The black beam of condensed energy screamed toward Bradley at a terrifying speed. He knew, with a certainty that turned his blood to ice, that even a glancing touch from that thing would erase him from existence.
At the very last possible second, he threw himself to the side. The world became a roar of violent force as the beam shrieked past, missing him by inches. The shockwave that followed was a physical wall, slamming into him and hurling him through the air. He landed hard in a skidding crouch, dust and debris raining down around him.
That is some bullshit! he cursed silently, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He looked back at where he had stood moments before. The ground was simply gone. In its place was a wide, smoking chasm, its edges still glowing with a faint, malevolent heat. The air above it shimmered with residual power.
A cold chill raced down Bradley's spine.
Now, this, this is fucked up. If that attack had landed on me, I'd have said goodbye to my new life before it even really began.
"Caw!" Noir's alarmed cry echoed in his head.
Far across the blasted field, the wendigo was hunched over, hacking and spitting thick gouts of black blood onto the charred earth. The massive effort of the beam attack, combined with its still-weeping throat wound, had taken a visible toll. Its shoulders heaved with ragged, wet breaths.
"Shouldn't have spit that beam at me with a hole in your throat," Bradley called out, his mocking words carrying clearly through the eerie quiet of the fog. "You regret it now, huh?"
"Growwll…" The beast's response was a weak, gurgling snarl of pure hatred. One massive grey hand was pressed firmly back against its neck. The bleeding had slowed to a sluggish trickle; it seemed the creature's unnatural healing was still functioning, but at a crawl.
Bradley's mind raced, calculating options. I could try to flee… but it could still chase me, even wounded. Running is a no-go. So how do I kill it? His gaze flicked from the panting monster to the freshly carved chasm behind him.
An idea sparked, sharp and clear. That's it! I just need to throw it into the pit its own attack made. Let gravity do the work.
There was another, more pressing thought. I was able to restore a bit of my soul by consuming its energy with my katana. Earlier when he activated Aufladen, he felt something inside, his soul, being filled; it was not fully fixed but it did something. Does that mean it can completely fix soul damage? The possibility sent a thrill through him. The blade could also heal soul damage. If it really does… then I need to drive this blade deep into its heart and drain it dry.
His plan solidified. He opened his mouth and screamed, injecting as much taunting bravado as he could muster. "Yoooo! Come get me, you overgrown piece of jerky!" He even added a mocking wave of his hand.
He expected the beast to charge in a rage, but it didn't. It remained rooted, focused on staunching its wound. The hunger for his flesh was now tempered by a feral sense of self-preservation.
"If you think I'm just going to stand here and let you heal, then you're insane."
In one fluid motion, Bradley gripped his katana with his right hand, pulled his arm back like a javelin thrower, and with every ounce of his enhanced strength, hurled the dark blade across the distance.
The katana shot through the air, making no sound, a sliver of living shadow. The wendigo, focused on its throat, never saw it coming.
Stab. Splurt!
"GROWWLL!" A fresh roar of agony tore from the beast.
The blade had sunk deep into its chest. The wendigo stared down in shock, only registering the attack by the whisper of pierced flesh and the sudden, icy pain—a fitting strike for a blade named Susurrus Mortis, the Whisper of Death.
Bradley was already moving. He launched himself forward, a pale streak against the dark earth, closing the distance with terrifying speed.
Enraged beyond reason, the wendigo wrapped a massive hand around the hilt protruding from its chest and yanked the blade free, splattering more foul blood across the ground. Forgetting its neck wound entirely, it turned to face Bradley's charge, the stolen katana now clutched in its grey fist. A dim, savage logic flickered in its sunken eyes: without his weapon, the prey was helpless.
To Bradley's utter shock, the wendigo raised the dark blade and swung it at him in a clumsy, overhead chop. It had no technique, no finesse—just the raw, devastating speed and power of a giant.
Hah, Bradley thought mid-stride, a strange laugh bubbling up. Is it trying to use my own sword against me?
The swing was a train coming off the rails, carrying enough force to pulverize stone. It descended toward his head.
Bradley didn't even break his stride. "Dumbass."
The obsidian edge was inches from splitting his skull when it simply vanished. One moment it was a weapon in the monster's grasp, the next it dissolved into faint black sparks, returning to Bradley's inventory.
The wendigo stumbled, its swing completing in empty air. It stared at its now-empty hand, its sunken eyes wide with a primitive, bewildered fury. It was almost as if it was saying 'What kind of sorcery is this?'
Lowkey, I should have done this trick way earlier, Bradley thought with a mental click of his tongue. I guess I wasn't thinking straight.
As the beast stood confused, Bradley recalled the katana. It materialized back in his grip instantly. Without slowing, he drove it forward, aiming not for the chest, but for the beast's extended arm. The point slid neatly under its armpit, punching through muscle and grating against bone before erupting from the top of its shoulder in a shower of black gore.
More of the vile, stinking blood splashed across Bradley's face. He didn't flinch. The disgust was buried under a rising, cold-blooded focus. He was done playing. He just wanted to run that fade back.
The wendigo's screech was deafening, a sound of pure, unadulterated torment.
Bradley twisted the blade, trying to saw upward and sever the entire limb, but a wild, backhanded punch from the beast's other fist forced him to abort. He let go of the katana, his body contorting sideways to avoid the blow that whistled past his ear.
The moment he was clear, he called the sword back. It appeared in his waiting hand, already warm with stolen vitality. Another potent surge of energy flooded his veins, mending his minor bruises and amplifying his strength further.
The wendigo felt it too—a sickening drain, as if its very life force was being siphoned away with every wound. Worse, it could feel the change in its prey. Bradley was growing stronger, faster, his movements sharper with every passing second. A primal instinct, older than hunger, screamed a warning in the monster's fractured mind: Finish him now, or you will be the one who ends up dead.