"Tzeryn!"
The same incantation echoes from two different voices—one from each of my sides. Both Therion and Siona strike in unison, slamming the two monsters away in opposite directions, with me caught right in the middle. It's like they knew my head wasn't in the fight for a second—that I wasn't focused on the danger closing in.
"You okay?" The girl asks without even turning, her back still facing me.
"Yeah... thanks. I just—something crossed my mind," I offer the excuse, using the moment to explain. "Look at the monsters. Check their eyes."
They both follow my gaze, scanning the two abominations, and a second later, Therion nods. "You're right. Their eyes... they've been swapped."
"Not just swapped," I mutter, eyes narrowing. "It's like the chimera gave its pale, blind eye to the gorilla. And I've got a gut feeling. That eye… it's the source. Whatever's fueling their regeneration, it's coming from that white, diseased-looking thing."
The two beside me exchange a brief glance, still waiting for me to finish. "You two focus on the gorilla—work with the others. I'll draw the chimera away and split them up."
"Wait… any idea how we're supposed to win this?"
"Try blowing the eye up into pieces. Or rip it out and watch how the rest of the body reacts." I say curtly, already turning and moving away from the two of them.
"Got it," Therion responds with no more hesitation… The moment the words leave his mouth, he charges forward—barefoot steps slamming against the ground with heavy, thunderous impact.
And yet, his massive sword flows with surprising grace, each swing following a practiced rhythm while Siona keeps pace at his side… Not as the spearhead, but as the shield—her focus locked on defense, guarding the boy as they face off against the mountain-backed gorilla.
Where each strike sent their way is expertly deflected by the girl, with Therion wasting no time following up with a powerful counterattack. The combination of their synchronized teamwork is impressive, a dance of precision I've witnessed before and still find myself slightly in awe of. But as I watch them work, I push forward, making my way toward the growling chimera that stands before me.
The one thing I should make perfectly clear is this—
I didn't step away from that monster behind me because of some grudge against the chimera standing before me. No, this is simply how things are meant to play out.
Therion and Siona are built to clash with something that big and unrelenting—their stats, their weapons, their synergy—it all fits. But me? I'm wired for something faster and sharper… Every part of my build leans into precision and speed over sheer might. And the way this chimera locks its pale eyes onto mine with a knowing gleam… it gets it. Just like I do.
So I do exactly what I promised. I lead the chimera into the shadows with me, pulling it away from the others while they're still busy dealing with the other beast. And once the moment feels right, I spin around to face it—just as it charges straight at me.
Then I duck low and slide across the ground, slipping just beneath a vicious swipe. My blade flashes upward in one clean motion, slicing into its front leg from the armpit down.
The impact is precise—enough to make the chimera stumble, its massive frame collapsing forward as it loses balance with only three legs left to stand on.
And just as I thought—its leg is regenerating, but way slower than usual. Feels like… half the speed, maybe even less. Proof enough that it's split its power, handing off part of it to that gorilla with the blind white eye it somehow gave away.
But thinking about it now, there's no way the chimera offered it willingly. No, this has Karthmere's fingerprints all over it. They must've ripped that eye out by force, then implanted it into whatever monster corpse they'd been keeping in storage.
Which means this fight should've been easier than the usual. We're not dealing with a chimera at full strength anymore after all… And if I can rip that eye from its skull—if I can confirm this theory—then I might just have enough left in the tank to help the others finish the job against the mountain-backed brute for today.
That's exactly why I surge forward with renewed energy—eyes locked on the chimera, heart pounding with a clear plan… I snag a rusted dagger off the floor mid-sprint without even breaking stride, slipping it into my left hand in a reverse grip.
Now sword in my right, dagger in my left, I leap—high and fast—twisting in the air to drive momentum into both blades.
Steel tears through flesh. I sever its twin fangs and carve a deep line across the bridge of its nose. Then I land clean, light on my feet, while the chimera stumbles back—its footing shaken, its pride even more so.
It knows now... It's not as strong as it was yesterday. Meanwhile, I'm only getting stronger. Every day, even if it's slower now, I still level up—
—but then, out of nowhere, a harsh cough rips from my chest.
I stumble, clutching at the sudden, stabbing pain blooming across my ribs—sharp, cold, and completely without cause… Something's wrong.
"You got hit too, Deon?" a voice suddenly appears beside me, the person gasping for breath as if they'd been running for miles.
Thus I glanced over. "Where have you been, Garrik?" I ask back, still feeling a sharp pain in my chest.
"Eirwen dragged me off to find Therion and Siona a war hammer for each… Or something blunt, at least."
"Ah… nice. And? Did you guys find any?"
"Yeah. Already handed them over, too."
I squint at him. "Right… Nice work for you two. So now… Tell me, what do you mean by me getting hit?" My voice cracks, strained, as I struggle to focus on the fight, still pushing through the pain.
"What level are you now, Deon?"
"Twenty-one. And you?"
"Still at twenty," he answers, propping himself against a stone pillar as he seeks a more comfortable position to sit, then continues, "But everyone I've met who's reached the same level as you... they all seem pale and keep coughing, just like what you just did."
I nod slowly, realizing the gravity of the situation.
"It's the Nyxthorn root, isn't it?" I ask, my suspicion rising.
"Yep... Our time's getting closer," Garrik says, his tone grim.
"But last time I checked, I should still have two years left to live."
