’s all I’ve got.
Rest of me? Useless meat sack.
Heavy footsteps. Each one hits like a bass drum through bone.
Something massive stands over me.
Still. Dark.
Even the air won’t move around it.
A voice. Ancient. Like mountain gods chewing gravel.
No words—just meaning.
I blink. A shape hardens in the dark.
A dwarf?
Then—
Black.
A voice again. Female. Smug. Too amused.
“Well… what did we learn?”
I groan.
“Fuck off, lady.”
She giggles. "Says the man, who's dead. Again."