Chapter 41: Bone Oath
The imp stood silent, eyes aglow, as Butcher's Wrath began to shift. Metal flexed, the handles hissed, heat and pressure rippling through them like joints unlocking. The artifact stretched, then compressed, reshaping itself into a more destructive form.
[4th Weapon Effect // Activated]
[Slicing Damage Converted → Bludgeoning / Piercing]
What he now held were not cleavers but maces, twin iron weapons forged for crushing. Slender hexagonal shafts met squared heads crowned with spikes: four jutting like spears from each side, a fifth at the peak like a nailed verdict. The weapons inhaled, settling into their new shape.
He didn't linger.
'Hellfire. Fiendskin.'
[-1SM]
[Hellfire // Active]
[+10% Damage]
[-2SM]
[Fiendskin // Active]
[+5% Physical Damage Def // 60sec]
[SM // 13/16]
He activated his curses. Cold surged first. Then fire. Black flame crawled up his forearms, coating the weapons in rippling heat. His skin cracked, hardened, bone ridges jagged and new.
No thoughts of stealth now. He leapt.
Eyes locked to the target. One breath. One grin.
'Rend.'
[-2SM]
[Rend // Active]
[+15% Bludgeoning / Piercing Damage // 5sec]
The maces swelled in his grip, spectral outlines blooming in the air, ghosts of weapons yet to strike. Muscles tightened. The human looked up. Their eyes met.
Azakh-Tur swung.
BOOOOMMM!
An explosion...but not from impact, but a clash, energy against energy, force against force. The imp's eyes widened. His strike had failed.
"A demon?"
The human coughed, voice hoarse.
"What's a hellborn doing here?"
He was wounded, but focused. On his back, one hand held a spear, its shaft embedded in the ground, its tip catching the full force of a descending mace. The other braced a buckler, small, round, battered, but somehow enough to glance the second blow into the stone beside him.
Then he kicked.
[-58 HP]
[HP // 242 / 300]
[Demonic Will // Active]
[Stacks // 0]
The imp was launched back, slammed into the far building. A plume of dust followed, stones cracking and rubble falling.
Pain. Old and familiar. Ribs gave, flesh tore, but he still grinned.
[Rend // Deactivated]
[-1 SM // Hellfire Upkeep]
[SM // 12 / 16]
The first exchange went to the human.
Climbing from the wreckage, the imp stood quickly as he gave the command. Butcher's Wrath responded, began to shift, stretching and thinning until they returned to cleavers.
He needed precision. Speed. His focus should be on his highest stat. Agility.
[-1SM // Hellfire Upkeep]
With weapons in hand, buffed, his base damage hovered between 77 and 80. Top velocity, 242 mph. Faster than he'd ever been. Stronger, sharper. But unfamiliar. His new form outpaced his experience.
And it showed.
He surged across the street, cleavers raised, but the human was ready. Waiting.
A blur—then steel.
Whoom!
A spearhead filled his vision. He ducked, barely. His tail snapped up, coiling around the shaft. He twisted, cleavers swinging low for the legs.
Missed.
The human vaulted, a grimace slipping through. Injured. Slower than he should be. But controlled. Intentional.
A quick glance to his Ui. Hellfire deactivated.
One fought with form, the other with fire. Skill met instinct. Vigor collided with restraint.
And steel sang.
The cleavers clashed with the spear, kissed by the buckler. Impact followed every breath. A blur in the street.
They fought as they ran, not away, but through. Walls blurred and meant nothing. Pavement crumbled and shattered. Sound warped and cracked. The imp moved with speed beyond his comprehension. But so did the human, just less. More precise. Experienced. Not wasteful or reckless.
At 240 miles per hour, the city became a smear of debris and stone. Cleavers struck sparks across rebar as they tore through a collapsed scaffold. The human stayed close. Too close.
On the wall. On the roof. Into the bones of a ruined building, they fought like trapped ghosts. The human's footing never faltered, never fully committed. Each parry subtle. Each deflection efficient.
The imp didn't need to think to fight...but still he noticed. The distance was always wrong. The pressure always misaligned. Every angle was met before it mattered.
[-23 HP]
[HP // 219 / 300]
[Demonic Will // Stack / 1]
[+5% Pain Supression // +1%/5sec Health Regen]
Grazed Rib. Spear Tip.
Again. Clash. Redirect. Evade.
A burst up the stairwell, steps skipped in twos and fives, steel clanging off rusted pipes. The air stank of old piss and ash. The ceiling cracked as the imp ran along it upside down.
Bloodlight shimmered. Soulmass depleting.
The cleavers were faster now, his strikes heavier. But the edge never landed. He could feel it. This human wasn't pushing.
'He's stalling...but w—?'
A flash.
Too late. The spear disappeared.
His eyes too slow to catch the change.
A sword now.
Closer.
Too close.