"Yeah? Oh... I can't read that part in my window, but if I'm not mistaken, it's just an estimate—assuming we don't do anything," he says casually while watching me get knocked slightly off balance by the chimera's strike… Back and forth, the fight between me and the beast rages—right in front of his face.
"Unfortunately though, the more EXP we gather in a short period of time, the faster our life shortens. Which means, if we keep pushing like this every single day, we'll be lucky if we last more than a year."
"Shit..." I mutter, as I parry another strike from the chimera.
"And let me give you something else to understand, Deon... Most humans reach level twenty only when they're about fifty years old. Forty-five if they're really pushing it."
"What about our current bodies?"
"My guess is our physical age is still around fourteen."
"Which means we've already gone way past the limit of what's normal to even exist."
"Yeah… something like that. Uh… you need a hand?"
"Nah…" I shake my head. "This chimera's way weaker than yesterday. Say… Did Eirwen ever mention anything to you about the eye?"
"I think she did, yeah. I get the idea."
"Then would you mind trying your wind magic to blow up its blind eye?"
"Here's the thing… I already confirmed that plan on the other one, blowing the eye to ash only makes it regenerate that one specific part way faster than the rest of its body."
"So that just leaves ripping it out as the only option, huh?" I mutter—more to myself than to Garrik—as I shift my focus back to the fight.
Blade flashing, I slash through every incoming claw strike, forcing the chimera back, cornering it inch by inch.
Until the pattern's clear now—I can see exactly how I'm going to end this.
~~~~~
So the moment it opens its mouth wide, lunging to devour me while I'm still mid-prep for my next move, I slam both feet into its snout and launch myself backward.
Maybe I've been targeting its nose this whole time because, for the past two weeks, I've been so used to thinking it still relied solely on its sense of smell. Old habits die hard. But hey—intentional or not, it gives me just enough distance to breathe. To get ready.
And now everything's lined up—the timing, the momentum, the plan etched in my instincts. I lower my stance, tense my legs, and burst into a full-speed sprint. And wouldn't you know it, my dear chimera charges in too, wide maw opening for what it probably thinks is the kill.
Too slow.
I hurl my dagger straight into its gaping mouth, the blade driving deep into its throat. The monster jolts, lowering down from the shock—and that's my cue.
I leap, launching into a clean aerial cartwheel. Twist my body in the air and land square on its neck, perfectly poised like I'm about to ride this monster into the ground… But instead, it panics—thrashing violently side to side, trying to throw me off. So I clutch its thick neck fur, holding on for dear life, while my other hand scrambles in a frenzy, searching for the right spot to channel my spell—
One strike. One precise cast to shatter its cervical spine.
"Ignirath!"
The thrashing stops in an instant—its massive frame crashes down, limp and paralyzed.
Its eyes still blink, the heart keeps beating and a low growl rumbles from its throat.
But I know for sure that I've severed the spinal cord—buying myself maybe fifteen seconds before the damned thing starts regenerating again.
So I rush forward, locking eyes with that white, diseased eye.
Then, without a word, I drive my one-handed sword straight into it.
To a monster this size, the blade probably feels more like a toothpick than a weapon—
But it's not a matter.
If anything, it makes prying the damn thing out easier than I once expected, as the eyeball bulges, loosens, then starts to slide free from its socket… And all that's left for me is to sever whatever sinew or nerve is still stubbornly clinging on, refusing to let the eye go completely. Then comes the moment—just a slight flinch in its massive frame.
A twitch, a tremor, and I can tell it's trying to move again. Trying to rise.
Still, all of that is already too late… I'm already sent flying backward, landing hard with the big eyeball clutched tight against my chest.
Turns out, I yanked a little too hard just as that last layer of sinew finally gave way—
ripping the damn thing clean out just as it tried to stand.
Or more accurately... it is still standing.
Still towering. Still breathing.
Still glaring at me with that one furious, bloodshot eye.
"Garrik!?" I yell, chest heaving, as the monster bolts toward me like nothing's changed.
No hesitation. No sign of slowing. Just raw rage barreling straight at me.
Then, just as it lunges—
Whump—fwshh!
A sharp gust tears past from behind… A silent bullet of compressed air drills clean through its skull—right between the eyes.
The chimera crashes forward in an awkward, skidding heap, its massive head landing just shy of my feet, shoving me back a little when it slides on the floor. But it's not over yet.
We stay rooted in place, saying nothing, barely even breathing—watching. Waiting. Hoping that nothing happens, but bracing ourselves in case it does. Maybe something like a pulse from the wound in its skull… For some twitch, some sign of cursed life clawing its way back from the brink. Anything. Yet nothing comes.
No movement. No grotesque spasms, no flickers of regeneration.
It's over.
The monster is well and truly dead.
Though only one thing stirs—still clutched tightly in my arms… The eyeball.
Roughly the size of a soccer ball just seconds ago, it begins to tremble. Its surface writhes beneath my fingers. A slow, sickening undulation as black veins retract one by one, while the entire thing begins to shrink, gradually collapsing in on itself until it's no larger than a normal human eye, but the transformation doesn't end there.
The cornea shifts—its color darkening into a deep, seething crimson that intensifies toward the center, its slit pupil sharpens into a dagger-thin line, like that of a predator. And surrounding it—a jagged black ring begins to form, branching out in uneven, chaotic lines—like thorned roots or cracked glass.
No—like a crown of thorns. Twisted… Dead, yet it refuses to rot.
~~~~~