Chapter 15 – The Dance of Survival
Ethan's chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, every muscle in his body screaming as the circle of hostile tribesmen closed around him. Their snarls and guttural cries filled the air, spears and axes glinting under shafts of sunlight that cut through the canopy. He had nothing left—no hope of escape, no weapon that could stand against their sheer ferocity.
He dug into his storage space in desperation, hands trembling as they brushed past useless gear—an electric baton, a half-crushed energy drink, a cheap survival knife. He knew it in his gut: none of these mattered anymore. Against this many, even a firearm wouldn't save him.
What he needed wasn't raw firepower. He needed something greater—something that could turn fear into fire.
But his points were painfully low. Thirty-five. Not even enough for the cheapest enhancement card. The tank card had crossed his mind, but what use was a tank if he couldn't even open its hatch, let alone drive it? He'd be crushed before figuring out which lever made it move.
That's when his eyes landed on something tucked deep in the inventory: a pair of nunchucks and an old, dog-eared combat manual he had acquired earlier, "Practical Mastery of Nunchucks."
A spark ignited in his mind.
He almost laughed despite himself. Wasn't this exactly why I picked them up?
Without hesitation, Ethan triggered the "Conversion" function, slamming ten points into the choice. The manual dissolved into light, reforming into a glowing combat card in his hand.
A mechanical chime rang in his head:
[Practical Nunchuck Combat Card] acquired.Use time: 5 minutes.Cooldown: 1 day.Strengthening available: 10 points.
He didn't waste another second. A tribesman charged at him, spear aimed for his chest. Ethan slammed the card.
The world erupted in gold.
Power surged through his veins. His mind sharpened, his vision widened. Every sound—the crunch of feet, the whistle of weapons through the air—slowed to a rhythm he could follow. His breathing steadied. His arms felt light, precise, deadly.
He grabbed the nunchucks and moved.
The first attacker thrust his spear downward, but Ethan's body bent with fluid grace, ducking beneath the jagged tip. The counter came instinctively—his nunchuck cracked against the man's skull with a thunderous snap. The tribesman crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Another scream erupted behind him. Ethan pivoted, shoulders twisting, and let his elbow crash into a chest before swinging the nunchucks across his opponent's jaw. The man dropped like a felled tree.
Momentum surged. His arms blurred, the nunchucks whirling with lethal rhythm. It wasn't him fighting anymore—it was the spirit of mastery flooding his body. Every strike found a vital point, every dodge felt effortless.
The tribesmen staggered back in shock. They had faced beasts, rivals, storms—but never this. Never a weapon that seemed alive in its wielder's hands.
Ethan roared, striking again. His movements carried a raw, terrifying rhythm—fast, sharp, relentless. One after another, warriors fell, groaning in the dirt.
And through it all, he barely felt the blows that grazed him. His light armor absorbed their strikes, sparks dancing off as axes and arrows glanced harmlessly away.
He was untouchable.
"Come on!" he shouted, spinning the nunchucks, energy crackling through his body.
For the first time, the savages hesitated. Their eyes widened. Some faltered, their confidence shaken. Even the hunchbacked leader at the rear looked uncertain.
But power was fleeting.
A voice in his head whispered urgently:
"Warning. Ten seconds remaining… Nine… Eight…"
Ethan's heart lurched. Five minutes had vanished in a blur of violence.
He needed to end it now.
With a furious yell, he charged. A spinning kick sent one of the younger warriors sprawling into the dirt. Ethan slammed the nunchucks down on another's arm, splintering bone. He twisted, shattered a weapon, and brought the sticks down across the hunchback's head. The leader dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Three… Two… One…"
The glow in Ethan's veins sputtered and died. His limbs turned heavy, his breath ragged. Sweat poured down his face as the power abandoned him, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.
"Card has expired. Cooldown: two days. Thank you for using our service."
The voice mocked him in its cheer.
Ethan barely had time to breathe before movement caught his eye. The tribesmen he'd struck down were stirring. One by one, they clawed their way upright, bloodied but far from beaten.
"No way…" His stomach sank. "After all that?"
Some of them had cracked skulls, broken jaws, shattered ribs. Yet they dragged themselves upright with stubborn fury. Their resilience was monstrous, unnatural.
He knew he couldn't stand and fight again. Not like this.
As he turned to flee, a pitiful sound reached his ears.
He froze.
The vines overhead trembled. A massive tiger lay suspended in the net, its body still and lifeless. But beneath it, two cubs squirmed, yowling desperately for their mother. Their cries were thin, sharp, helpless.
Ethan clenched his jaw. He didn't have time for this. If he stopped, the horde would catch him.
But he couldn't ignore them.
With quick slashes of his knife, he cut through the vines. The great tiger's body crashed heavily to the earth. The cubs pressed against its side, confused, still calling out.
Ethan scooped them up—one under each arm. They were heavier than he expected, their claws pricking his sleeves, but their cries softened when they were against his chest.
Behind him, a wild screech pierced the jungle. The survivors were up again. One younger tribesman screamed with rage, rallying the rest.
"Not good," Ethan hissed, heart pounding.
He bolted into the trees, clutching the cubs. Branches whipped his face, roots tangled his boots. His arms burned, but he refused to drop them. After several agonizing minutes, his strength faltered. He stumbled to a stop, gasping, muscles trembling.
He couldn't carry them like this.
He dumped the food from his backpack and stuffed the cubs inside, strapping it tightly across his back before pushing onward.
The forest pressed in, ancient and suffocating. Sunlight speared down through the canopy in fractured beams, glinting off vines and giant leaves. He had no time to admire its strange beauty. His mind screamed one thing: Run.
Minutes blurred into eternity. His lungs burned. His vision tunneled. The cubs shifted restlessly against his spine, but he kept running until the roar of water reached his ears.
His heart plummeted.
The river again. The same rushing torrent that had nearly killed him before.
He staggered to the bank, despair gnawing at his chest. Behind him, the hunters' cries grew louder, closer. Their persistence was terrifying—they would never stop.
He scanned frantically. And then he saw it: a massive, fallen tree stretching across the water like a bridge. Its bark was blackened, its trunk half-rotted, but it spanned the gap.
Without thinking, Ethan scrambled onto it, crawling on hands and knees.
Shouts erupted behind him. The hunters had arrived. Arrows whistled past, spears arced overhead. His armor absorbed some impacts, but the force jolted him with each strike. One spear slammed into his back and knocked him flat against the log, nearly sending him plunging into the torrent.
Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself across, the cubs heavy in the pack.
He was almost there when the sound came.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
His head snapped up. The treasure radar.
Even through the chaos, its chime was unmistakable.
Something valuable was near. Very near.
Exhaustion, terror, pain—they all blurred into one sharp, electrifying thought.
Another treasure lay waiting, just beyond his grasp.
(End Of Chapter 15)