The moon cast a pale glow over the still waters, its reflection slightly distorted as ripples disturbed the surface. From the depths, something emerged—a beast of scales and ruin, dragging itself from the lake, its form glistening under the silver light.
Belial stiffened, gripping the makeshift horn-containers tighter. It was that thing.
The Lake Atrocity.
Its body, once an intimidating wall of strength and primal fury, was now battered and broken. Deep, jagged gashes ran along its side, its once-powerful tail completely severed, leaving behind a mutilated stump. Out of the four malevolent eyes that once glowed with hunger, only two remained, the other sockets gouged out in some vicious battle.
Behind it, floating lifelessly on the lake's surface, was another beast—its latest victim.
So it won.
It had fought, suffered, and emerged victorious. Yet even in its battered state, it was still standing.
Belial took a slow breath, his muscles tensed, ready for anything. The Atrocity, despite its wounds, was still a threat.
And it had noticed him.
Its slit-like pupils narrowed as it set its gaze upon him. Its jaws parted slightly, revealing curved fangs that dripped with thick venom, glistening under the moonlight. Its lips curled in a low snarl, but it wasn't just a sound of warning or hunger.
It was recognition.
A guttural, bitter hiss escaped its throat—a sound that almost resembled disgust.
It knew him.
It remembered him.
The last time they fought, this monster had sunk its venomous fangs into his hand, ripping off flesh and bone.
But now, his hand was whole.
The creature's snarl deepened. It could sense it. That its wound, the one it inflicted upon him, was erased. Undone. As if its existence, its suffering, meant nothing.
Belial met its gaze, his expression cold and unyielding.
He wasn't going to back down.
Yes, this thing was aggressive. Yes, it was dangerous. But he had fought it before.
And he had won.
The Scaled Atrocity lunged Forward.
Belial dodged, rolling to the side as the creature's fangs snapped shut inches from where his throat had been.
The beast landed, skidding across the rocky shore before whipping around with terrifying speed, despite its injuries. Its body was damaged, but its hunger had not faded.
Belial dashed forward.
He slashed.
The tip of his longsword ripped through its side, carving open one of the fresh wounds it had sustained in its previous battle.
The creature shrieked, its cry a mix of pain and fury. But rather than retreat, it charged again.
This time, Belial couldn't evade completely.
The Atrocity's claws grazed his side, tearing through fabric and drawing blood. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain, and countered with a diagonal slash.
The blade swiftly connected.
It cut through the monster's shoulder, forcing it to stumble back, its blood spilling onto the sand.
But the moment Belial stepped forward to press the attack—
The scaled creatures maul opened wide, Its deadly fangs darted toward him.
He reacted, raising his sword to block, but too late.
The beast's mouth clamped down—not on his hand this time, but on his forearm.
A sharp, piercing pain erupted through his body as the venom seeped in.
Belial's eyes widened as the numbing sensation spread from the wound, slithering through his veins like fire and ice intertwined. His muscles tensed involuntarily, his grip on the sword faltering for just a second.
But that second was enough. The monster threw him some distance away. His body hit the ground hard, sliding across the damp soil, his back slamming into a rock.
The world blurred. His breath was ragged. His vision pulsed turning red.
The venom.
It was already working.
His pulse pounded in his ears, his heart fighting against the toxin invading his bloodstream. His fingers trembled slightly as he forced himself up, glaring at the Atrocity.
It wasn't attacking.
No Not immediately.
It was watching. Waiting.
It knew.
It knew the poison was taking effect.
And it wanted to enjoy it.
Belial's breathing was becoming shallow. His movements slower. But he refused to stop.
"Not… yet," he muttered under his breath, forcing himself to stand.
The Atrocity let out a low, satisfied growl.
And then—
It charged again.
This was going to be a hard fight.
And if he didn't act fast—
It might be his last.
The venom burned in his veins, a cruel, searing fire eating away at his strength. Every heartbeat sent fresh waves of agony through his body, his muscles stiffening, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. His limbs felt heavy, like they were drowning in thick tar.
Yet, despite it all—he grinned like a madman.
The Atrocity, looming over him, snarled in what could only be described as cruel amusement. It took a slow step forward, its talons sinking into the damp earth, its broken body still strong enough to kill him.
It thought it had already won.
But it was wrong.
Belial let out a slow breath, his vision sharpening even as the poison twisted through his body.
Maybe I should carry poison more often.
Because what the creature didn't know—what it couldn't possibly understand—was that the Battle arts-: The sword arts, Dance of Death required its practitioner to be at death's door.
And the venom had done just the trick.
A thin smirk tugged at his lips as he shifted his stance. He held his ground in a Eight direction stance.
Dance of Death: Black Wind.
His body moved.
A single step—then a black blur.
Belial vanished from the creature's sight, his body accelerating in an unnatural burst of speed. He reappeared at its side, his longsword flashing in the moonlight, carving through its already wounded flesh.
The Atrocity roared, whipping around— but Belial was gone.
Another step—another slash.
And another.
His movements were like the wind, a chaotic, howling storm of blackened steel and ruthless precision.
To the creature, it was as if the shadows themselves had come alive, cutting through its body with an unseen force. Each slash was faster than the last, unpredictable, striking from angles impossible to read.
The beast screeched, swiping blindly, its venom-coated fangs snapping at air. It was fast—but Belial was faster.
A flash of silver—another cut.
A streak of blood—another wound.
His blade struck again. And again. And again.
Each strike, a gust of black wind.
Each wound, a storm tearing through its flesh.
The Atrocity staggered.
It let out a low, guttural hiss, its body trembling as its remaining strength drained from its battered form. It had lost too much blood. Too many wounds, too many vital points cut open by the relentless storm that was Belial.
Its limbs gave out.
The monstrous scaled beast collapsed, its last breath escaping in a weak, shuddering exhale.
It was over.
Belial stood amidst the Black water, his chest rising and falling heavily. The poison was still there, twisting inside him, but his body had been pushed beyond its limits so many times that it no longer mattered.
He exhaled, running a hand through his sweat-drenched hair.
"Should've gone down sooner," he muttered, nudging the dead beast with his foot.
But there was no time insert a mocking quip, There was no time to waste at all.
He staggered toward the lake, his vision swimming, but he forced himself forward. He knelt by the water's edge, scooping up the cool liquid with his makeshift horn containers, filling them to the brim.
The moon's reflection wavered on the surface, distorted—like something still lurked beneath.
But he ignored it.
He had what he came for.
Now, he just had to make it back alive.