Say one thing for the Scholar, say he's full of surprises.
I watched him move, and for a moment, just a moment, I forgot to breathe. It wasn't a fight. It was a lecture on the geometry of murder, delivered with a silver-tipped pointer. He was a scarecrow, a thing of sticks and intellect, and he was dancing with a mountain of muscle and hate. A flash of light here, a shimmering lie there. He wasn't matching the Orc's strength; he was making it irrelevant. He was using the beast's own momentum against it, turning its rage into a fatal, clumsy ballet. It was the most beautiful, insane thing I had ever seen.
He was going to win. The thought was a revelation, a sudden, impossible crack of light in the storm of chaos. The madman, the clumsy academic who couldn't walk through the woods without tripping on his own feet, was going to kill a Level 14 Orc Thug through sheer, unadulterated brainpower.
And then he did.
The final thrust was a masterpiece of suicidal audacity. A single, perfect line of logic that ended with a sword in the Orc's throat. The beast went down, a felled tree of muscle and stupidity, and the clearing fell silent for the space of a single, stunned heartbeat.
Then the Scholar went down.
Just like that. One moment he was a ghost, a dancer with a silver needle, pricking the life out of a monster ten times his size. The next, he was a sack of broken bones, collapsing in the mud like a puppet with its strings cut. His sword clattered on the stones, his good arm gave out, and he just… folded.
And something inside me snapped. A cold, clean, structural failure.
Asset down, my brain supplied, the old, familiar voice of survival. Plan compromised. Re-evaluate threat.
But my body wasn't listening. A strange, hot pressure built behind my eyes. The world, already a blurry mess of firelight and violence, swam and distorted. Water. There was water in my eyes.
What the fuck is this?
I was leaking. Crying. For the madman. For the broken Scholar in the mud. A profound, soul-deep wave of fury washed over me, a clean, hot fire that burned the stupid, useless tears away.
Better. Rage was better. Rage was a tool I knew how to use.
The Berserker, the last one standing, let out a bellow of pure, animal grief and rage. It saw its last comrade fall. It saw me, my shield arm hanging useless. It saw the broken human on the ground. It saw victory. It turned its full, undivided attention on Kale, its axe rising for the killing blow.
And in that moment, the universe, in its infinite, cruel wisdom, decided to chime in. A brilliant, blue-white light, cold and indifferent, bloomed in my vision, a stark contrast to the hot, red haze of my fury.
[ You have reached Level 10! ]
[ HP and Mana fully restored! ]
[ You have gained 4 Attribute Points. Allocate Wisely. ]
[ You have unlocked 1 Tier 2 Class Skill slot. ]
The pain in my arm vanished, replaced by a surge of raw, vibrant power. My exhaustion, a heavy cloak I hadn't even realized I was wearing, was burned away. I was whole. I was strong. And I was incandescent with a rage so pure it felt holy.
The System prompted me for my choices. My mind, usually a cold, calculating machine of tactical assessment, was a furnace. Dexterity? For dodging? No. Vitality? For surviving? No. Will? Intellect? Useless.
There was only one answer. One beautiful, simple, stupid answer.
I took the four attribute points, and without a flicker of hesitation, I drove them all into a single, glorious purpose.
[ Strength: 10 -> 14 ]
A jolt, like lightning, shot through me. It was not the subtle enhancement of my previous level-ups. This was a fundamental rewriting of my physical being. I felt the muscles in my back and shoulders bunch and harden, the fibers thickening, becoming denser, stronger. The axe in my hand, once a heavy, manageable weight, suddenly felt like a toy.
Then came the skills. A new list, full of clever tricks and tactical options. Camouflage. Trap Disarmament. Ranger's Swiftness.
I ignored them all. I scanned the list with a predator's focus, looking for the one that fit the mood. And I found it.
[ Primal Fury (Active): ]
[ For a short duration, sacrifice tactical awareness for a massive boost to physical strength and pain resistance. Become an engine of pure, unthinking destruction. Cooldown: High. Warning: User may lose control. ]
Yes.
[ Skill 'Primal Fury' selected. ]
I dismissed the interface. The entire process had taken less than a second, a silent, internal explosion of power and purpose.
The Berserker was still moving towards Kale, savoring the moment, its axe held ready to deliver the final, brutal coup de grâce. It never got there.
I dropped my axe.
The sound of the heavy, Orcish weapon thudding into the mud was the only sound in the clearing. The goblins stared. The Orc, its attention drawn by the sound, turned its head. It saw me, standing there, my shield arm healed but empty, my weapon arm bare. It saw me unarmed. And it grinned, a wide, bloody slash of a smile. It had made a mistake.
I charged.
It was not the silent, flowing grace of my usual attack. It was the charge of a runaway boulder, a freight train of muscle and rage. The ground shook under my feet. I was no longer a Ranger. I was a missile. I was a prayer to the god of breaking things.
The Orc, its grin turning to a look of confusion, brought its axe around in a clumsy, horizontal sweep. It was the same move that had broken my shield, the same move that had shattered my arm.
