The cracked earth groaned beneath Harvin's steps as he sprinted through the burning wasteland, sweat mixing with blood and dust on his face. The Infected were chasing him—ten, maybe more—their footsteps erratic, their screams inhuman.
His lungs were burning.
His legs were giving out.
He had no strength left.
Then—his foot hit something.
He stumbled and fell to the ground, landing hard on his side. As he pushed himself up, his eyes fell on two jagged rods buried in the dirt beside him.
Not just rods.
Steel rebars—one bent into a deadly hook, the other looped at one end, almost like it was begging to be held.
Harvin reached out slowly, gripping the cold steel. The metal was rough, heavy, imperfect—but it felt real. It felt right.
His body trembled—not from fear—but from a storm building inside him.
> "Enough..."
He stood up slowly, the hooked rods now in both hands.
> "I'm done running."
His eyes burned with fury as he stared down the incoming swarm of Infected.
The system had taken everything from him.
The world had tried to break him.
He had lost his parents, his future… and now Vasu's life hung by a thread.
> "I may be E-rank. I may be weak."
"But this time… I fight."
The first Infected leapt at him with a screech—
Harvin sidestepped and slammed the hooked rod through its head, yanking it out with a spray of black ichor.
Another came—he spun with the looped rebar and cracked its skull wide open.
A scream escaped his lips, not of pain but of rage.
> "COME ON!" he roared at the rest.
– "Not Just a Fight… a Stand"
Harvin panted heavily, sweat soaking through his shirt as the hooked steel rebar dripped with black blood. The lifeless bodies of three Infected lay at his feet—twitching, groaning, then finally still.
But more came.
Always more.
Their red eyes glowed in the smoke as they shrieked and charged.
Harvin's arms trembled. His grip was weakening. Every swing now felt like lifting a mountain.
> "I… I can't last like this," he thought, teeth gritted, staggering back.
Suddenly—
A flash of memory.
A dim-lit screen.
The sound of clashing blades.
The voiceover of a popular underground video.
> "Dagor the Phantom—famous for killing goblin mobs with only two short blades and footwork. His combat style: fast, low, unpredictable."
Harvin's eyes widened. That night—when Vasu was asleep, he'd watched that clip five times.
Not to learn it.
But to dream about it.
Now, he wasn't dreaming.
Now, he needed it.
The next Infected lunged.
Harvin ducked low, just like Dagor.
Slide step. Roll. Hook.
The steel bar shot up under the creature's jaw—ripping through the skull.
Another came from behind.
Pivot. Elbow. Spin-strike.
It crashed into the ground.
Harvin's movements grew smoother—not perfect, but precise.
His mind raced, eyes replaying that video in real-time.
He was copying the form. Not 100%, but close.
> "Eighty percent..." he whispered under his breath, a faint grin breaking across his bloodstained face.
They charged again.
Harvin didn't run.
He danced through them now. Improvised. Adapted.
Swing. Block. Duck. Jab.
Like Dagor.
He could feel himself fading, but his will burned brighter than his wounds.
> "I am not some side character who dies in the first half," he growled.
"I'm Harvin. I protect Vasu."
More fell.
More screamed.
And still, he stood.
But for how long?