Derek could feel, and see, the drag of feet across the dark ground of the tunnel. Not his this time.
A mindless warrior, clad in ragged cloth that barely concealed the calloused flesh beneath, tousled hair obscuring what was left of its features, was making its way toward him slowly. One eye was missing, a gaping socket where something precious had once resided, but the other eye mirrored its mind, hollow, empty, and desolate, like a canvas wiped clean, stripped of its color, leaving behind only a blank, terrifying emptiness.
Peering into its mind, a skill he had hone for surviving in this unforgiving world, Derek noticed that, like stubborn strokes of paint refusing to be erased, some part of the creature's mind and soul refused to leave, clinging to the remnants of its former self. These stubborn strokes spelled one singular word.
The untainted, singular existence of 'battle'
It was an echo from a forgotten life, a testament to what it once was: a soldier, a protector, a killer. Now, it was just a husk, driven by a primal instinct that knew nothing but violence, a puppet on strings of instinct, forced to dance for an audience that no longer existed.
The warrior seemed to have sensed Derek's presence, It approached with a measured gait, its strides betraying a proficiency in battle that belied its current state. It's walk was just so calm it was terrifying.
"It's coming," Derek said, his voice barely a whisper, but firm, steadying his gaze and preparing himself for the inevitable confrontation.
"Great," Quarren said, his tone urgent, laced with an odd blend of exasperation and something akin to… encouragement?
"Always remember, it's not just about the swing and the brutality. Temper your will, train your patience. Learn to make every blow not just an attack, but a statement. Then the strength that comes from within will bolster your strength without."
Derek nodded, absorbing Quarren's words. He took a deep breath, attempting to calm the frantic beating of his heart, and then he moved, shifting his weight, preparing to meet the warrior head on. He was done running
It had been yet another miserable week, a seemingly endless cycle of suffering and despair. He was hungry, his stomach gnawing with a constant, dull ache. He was battered, his body covered in bruises and cuts that throbbed with every movement. And he was beaten, his spirit worn thin.
Every warrior he'd met so far had almost killed him, each encounter leaving him weaker, more broken than before. He'd had to escape each time, his tail tucked firmly between his legs, fleeing for his life. His last glimmer of strength had been exhausted
He was fed up.
But this one was going to be different.
Well… maybe not.
Derek hit the cave wall with a loud thud that echoed through the tunnel. He could feel the iron taste of blood in his mouth, a familiar sensation by now, and each breath was labored, a painful reminder of his broken state. His head rang like a bell, and every breath hurt like hell.
"I think I might have broken a rib,"
Derek winced, his fingers gingerly probing the tender flesh beneath his armor. He fumbled for the mace, his hand grasping its cold, familiar surface as the warrior lumbered toward him. His brow was thick with sweat, stinging his eyes, and he couldn't quite make out the figure of the warrior through the dim light, but he could feel its approaching feet thudding against the ground not too far away, each step a heavy, relentless drumbeat like the call of death.
This was the end.
"Remember, Derek,"
Quarren's voice cut through the fear, a stern command that snapped him back to reality.
"Grasp With Both Fist and Intention. Grip the haft not like a rod, but like a truth you cannot let slip. Your hand must speak the language of force, weakling, firm, resolute, and with purpose. Loose fingers lead not just to broken knuckles and cracked pride, but death."
Derek could feel himself on the verge of panicking, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body trembling with exhaustion and fear. He had let the mace slip from his hands once again, and he had suffered for it.
But this was not the time to sulk or count defeats. This was not the time for anything but surviving.
With a surge of adrenaline, fueled by desperation and a refusal to surrender, Derek sprang to his feet just in time to face an oncoming fist, a blurred mass of flesh and bone aimed directly at his head. Reacting on instinct alone, driven by the memory of Quarren's lessons and the primal urge to survive, Derek evaded it, twisting his body, following the momentum of the fist as it whistled past his face, a mere inch away from shattering his skull.
Derek's heart almost jumped out of his throat. If that fist had connected, his head would have probably fallen off, or at the very least, his facial features would have been rearranged into something unrecognizable. But at least it was enough to distract the warrior, throwing it slightly off balance and creating an opening, a brief window of opportunity.
Taking advantage of that momentary lapse, Derek reached out with his leg and nudged the back of the warrior's knee forcefully, calculated move designed to exploit the warriors weight against him.
This, combined with the insane momentum generated by that fist swing from earlier, was enough to make the warrior lose balance and crumble to the ground, its body collapsing in a heap, leaving it exposed for a split second.
Without a moment's hesitation, Derek quickly brought the mace down with all his remaining strength, aiming for the warrior's head. But the warrior, despite its mindless state, was experienced enough to react, rolling away from the weapon's path just in the nick of time, narrowly avoiding a fatal blow.
Then Derek did something he didn't even give much thought to, a reckless, desperate gamble born out of pure instinct. He released the mace, letting it fly through the air, a spinning vortex of iron and force aimed directly at the warrior's skull. The mace landed a few meters away from Derek, crushing the warriors head with a satisfying crunch.
He picked up the mace, its weight strangely comforting in his trembling hands, and then he noticed the dim orb beside it, a faint, ethereal glow emanating from its surface. He regarded the orb for a second, his brow furrowed, a deep frown etched on his face.
It felt hollow, devoid of any energy, an empty shell. There was nothing for him to absorb. The warrior was truly gone, leaving behind only a void.
With a sigh, Derek crushed the orb between his fingers, letting the essence diffuse into the surrounding environment, returning to the nothingness from which it came.
"Be free… eternally."
It was a whisper, a silent prayer for a soul lost to the ravages of this twisted world.
Derek took a deep breath for a second, wiping his face and head with his palm, trying to clear the sweat from his eyes and the images of violence from his mind. He was alive, for now.
"Nice one Derek, you are such a quick learner, the knee nudge maneuver you did right there was nice, not to mention that you've learnt it only a couple of times".
Derek replied to Quarren's compliment with a low grunt, a sound that conveyed a complex mix of exhaustion, relief, and something else he couldn't quite define.
Quarren continued, "But the way you dispatched him, very un..."
"I only learned from my mistakes," Derek interrupted, his voice flat, his gaze hard.
"Besides, I can kill any way I want. All that matters is that I survive. Precepts be damned."
His tone brooked no argument.