He stood slowly, his knees protesting the way they always do after a fight in which the ground was less than forgiving.
He ignored the ache and let his breath slide out through his nose, steady, training his lungs to behave like they belonged to someone who knew better than to gasp like an amateur.
The knife in his hand was no longer trembling. He bent down, wiped the blade clean on a patch of moss that didn't mind, and checked the serpent's head one last time.
As it always did, the twitch came—a final spasm of muscle pretending at life. He didn't flinch. He let it pass and gave the moment its quiet. Patient. Respectful.
When he finally told his hand to relax, it obeyed. His fingers unclenched without fight. That was good. Muscles should know when to let go.
The system cleared its throat—ridiculous, unnecessary, but it did it anyway. "Nice," it said, smug and pleased. "Also, you're welcome."
"For what?" he asked, voice dry as old stone.
