I was bleeding in places I didn't even know could bleed. Nose, ears, mouth—check. Confidence—ha, dead. My ribs still hummed from the orchestra of cracks they'd played last round. My back felt like it had auditioned as the dungeon's mop.
My jacket sleeve hung in ribbons. My "weapons" list currently included: zero knives, one bent chain bracelet, and sarcasm. Last chapter—yeah, I call it that now—I got turned into pavement pizza. This chapter, apparently, I was supposed to try again.
The Guardian stepped closer, tail smashing benches like it was bored of the furniture. Mana pressure made the edges of my vision shake, like the whole world wanted to slide off the table. Blue light oozed out of the floor cracks; roots throbbed under tile like the dungeon had a pulse and I wasn't invited.
[Warning: Survival odds <5%.]
"Thanks, doc," I wheezed. "Can you also prescribe 'not being here'?"
It raised its claws. I raised my middle finger. Fair trade. My hand shook, which made it funnier and sadder at the same time.
Then the dungeon did something it wasn't supposed to do. The tiles didn't crack from weight; they cracked from glow. Blue veins split wider and a box shouldered up through the floor like it was being born wrong—iron-bound, heavy, humming. A chest. Just… a chest. Like an RPG designer got bored and spawned loot in the middle of my funeral.
I blinked, swayed, laughed once. "No way. No. Nope. Either I've got a concussion or my afterlife is being run by a streamer."
The Guardian didn't care. It stalked closer at that patient butcher pace. I staggered toward the box anyway because if I was hallucinating loot, I wanted to hallucinate properly.
The lock snapped itself. The lid creaked open with that "you triggered a mimic" noise. I flinched for teeth. Instead—light. White, clean, rude about it. Like somebody left a star inside and forgot to close the door.
Inside the glow: a dagger. Long enough to be dangerous, curved enough to look smug. Black-steel hilt. Silver blade etched with runes that throbbed with my pulse like the knife was trying to flirt with me. Compared to my duct-taped kitchen knife, this was weapon porn.
System pinged:
[Item Acquired: Fangpiercer]
Rank: A
Type: Dagger
Bound: Ethan Cross
Effect: Critical strikes ignore 30% of enemy defenses.
Passive: Blade Dancer — Attack speed x2. Movement speed x2.
Durability: 100 / 100
Note: Compatible with reckless idiots.
"…Compatible with reckless idiots," I repeated, voice shaking. "Wow. Even the system roasts me."
"Wait—hold on—movement speed too?!" My voice cracked like a dying radio. "So I don't just swing faster, I run faster? Dodge faster? Trip over my own feet faster? What the actual—"
I laughed, a shaky, manic little bark. "Yeah, no, this isn't balanced. I'm literally about to get banned from ranked play."
The dagger dropped light into my hand. My fingers wrapped the hilt and it just… fit. Like the blade had been waiting, muttering, Finally, dumbass. For one stupid second I forgot I was F-rank trash and thought maybe I looked like poster material. Then my brain coughed and said lol, no.
And yep, a gross little thought: it's big… it's sharp… is this what an erection feels like for my hand? Great. File that under Things To Never Say Out Loud.
Mom's voice flashed out of nowhere—be careful, honey—which is like telling rain not to be wet. My old team leader voice followed—dead weight—while I carried potions and watched real hunters fight. And a healer I once had a crush on? She called me Evan three raids in a row. That was my love life résumé until Mara.
I shook it off. "Focus, Ethan. Not the time to be horny about steel or your tragic backstory."
The Guardian finally roared. Dust came down in sheets. Tiles spidered. My ears popped until everything sounded underwater.
[Tip: Try using new equipment.]
"No shit," I muttered. "You want me to juggle with it or stab a skyscraper?"
I slashed once through open air. The dagger moved like thought. Too fast. My arm blurred and I almost hamstrung myself. I hopped back, heart thrashing. "Okay. Okay. Blade Dancer. Twice as fast. Finally something in my life goes fast without disappointing someone."
Light slid along the runes. The blade hummed. I didn't even want to throw it in Inventory. It felt glued to me, like letting go would be rude.
Critical strikes ignore thirty percent of armor, the screen had said. I eyed the Guardian's plates. "So I can shank through that cosplay."
Also Double speed. My arms blurred, my legs wanted to keep up, and suddenly I was moving like the guy in class who actually did cardio. Shame my decision-making still lagged behind.
It lowered its horns. The hammer-sized claw flexed. The tail traced a lazy S like it was practicing my obituary.
I raised the blade and tried not to grin like an idiot. Failed. "Last round, I was unarmed," I told it. "This round, I've got Fangpiercer. Let's cheat."
The Guardian stomped. The floor jumped. Pressure came down like a blanket full of bricks. I staggered, planted, breathed through copper and dust.
I cut the air again. Two slashes in the space I used to give one. My arm blurred faster than my brain could keep up.
"Jesus—Blade Dancer. Guess I'm the dancer. Bad news: I've got two left feet."
The edge whistled like it had opinions. For once I didn't feel like background noise. For once I felt like a player, not the tutorial corpse.
The Guardian charged.
I went to meet it because apparently my survival instinct had stepped out for smokes. It swiped low for my legs. My feet moved faster than I told them to, like somebody had hit fast-forward. My hands followed. Fangpiercer bit where steel shouldn't.
[Fangpiercer Critical][Armor Penetration: 30%]
Black blood splattered my boots. The Guardian jerked—barely, like a train noticing a pebble—but it noticed. That alone lit something dumb and bright in my chest.
