Jester launched himself forward. A solitary figure charging against the tide of terrified, fleeing civilians.
His legs moved at their fastest speed. The nunchaku spun in his hands. A whirlwind of blunt force.
He reached the demon. A small, furious teen against its towering form. He aimed for its legs. Striking with all the force his rage could muster.
CRACK! The ironwood stick of the nunchaku connected with the Wereboar's thick, hairy hide.
It grunted. A low, annoyed rumble. But it barely flinched.
Jester launched a rapid succession of strikes. A barrage of blows aimed at its flanks, its knees, anywhere he could reach.
WHUMP! WHUMP! CRACK! WHUMP! WHUMP! CRACK!
The nunchaku whistled through the air. And struck against its target. Each impact resounded with a dull thud.
The demon let out a frustrated roar. Its massive head swinging wildly. Jester dodged. rolling under a sweep of its arm. An slipped out of the path of its tusk. The sharpened bone missed his head by mere centimeters.
Jester's attacks were fast and fluid. A showcase to his innate athleticism. And the weapon's inherent speed. And his returning mastery of the weapon. The one he trained long ago in his previous life. When he was still practicing karate.
He hit it again. A sharp smack to the back of its enormous knee. Then followed with a rapid upward strike aimed at its jaw.
The Horned Wereboar let out another grunt. Its hide seemed impervious. Absorbing the blows with contemptuous ease.
Jester's attacks, even when amplified by the shapeshifting weapon, were like pebbles against a mountain. He landed a dozen more hits. A flurry of strikes that would have pulverized a normal man.
The demon only grunted. Its crimson eyes trying to track the infuriatingly quick human.
Luckily, for Jester, the Horned Wereboar was not particularly agile. Despite its monstrous strength and destructive charges.
Once it committed to a charge, it was indeed devastatingly fast. In a straight line. But its general movements were slow and awkward. Especially when it concerned rotation.
It thrashed its head. Swung its forelegs in wide, telegraphed arcs. And its heavy body shifted with a dull, uncoordinated grace. It was a battering ram. Not a dancer.
This slowness. This sheer, unthinking bulk... was the only reason Jester wasn't already a bloody stain on the cobblestones.
Jester still circled around the demon. A furious gnat. Landing blows that were ineffective. But they managed to annoy the colossal beast.
Jester's adrenaline-fueled rage began to recede. It didn't vanish entirely. But it sharpened. Crystallizing into a cold, hard stone of resolve in his gut.
The raw, guttural screams of the injured. The terrified cries of onlookers. The sickening crunch of bone from the demon's initial rampage... These sounds still echoed in his ears. But they no longer clouded his judgment.
He was still furious. A venomous current beneath his skin. But his mind was finally kicking back into gear. It was back to a machine of calculation with two lifetime experiences.
This wasn't a fight he could win. That much was brutally clear. His Wild Nunchaku was now just a one-star weapon. It was proving to be little more than an annoyance.
It connected with the Horned Wereboar's hide. Yes. Leaving faint, almost imperceptible scuff marks. But the demon simply grunted everytime it was struck.
Its mountainous bulk barely registered the impact. He was hitting a wall. A living, breathing, rampaging wall.
But he didn't need to win. He just needed to survive. He needed to stall.
The thought clicked into place. With the precision of a well-oiled lock. Stall. Buy time. That was the mission.
Oakhaven wasn't some backwater village entirely devoid of capable individuals. It was a small town. Indeed. But it was one constantly exposed to the threats of Dungeons, Undeath, and Demons.
There would be Transcenders here. Awakened individuals. Perhaps even veteran transcenders. Certainly more powerful than a freshly Awakened Rogue with zero real-world combat experience against supernatural threats.
They would come. They had to. Every minute he kept this monstrosity occupied was a minute they gained to mobilize. To arrive. To save the remaining civilians.
His breathing deepened. Becoming more controlled. His movements were still a blur of speed and agility. But they adopted a more deliberate, less frantic rhythm.
He was no longer just flailing wildly. He was creating patterns. Feints. Drawing the demon's massive head in one direction. Before darting to its flank.
He used its inherent slowness against it. Forcing it to commit to predictable and slow wide swings.
He would evade. And then capitalize on the brief pauses as it recovered. He was like a terrier nipping at a bull's heels. Irritating. Unpredictable. Always just out of reach of the fatal stomp.
