Osric didn't retreat when the boar screamed.
He shifted.
The ground vibrated as the Thornback Boar turned again, rage replacing whatever caution it had left. Blood matted the bristles along its shoulder, dark and slick, but the wound hadn't slowed it—not in any way that mattered. Its hooves dug into the earth, tearing up soil as it reoriented, tusks lowering with brutal intent.
Osric steadied his breathing.
The first exchange had taught him what he needed to know.
Its hide would punish careless cuts.
Its charge would kill him if he met it head-on.
And once it committed, it couldn't stop quickly enough to correct its path.
He adjusted his stance, widening it just a fraction, blade angled lower now instead of raised. His arms felt solid, his grip sure—but the lack of technique showed in the tension he had to consciously fight. Every movement required thought. Every correction cost time.
The boar snorted, froth flying from its mouth.
Then it charged again.
Osric didn't think about striking.
He thought about where not to be.
He moved at the last possible moment, boots skidding as the boar thundered past, its bulk close enough that he felt the heat of it. The timing was tight—too tight—but his instincts carried him through.
This time, he didn't slash at muscle.
He aimed lower.
The blade snapped toward the leg as the boar passed, iron biting into flesh where the hide thinned and joints had to move. The resistance was still there—ugly and stubborn—but the cut sank deeper than before.
The boar stumbled.
Not much.
But enough.
Osric felt it in his bones.
This was how the fight would be won.
Not with strength alone.
With patience, positioning—and learning exactly where to hurt something that refused to die easily.
Osric stayed light on his feet.
Not graceful—but deliberate.
The Thornback Boar charged again and again, each rush tearing up earth, each turn slower than the last. Osric didn't try to stop it. He let it spend itself. Every time it committed, he slid aside at the edge of danger and struck low, iron flashing toward joints and tendons rather than hide.
Slash.
Retreat.
Circle.
The first few cuts barely showed. Thick skin split shallowly, blood smearing over mud-caked bristles without slowing the beast. The boar screamed and charged harder, fury drowning out pain.
Osric paid for every mistake.
Once, he mistimed his step and had to throw himself flat as tusks tore past where his thigh had been. Another time, the vibration of impact numbed his arms when the blade glanced wrong, forcing him to retreat and reset while his grip threatened to fail.
But he didn't stop.
He learned.
He watched how the boar turned—wide and heavy. How it favored one side after the deeper cuts. How its breathing grew harsher, each charge stealing more strength than it regained.
By the fifth strike, blood darkened the ground.
By the eighth, its steps lost their certainty.
By the tenth, one leg began to lag.
Osric's lungs burned, sweat blurring his vision, but his mind stayed sharp. Combat Instinct didn't shout—it guided. A half-step earlier. A wider arc. A cut placed where motion had to pass.
Then it happened.
The boar charged once more, roaring in pain and rage—and its damaged leg buckled mid-stride.
The massive body lurched.
Momentum betrayed it.
The Thornback Boar crashed into the dirt with a bone-shaking impact, tusks gouging deep furrows as it tried—and failed—to regain its footing.
Osric didn't hesitate.
He sprinted in, boots slipping on blood-slick earth, and drove the sword forward with both hands.
Not into muscle.
Not into hide.
Straight into the eye.
The iron blade punched through with a sickening give, resistance vanishing as it pierced deep into the skull. The boar convulsed once, a violent shudder rippling through its massive frame—
Then it went still.
Osric held the sword there for a heartbeat longer, chest heaving, muscles screaming as he waited for movement that never came.
Slowly, he pulled the blade free.
The Thornback Boar lay dead at his feet.
Osric staggered back a step and lowered himself to one knee, breathing hard, hands trembling—not from fear, but from release. Every muscle burned. His arms ached. His legs felt hollow.
But he was standing.
He wiped blood from the blade with a shaking hand and looked down at the corpse, something heavy and unfamiliar settling in his chest.
He hadn't overpowered it.
He hadn't rushed it.
He had learned how to fight it.
And that made all the difference.
Osric stayed kneeling until his breathing slowed.
Only when the shaking in his hands faded did he fully straighten, rolling his shoulders carefully and testing his weight. Nothing felt wrong. No sharp pain. No delayed warning from his body.
Exhausted—but intact.
He looked down at the boar again.
Then the familiar pressure returned.
This time, it didn't come with urgency.
[Combat Instinct (E) — Minor Progress Detected]
The message was brief. Unadorned.
Osric exhaled slowly.
"…Figures."
It wasn't a dramatic change. He didn't suddenly understand swordsmanship, didn't feel enlightened or transformed. But something had shifted all the same—a quiet refinement at the edges of his awareness.
He replayed the fight without trying.
The timing of the dodges.
The angle of the cuts.
The moment he'd known the leg would give before it actually did.
Those decisions hadn't been guesses.
They'd been felt.
Combat Instinct wasn't teaching him how to fight.
It was teaching him when.
Osric wiped his blade clean once more and sheathed it carefully. Then he turned his attention back to the corpse.
Proof.
He worked methodically, cutting away a section of the Thornback Boar's tusk and marking the bristled hide where the deepest wounds lay. It wasn't pleasant work, but it was necessary—and far easier than dragging the whole carcass back.
When he finished, he secured the proof and took one last look at the clearing.
The forest was quiet again.
No movement. No watching eyes.
Only the evidence of a fight that had ended on his terms.
Osric adjusted the pouch at his side and started walking back the way he'd come.
Toward Ashbrook.
Toward the guild.
Toward payment earned—not by luck, but by learning exactly how close to death he could stand without crossing the line.