The human stepped forward as if parting a curtain. His hips turned. Shoulder dipped. The blade cut through the space between them, low, rising. Fast!
The imp's thoughts screamed.
'Bone Oath!'
[-3SM]
[SM // 8/16]
[Bone Oath // Activated]
[Cooldown // 1 Hour]
'Right arm!'
Crack!
[-16HP]
[HP // 215/300]
[Right Arm // Fractured]
[Healing Disabled // 90 Seconds]
A sharp bone shattered under his hardened skin, snapping like dry wood.
At the same time—
Crack!
The human's right arm broke. Loud and clear. The swing faltered, collapsing halfway through.
They both stopped. A moment passed. Nothing moved. Not even dust.
Then the pain returned. But no words were spoken, neither even made a grimace. Just the sound of breath. Just the ache of sacrifice.
Bone Oath.
His new racial ability. Simple. Brutal. A cost paid in pain for a guarantee: one broken bone for another, mirrored through line of sight. No dodge, no counter. A direct trade.
Ninety seconds. That was his timer. No healing, no mending. Just damage locked in place. He glanced at the cooldown. Already counting.
Then—
"You're not an imp. Too big...but you look related."
The human's voice was ragged, pain leaking through the cracks.
"What's your name, demon?...Not gonna say? Afraid to? Why don't we just stop the bullshit, and you just tell me what you want. I know you can speak. Or are you one of the dumb one's?"
The imp tilted his head. Observed. Smiled.
'Still stalling.'
But something in him hesitated. Not from caution. He wasn't afraid in the slightest. It was curiosity. This was his first human conversation after all, so thinking a moment, he chose his first words carefully.
"I have no name, human, which you can stand to bear. And you carry nothing that I cannot take for my own."
[Very scary.]
The system's sarcasm dripped in. He ignored it. Slightly embarrassed now or not...that answer felt good. Really good.
The human gave a tired grin. Still bleeding. Still posturing.
"Then what can I offer? Your kind always want to trade. Want my soul? My weapons?"
Azakh-Tur felt it while the man spoke. Under the skin. Under the words. The human's life was dripping out slowly. Paling, with shorter, sharper breaths. The signs were there, plain as blood.
The smile vanished from the imp's face. Replaced with something quieter. Colder. His thoughts turned to his weapon.
'Don't worry. You'll get your chance.'
Butcher's Wrath reluctantly began to fade. Metal folding jagged. Steel peeling like claws on stone. The cleavers sank back into him like disobedient beasts returning to the bone. But the skin split clean—no hesitation. Just a line of pain down both arms.
He didn't flinch.
Then silence. One claw raised. One eye glowing.
He pointed at the human's chest.
"You can offer your soul...but I'd rather just claim it myself."
Caution and desperation flickered across the man's face. He shifted, sword jumping into his good arm, stance low. His blade and shield began to hum, coating in a dark glow that swallowed light instead of casting it.
But it meant nothing.
"Desecrate."
[-6SM]
[SM // 2 / 16]
[Sacrifice Damage // 156]
The space between them froze.
For a split second, it was as if death itself had joined them. No heat. No sound. Only a biting cold that wrapped around the human. A hook. A rip.
Then—
Collapse.
The man dropped without a sound, like a broken doll. Eyes vacant. His chest still.
[+200Exp]
[Exp // 2081/2614]
[User is lucky Instant Kill didn't proc.]
The skill worked. The soul was his. His human form, his complete evolution, all now within reach. Even the experience gained was more than he expected. His arm still hung broken. A rib ground with every breath. But he moved anyway. No time to heal. No time to think.
Then the air shimmered above the corpse. A faint flicker. A countdown appeared, ticking down from sixty.
[Soul Sense // Dissipation Timer Enabled.]
He'd appreciate the perk later.
"Humans are coming."
His skin flared with itches, sharp, urgent. Directions stacked. Too many. Getting closer.
[Grab the corpse and run.]
The human's sword lay forgotten. He hefted the body with his one working arm, shoulder locking to hold it in place, then bolted into the ruins. Each step rattled his broken ribs, sent pain through his side. He didn't slow. Just pushed harder.
[User truly is lucky. Target Soul integrity confirmed. Minimal fragmentation. Estimated target health before use of Desecrate: below 5%.]
He didn't feel lucky, currently, his escape was narrowing. Every route gave a second of relief, relief meant closer. Heat and desperation were pricking his nerves. They were closing in.
Then—metal.
A rusted disc buried in cracked asphalt. Manhole cover, half-concealed beneath debris and dust.
[Detected: Access point to subterranean sewage infrastructure. Escape likelihood: improved.]
'Got it.'
He got there quick, dropped to one knee. Good arm braced. Fingers dug into the steel lip. His ribs screamed. Metal shrieked louder as he wrenched it free—
Then one itch vanished.
Not dimmed. Not fading.
Gone.
He wasn't alone anymore.