The Horned Wereboar's grunts grew deeper. More frustrated. Its predatoric crimson eyes now flickered with genuine annoyance.
It swung a hoofed foreleg. A deadly kick. Ripping a section of a nearby awning with a sound like tearing canvas.
Jester ducked under the arc. A gust of displaced air rustled his hair.
And he immediately sprung back. Landing two quick strikes to the demon's crotch and butt before retreating. Pain was a concept alien to this creature. Or at least, the kind of pain his attacks could inflict.
But irritation? That he could manage. He could be a fly in its ear. Buzzing relentlessly. Holding its attention. Until someone with a bigger fist arrived.
As he circled, his gaze darted beyond the immediate melee. Scanning the market square quickly. The initial chaos had subsided somewhat. Replaced by a terrified hush.
Civilians were scattered. Huddled behind overturned carts. Or fleeing down side streets. Their screams echoing distantly.
The market was once a vibrant tapestry of commerce. It was a scene of destruction now.– Overturned stalls. Spilled merchandises. Shattered ceramics.
And amongst it, the still, broken forms of those unfortunates caught in the demon's first charge. They fueled the cold fire in Jester's belly.
He moved in circular path. Forcing the Wereboar to pivot. Its heavy body groaning. Its tusked snout slammed into a fruit stand. Sending oranges and apples exploding in a riot of color.
Jester seized the moment. Lashing out with the nunchaku. Aiming for the soft underside of its jaw. A theoretical weak point. CRACK!
The impact was still dull. But he felt a slight tremor run through the weapon. A minuscule feedback from the demon's bulk. It was something, at least.
Then, the air shimmered again...
Another sickening tear in the fabric of reality. A shimmering, jagged crack. Exactly where it was previously. Mid-air above the busiest intersection.
It glowed with the same grim green light. Smelling as bad as it was. Then, the crack widened. And from within that crack, a new entity stepped forth.
It was smaller than the Horned Wereboar. Perhaps two meters tall. Lean and sinewy. But its presence was disproportionately unsettling.
A black-furred goatman. With long, curving horns that spiraled back from its head. And eyes that glowed with a malevolent yet intelligent light. A Black Goatman.
Its fur was coarse and matted. And its legs ended in cloven hooves that clicked softly on the cobblestones. Like the Wereboar, it carried no weapon. But its clawed hands looked capable of tearing steel.
Jeser could feel greater danger from the demon.
It wasn't that it looked stronger than the Wereboar. The brute force of nature. This creature was different. It exuded a palpable aura of malice. A predatory intelligence that made the Wereboar's destructive rampage seem almost primitive by comparison.
It was the difference between a charging rhinoceros and a stalking tiger. One was raw power. The other was... coiling power. Ready to spring anytime.
Jester felt a shiver trace down his spine. The kind of instinctive dread that warned of a truly dangerous predator. This wasn't just a beast. This was a thinking, calculating horror.
He didn't stop moving whle observing. He kept striking and evading. Barrage of hits still landed on the Wereboar's body.
The Black Goatman stood there for a moment. Its glowing eyes fixed not on Jester. But on the lumbering Horned Wereboar.
It watched the clumsy attempts of the larger demon to swat the human gnat. A silent, almost contemplative observer of the chaotic dance.
Then, without a sound, it turned its head. Its gaze swept over the ruined market. Over the cowering civilians. And finally, settling on Jester. There was no rage in its eyes. Only a chilling, dispassionate assessment.
It took a single step. Then another. The casual walk quickly transformed into a blurred charge. Far more agile and swift than the Wereboar's ponderous assaults.
The Goatman moved with a fluid grace. Its hooves were almost silent on the stone. It darted around the Wereboar. Its intent was clear... to end the nuisance. Jester.
Jester's eyes widened. He had been preparing for another move from the Wereboar. Calculating its trajectory. The Goatman's sudden intervention shattered his rhythm.
He barely registered the shift in momentum. Before the Goatman was upon him.
He frantically attempted to evade. Twisting his body. Using the Nunchaku to parry a swipe from the Goatman's clawed hand. One that could have easily torn off his arm...
The parry was glancing. Almost dislocating his shoulder. But kept his flesh intact. He spun. Trying to put the Wereboar between himself and the new threat. But the Goatman was too quick. Too relentless.
Another clawed hand lashed out, aiming for his head...