"Oh my god," I gasped, half-laughing. "I just stabbed through plate. And I'm moving like I drank four espressos. I'm a can opener with legs."
It backhanded me for that sentence. Fangpiercer stayed in my grip because I refused to let go of the only good thing in my life. I skipped across tiles like a rock and smashed into a cracked bench, wood and tile exploding around me. Something in my back suggested stopping.
[Absolute Regeneration Activated]
[Major trauma detected: back contusions, rib stress. Temporary cooldown: 3s.]
"Three seconds," I coughed. "I can not-die three seconds. I've done worse. I've dated worse. Wait, no I haven't—"
The claw came down to finish the thought. My body slid under faster than I'd meant to, Blade Dancer dragging me ahead of my own brain. Fangpiercer punched into the armpit seam before the plates could close. The runes flared.
[Fangpiercer Critical]
[Armor Penetration: 30%]
The Guardian howled. I stayed a beat too long because I am greedy and stupid. The tail erased me from the floor plan. I slammed spine-first into a root-veined pillar and slid down, coughing blood.
[Absolute Regeneration Restored]
[Injuries recovered: back contusions, rib stress.]
Heat flooded my spine. Breath re-entered my body like it had changed its mind. I rolled to my knees on broken tile, hacked up blood, smiled because I couldn't help it. "Great genes," I lied, because that joke would never stop being funny to me.
Its shadow covered me. It slammed both forelimbs. I dove—late by thought, but my legs moved twice as fast as thought. Even so, one claw still raked my shoulder open to bone. Blood painted the wall like a bad mural. I screamed and stabbed on reflex.
[Fangpiercer Critical]
[Armor Penetration: 30%]
The blade slid between plates and found meat. The monster recoiled. I stumbled back into an overturned bench, half air, half pain, whole idiot.
Remember when I was the trash they left behind? Joke's on them, now I'm the trash that fights A-ranks alone.
It lunged. My arms blurred faster than my eyes. I cut high, missed, cut low, grazed, cut again and finally heard the runes sing against something soft. Three strikes where old me would've managed one on a good day. Blade Dancer made me look talented. Truth was I was just stubborn and too fast to stay dead.
[Fangpiercer Critical][Armor Penetration: 30%]
The chest plate wasn't perfect anymore. A ragged line leaked black. Not much, but it was proof. I could hurt it.
"System," I rasped, "add a stamina bar. Or coffee. Or two coffees."
[Invalid. No stat: Stamina.]
"Coward," I said, and laughed, and almost choked on it.
The Guardian swiped low-to-high. I jumped back faster than I thought possible. Not enough. The claw skimmed my belly and opened me like a lazy zipper. Heat, wet, the wrong kind of slide. I slammed into the far wall and crumpled before I even looked down.
[Absolute Regeneration Activated]
[Major trauma detected: abdominal lacerations, hemorrhage. Temporary cooldown: 6s.]
Six seconds. I pressed a hand to my stomach because my guts seemed curious about the outside world. The Guardian paused like it could smell the timer. Then it came on again, hammering the floor until the tile ribs lifted and I bounced across shards like a skipped stone.
Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.
I put my back to a pillar slick with glowing roots. It swung. I ducked—Blade Dancer shoved me lower than my brain had asked. Stone exploded, showering grit down my neck. I stabbed the elbow seam and felt Fangpiercer dig like it paid rent in there.
[Fangpiercer Critical]
[Armor Penetration: 30%]
It tried to paste me against the pillar. I let my knees go and dropped; its weight smashed air where my chest had been. The timer finally hit.
[Absolute Regeneration Restored]
[Injuries recovered: abdominal lacerations, hemorrhage. .]
Everything sealed in a horrible rush. I sucked air, shoved off the slick roots, slid under the Guardian faster than I'd meant to, and cut a long line across its inner thigh seam. If this thing bled out, it would take a while, but I'd set the faucet to drip.
It stomped to pin me. I rolled into the stomp instead, got clipped, heard static, came up laughing because of course I did. "Be boring, sexy," I wheezed. "I'm trying."
It inhaled. The pressure doubled. My ears whined. The chamber groaned like the room hated both of us equally.
The system chimed in my ear like a concierge who wanted a tip.
[Quest Objective Updated: Defeat the Guardian.]
[Reward: ???]
"No notes?" I asked. "Got a strategy guide? A cheat code? Up up down down—"
The tail blurred for my head. My body ducked at the last possible second, faster than I'd ordered it to, and my arm followed, slashing the throat seam where chain and flesh met. Blade Dancer carried it through.
The edge hit something squishy and important. Don't ask me what; I'm not a doctor.
[Fangpiercer Critical]
[Armor Penetration: 30%]
The Guardian reeled, bellowing. I crashed to my knees, dizzy, blood in my mouth, dagger still singing in my hand like it liked this. Sick little thing. Same, buddy.
I pushed up, legs jelly, but faster jelly than before. "Last round, I was unarmed. This round, I've got Fangpiercer. Third round…" I grinned through red teeth. "Third round we see if an F-rank can carve an A-rank boss."
It lowered its horns. I lowered the blade.
It came at me like rent was due. I sprinted back—too fast, nearly tripping myself—because apparently I don't value knees.
I cut. It swung.
Impact turned the world to white noise and hot wind. I felt the edge bite again—deep, deeper—and the monster's follow-through smashed me into a cracked pillar. My bones rang like a cheap bell. I didn't let go. If I died, I was dying with this stupid perfect knife in my hand.
"Okay," I said to the beast and maybe to the dungeon and maybe to the version of me that should've learned plumbing, "let's finish orientation."