This time, I didn't try to block it. I didn't try to dodge it.
I ran straight through it.
I ducked my head at the last second, and the flat of the massive axe blade slammed into my back. The impact was immense, a sound like a car crash. It would have shattered my spine a moment ago. Now, it felt like a slap. A painful, jarring slap, but a slap nonetheless. The force of it sent me stumbling forward, but it didn't stop me.
I crashed into the Orc's chest, my shoulder driving into its sternum with the force of a battering ram. The beast let out a grunt of surprise, its breath driven from its lungs. We were inside its guard now, chest to chest, a brutal, intimate embrace of violence.
It was strong. Gods, it was strong. Its arms were like steel pistons, its hands like iron vices. It dropped its axe and grabbed me, its thick, filthy fingers digging into my arms, trying to crush me, to lift me, to break me.
But I was strong, too.
I wrapped my own hands around its throat. My fingers, powered by a new, primal strength, dug into the thick, corded muscle. It was like trying to choke a tree trunk.
It roared in my face, a spray of hot, stinking spittle washing over me. It headbutted me, its sloping, bony forehead slamming into mine. The world exploded into a flash of white, the pain a sharp, blinding spike. But the rage was hotter. The rage was stronger.
I squeezed.
I felt the cartilage in its throat begin to give way with a sound like wet gravel being ground under a boot. It gargled, its eyes widening in a mixture of fury and a new, dawning panic. It was used to being the strongest thing in the fight. It did not understand what was happening.
It thrashed, its immense strength a wild, uncontrolled storm. It lifted me from my feet, shaking me like a dog with a rat. But my grip held. My hands were anchors of pure, focused hate.
I drove my knee up, again and again, into its groin. The impacts were dull, meaty thuds. It roared in agony, its grip faltering for a fraction of a second.
It was the only opening I needed.
I released my grip on its throat and, in the same fluid motion, I hooked my hands into its mouth. My thumbs pressed against its jawline, my fingers digging into the soft, fleshy tissue of its cheeks. I had found my leverage.
The Orc, sensing the shift, the new, terrible purpose in my grip, began to panic in earnest. It clawed at my arms, its sharp, broken nails tearing long, bleeding furrows in my skin. It didn't matter. The pain was a distant, irrelevant hum.
I planted my feet, my muscles screaming with the effort. I leaned back, putting my entire weight, my entire will, into a single, brutal, anatomical impossibility.
I pulled.
There was a sound. A sound that will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life. It was a wet, tearing, popping sound, a symphony of severed muscle, stretched sinew, and snapping bone. It was the sound of the world coming apart at the seams.
The Orc's jaw, the very foundation of its head, ripped free from its skull.
It didn't scream. It couldn't. It just made a wet, gurgling sound, its eyes wide with a final, profound, and utterly complete understanding of its own destruction.
But I wasn't done. The rage was not sated. The red mist had not cleared.
My grip shifted. My hands, slick with blood and saliva, found a new purchase on the ragged edges of bone and flesh. I hooked my fingers under the base of its skull, my thumbs finding purchase in its eye sockets.
I planted my boot on its chest for leverage. And I pulled.
The resistance was immense. The thick, powerful column of its spine, the last thing holding its head to its body, fought against me. My muscles burned. The world narrowed to this single, gruesome task. My vision turned red. The sound of my own blood roaring in my ears was the only sound in the universe.
I gave one last, primal, soul-shattering heave.
With a final, sickening CRACK that echoed through the silent clearing, the head came free.
I stumbled back, falling to my knees, the Orc's severed head held in my hands. It was surprisingly heavy. Its eyes stared out at the world with a look of dull, lifeless surprise. Its jaw hung open in a silent, eternal scream.
I held it up, a grotesque trophy, and I roared. It was not a sound of triumph. It was not a sound of victory. It was a raw, animalistic howl of rage, of grief, of a pain so profound it had no words. It was the sound of a woman who had just realized she was in love, and had been forced to become a monster to protect it.
The clearing was silent. The remaining goblins, my Gutter-Guard, my pathetic, brave little army, stared at me. They were not looking at a warrior. They were not looking at a leader. They were looking at a force of nature. They were looking at a god of pure, unadulterated slaughter. And they were terrified.
The red mist began to clear. The rage, its purpose served, receded, leaving behind a vast, aching emptiness. I dropped the head. It landed in the mud with a wet, final thud.
My breath came in ragged, shuddering gasps. My body was a roadmap of pain. My back felt like it had been hit by a truck. My head throbbed. My arms were on fire.
But I was alive. They were dead. That was the only math that mattered.
My gaze, slow and heavy, moved across the carnage-strewn clearing, past the dead Orcs, past the terrified goblins, and settled on the still, broken form of the man lying in the mud.
Kale.
The emptiness in my chest was suddenly filled with a new, sharp, and infinitely more terrifying emotion. The rage was gone. The battle was over. And all that was left was the fear.
I scrambled to my feet, my legs unsteady, and I ran.