Dante locked eyes with the monster. His focus narrowed until everything else vanished—no fear, no hesitation, not even the room around him. This was the zone his master had spoken of so many times. When facing something this deadly, nothing could distract you but yourself.
The creature loosened a trembling roar, a sound that shook the ground, then began its initial charge. Dante's muscles tensed as he gathered information, eyes darting over its form. Fifty paces and closing. From that short burst alone, he already knew a few things: the beast was heavy—incredibly heavy—and fast off the mark. But it moved like a juggernaut, unable to stop on a whim.
Thirty paces. Twenty. Ten.
That was his cue.
Dante lunged, rolling hard to his left. The bull barreled past horns first, missing him by inches. The air itself seemed to drag at him with its sheer mass. Rising from the roll, he spun backward, swinging wide with his left hand. His blade clipped the monster's right arm, tearing a long, deep cut across its forearm.
The creature finally halted twenty paces past him, glancing down at the wound before turning back with another tremendous roar, angrier than before. But this time, there was no charge.
"He learns fast," Dante muttered. "Fuck."
The monster tried gripping the axe with both hands but failed—its right hand emulating a limp puppet, blood dripping freely. Still, it began pacing toward Dante in long, deliberate strides. Even one-handed, that axe looked as if it weighed as much as an average man. Parrying was out of the question.
Dante shifted into a rear stance—no parrying, only attack. He widened his legs, gripped the sword with both hands, and angled the blade low, pointing it opposite the bull. This would allow for swift, devastating counterstrikes. He planted his feet, ready to pull and counter.
Twelve paces.
He kept his eyes on the bull's legs, gauging when it would be close enough to lunge.
Eight paces.
The creature's knees bent slightly, then it lunged, covering all eight paces—and one more—in a heartbeat. Dante leapt back four steps, tilting his head up and back just in time for the axe to slice only air in a vicious upward sweep.
At the same time, he coiled his legs and unleashed a perfect half-moon cut, his blade rising up the creature's ribs. Each bone struck the steel with a rhythmic knock like a frantic drumbeat. The blade tore free, spraying blood.
The beast swung the axe down with incredible speed, almost catching him with the downswing. Dante rolled to his right, then hopped back twice to reassess. The axe was buried so deep in the ground. He nearly moved to attack—but with a single pull, the monster ripped it free. Lucky. He knew better.
Relief flickered in his eyes as he glimpsed the finish line. Blood dripped down the creature's stomach, its leg, its arm. No longer roaring, it seemed… thoughtful. Assessing its wounds. And then, disturbingly, a smile stretched across its face with a slight head tilt.
The sight unsettled Dante deeply. But he forced the unease down and returned to his rear stance.
Ten paces. Nine. Eight.
No lunge.
Dante leapt backward. The creature stopped and stared at him, faster now.
Twelve. Eleven. Ten.
There it was.
The monster lunged again, swinging upward halfheartedly. Dante leaped and countered for its groin, but the blade intercepted only its right forearm, cutting straight through bone and all. Too late he realized—it was a distraction.
The creature used the dull top of its axe like a spear, punching Dante center mass.
Crack.
Five ribs shattered. Air left his lungs in a single violent gasp as the blow launched him across the cavern. He skidded thirty paces across the dirt, landing flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. His breath came in shallow, broken grunts.
Time slowed.
This is it, he thought. I'm going to die here.
Emotions flooded through him as he heard the ground thump beneath the creature's closing steps. Frustration burned—how had he not noticed something so clear? But who would ever sacrifice their arm for a counterblow? A monster would, he realized.
Shame followed, heavy and bitter. He would no longer be there to protect the princess. That promise—no, that vow—would be broken.
The footsteps grew slower, heavier, drawing nearer. Anger rose within him, and with it, rage. All the emotions gathered together, a storm inside his head, numbing his pain.
He took a long, deep breath and tilted his head. The monster was still coming, blood spraying from its ruined stump, a wide and twisted smile across its face.
Eighteen paces. Closing.
Dante pushed himself to his knees. He realized he was still clutching his sword, though the grip felt too tight, almost unnatural. Forcing his body upright, he leaned on the blade and found his feet. Strangely, there was no feeling in them.
Then it came—a war cry, tearing free from his chest, raw and primal, a sound that didn't even feel like it belonged to him.
The creature hesitated, taking a cautious step back in its stride. That hesitation gave Dante more courage than he had ever known.
A half-smile crossed his face.
He began walking toward the beast, closing the distance, blade hanging in a high right stance—both hands over his head, sword pointed downward toward the creature's feet. This was why he had become a knight. To fight. And despite the tremor in his hands, excitement surged through him.
Fifteen paces. Twelve. Ten.
The monster lunged, bringing the axe down in a vicious strike.
Dante intercepted it, his sword straining as the massive blade glided along the steel. Sparks flew. The impact snapped his left arm, but he hardly noticed. The axe buried itself at his feet.
He lunged forward in a swift fencing thrust. The sword sank between the monster's collarbone, deeper and deeper, up to the hilt. He knew it had struck true when pulsing sprays of blood burst forth, drenching him.
Then, all the pain he had ignored came rushing back like lightning. He slid off the still-standing creature, leaving the blade lodged deep.
Dante stood, wobbly, tears streaking his bloodied face. Relief swelled in his chest as he heard the monster collapse to his left, the impact shaking the ground.
Breathing heavily, painfully, he was happy to feel this pain. It meant he wasn't dead. At least, not yet.