The Hive-Scythe didn't just run; it flowed across the chamber floor like a wave of black death. Its dozens of legs moved in a hypnotic, terrifying rhythm, carrying its bulk forward with impossible speed and grace. The four scythe-arms blurred into a storm of sharpened bone.
Lucian's world narrowed to the monster's attack. There was no time for thought, only reaction. He threw himself to the side, his shackled feet sliding on the slick, organic floor. A scythe whistled through the air where his head had been, its edge carving a deep gouge in the hive wall behind him. Corrosive venom sizzled, and the wall hissed like melting wax.
He scrambled back, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The monster didn't pause. Its upper-left arm slashed horizontally, aiming to cut him in half, while its lower-right arm stabbed straight for his chest. It was a coordinated, multi-pronged assault designed to overwhelm and eviscerate.
There was no way to block. Dodging was the only option.
He dropped, letting the horizontal sweep pass over him, and kicked off the spongy floor, twisting his body in mid-air. The stabbing scythe grazed his side, its razor edge slicing through his rags and cutting a shallow, fiery line across his ribs.
Pain, white-hot and immediate, flared through him. It wasn't just the cut; the venom felt like liquid fire being poured into the wound, a searing agony that threatened to paralyze him. He grit his teeth, forcing the pain down. He couldn't afford to slow. Not for a second.
He landed in a roll, coming up to his feet already moving. The Hive-Scythe was relentless. It was a whirlwind of death, its four arms weaving a complex, inescapable pattern of attacks. Sweeps, stabs, overhead slashes—it was like fighting four opponents at once.
But as Lucian danced on the razor's edge of death, his mind, sharpened by a decade of survival and fueled by adrenaline, was working. He wasn't just dodging; he was observing. He was learning.
He saw the pattern.
The two upper arms were for wide, powerful sweeps, designed to control space and herd him. The two lower arms were for quick, precise stabs, the killing blows. There was a rhythm to it, a subtle, almost imperceptible delay as the creature coordinated its complex assault. It was a machine of perfect violence, but even a perfect machine has mechanics.
He needed a weapon. The vulture talon was useless against its armored carapace. His only other asset was the very thing that hindered him: the heavy iron shackles. The weight of the chain had worked against the vulture. Now, it had to work against its master.
A desperate, insane plan began to form. He needed to break the rhythm. He needed to create an opening.
He feinted right, drawing a sweeping attack from the monster's upper-left arm. Instead of dodging away, he dodged inward, into the eye of the storm. It was a suicidal move, bringing him dangerously close to the creature's body, but it was the only way.
He was now inside the reach of the long, sweeping arms. The Hive-Scythe reacted instantly, its two lower arms stabbing down at him in a pincer-like motion. This was the moment he'd been waiting for.
He didn't try to dodge both attacks. He focused on one.
As the right scythe plunged downward, he threw his shackled hands forward, not to block, but to entangle. The heavy iron chain whipped out and wrapped around the bone scythe.
The impact was jarring, a shock that ran up his arms and nearly tore them from their sockets. The monster's strength was immense. But the chain held.
For a single, critical second, one of the Hive-Scythe's killing arms was fouled, its attack ruined. The creature let out a chitter of pure rage, trying to wrench its arm free.
It was the opening Lucian needed. He ignored the screaming pain in his shoulders and used the monster's own pull to swing his body forward, under its torso.
He was now directly beneath the beast, a terrifying position to be in. But it also exposed the monster's only potential weak point: the vulnerable joints where its four arms connected to its armored thorax.
He let go of the chain, leaving it tangled on the scythe, and drove the vulture talon upward with all his might, aiming for the soft, unarmored cartilage of the arm joint.
The talon, which had been useless against the outer shell, sank deep into the creature's flesh.
The Hive-Scythe emitted a sound for the first time—a high-pitched, deafening shriek that was a mixture of agony and fury. It thrashed wildly, its three free arms slashing blindly, trying to dislodge the source of its pain.
Lucian held on, twisting the talon deeper, severing muscle and sinew. The monster's limb went limp. He had crippled one of its arms.
The victory was short-lived. One of the creature's flailing scythes caught him squarely in the back, not with its edge, but with the flat of the blade. The blow was like being hit by a freight train. The air was driven from his lungs, and he was sent flying across the chamber, slamming hard against the far wall before collapsing in a heap, his vision swimming with black spots.
He lay there, gasping for breath, the taste of blood in his mouth. The Hive-Scythe, now shrieking and moving erratically, had torn the chain from its useless arm and was turning its full, murderous attention back to him.
He had wounded it. He had made it bleed. And now, he had made it truly furious.