Chapter 59: Adapt Or Die.

The rain had not slowed.

Steel still rang somewhere behind him. The Troll King roared in the distance, its voice rolling across the ruined street like thunder breaking against concrete. Bastion and Bloodclaws clashed in a frenzy of fire and shattered bone.

But around Jagger, there was a pocket of quiet.

He stood where the Bloodclaw had fallen, arm still raised, blood trailing from the edge of Jane’s dagger in slow, deliberate drops. Each drop struck the pavement with a faint patter, quickly diluted into the rain.

He had just killed a man.

And he felt nothing.

No guilt. No triumph. No trembling in his hands. His breathing was steady. His pulse was controlled. The absence of emotion unsettled him more than blood ever could.

“How do you know?” he asked under his breath, though his eyes remained fixed on the corpse behind him. “You did the same thing back in the store. It was like you knew what they were going to do before they even moved.”

Ophilia’s presence coiled through his thoughts, cold and smooth.

’Because they are predictable. It is simple,’ Ophilia replied. ’The Bloodclaw hunters fight without discipline. Without refinement. Every motion is driven by ego and bloodlust. They telegraph their intent long before their blades move. They are loud. Arrogant. Certain of their own superiority.’

A chill crept up Jagger’s spine, sharper than the rain soaking through his shirt.

Jagger’s gaze shifted to the rain-washed crimson into the gutters, erasing evidence as if the world were eager to forget.

“I’ve never fought to kill anyone before,” he murmured. “And yet just now… I moved without thinking. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t feel fear. I knew exactly where to strike.”

’Do not misunderstand, ’she continued, and there was a faint curl of something almost amused in her tone. ’The reason you felt no fear is that you have grown accustomed to it. Somewhere in your mind, you believe that if they cut you down, you will rise again. Death has lost its finality for you.’

Her presence tightened slightly around his thoughts.

’And as for knowing where to strike… I merely guided your hand.’

The weight of the dagger changed in his grip.

It felt foreign now. Heavy. Not like a weapon he had wielded, but one that had been wielded through him.

He lowered his arm slowly, rain sliding down his knuckles and over the blade.

He was a puppet.

And Ophilia was pulling the strings.

’You asked for this,’ she reminded him softly, her voice brushing the back of his mind as silk dragged over steel. ’You begged for power. You wanted to survive. This is the cost.’

Her tone hardened.

’Stop wasting my time. Four more to go.’

–

[You have levelled up! lvl 4 ↑]

[+5 Stat Points Available]

[All Core Attributes +1]

–

He looked back towards the battle with the Troll King, the storm of chaos, the rain, the flashes of spells and steel.

He scanned the chaos carefully now, not as a frightened survivor, but as a hunter selecting prey.

His eyes found one almost immediately.

A hulking brute of a man, six feet three and covered in muscles, stood near the edge of the fighting, boots planted wide in a puddle of blood. He was laughing and actually laughing. At his feet, a wounded knoll twitched helplessly, one leg shattered. The Bloodclaw drove a heavy kick into its ribs, again and again, savoring the broken creature’s wet, desperate whimpers.

He was not fighting for the Quest.

He was enjoying himself.

Something tightened in Jagger’s chest. Not rage. Not quite.

Clarity.

His knuckles whitened around the dagger’s hilt.

’Fine,’ he thought.

If this were the role Ophilia had forced upon him, he would choose his targets carefully.

Rain splashed beneath his boots as he broke into a sprint, cutting through the edge of the battlefield with deliberate intent.

Thirty meters away.

Jagger burst from the right side of the battlefield, boots hammering against rain-slick asphalt. Water splashed up his shins. Blood from the earlier kill still dripped from the dagger in his hand, flung into thin red arcs behind him. His lungs burned, but his pace never faltered.

Twenty meters.

The hulking Bloodclaw stood with his back partially turned, laughing as he kicked the wounded knoll again. The creature whimpered, curling in on itself. The brute savored it.

Ten meters.

The Bloodclaw’s head snapped toward the sound. He saw Jagger charging from his right flank and twisted with surprising speed for a man of his size. The double-edged battle axe came up in both hands, then crashed downward in a brutal vertical chop.

’Drop low.’

Jagger dropped.

He slid low across the rain-slick asphalt just as the axe screamed down. The blade missed his skull by inches and smashed into the street behind him. The impact exploded chunks of asphalt into the air. The steel bit deep and stuck, the handle vibrating violently from the force.

Jagger continued sliding past the brute’s legs, water and grit soaking through his clothes. He planted a boot, halted his momentum, and twisted onto one knee.

Now the man’s broad back faced him.

Jagger looked up slowly, rain streaking down his face. He was smiling.

“You think you are good enough to take me?”

The brute snarled and wrenched at the axe. Asphalt cracked as he tore it free. He pivoted sideways, boots grinding against the fractured ground, and gripped the weapon with both hands.

“I’m Brock, you little shit! And I’m going to slice you in half!”

Brock swung horizontally this time, a savage, contemptuous sweep meant to cleave Jagger at the waist. The blade ripped through broken asphalt, sending shards of stone skittering outward.

“He is telegraphing his swing. His left side is exposed. Move to the left and close the distance.”

Jagger flowed.

He shifted hard to the left, body slipping just outside the arc of the axe. Debris scraped across his shoulder as the blade tore past. In one seamless motion, he stepped in from Brock’s left rear quarter, closing the distance before the larger man could recover the weight of his weapon.

Brock stood sideways now. Jagger came from slightly behind his left flank.

Too close for a full swing.

Jagger lunged.

“Get low and Upward thrust, into the armpit.”

He dropped his center of gravity and drove forward, dagger clasped in both hands. The blade angled upward, aimed for the soft seam beneath Brock’s raised arm where muscle met torso.

For a split second, the kill was there.

Then Brock released the axe.

His left elbow snapped back like a battering ram. It caught Jagger flush on the jaw.

The crack was sickening.

Jagger’s head whipped sideways. His vision burst white. His feet left the ground, and he slammed onto the asphalt, sliding backward on rain and blood. Grit tore at his palms. Copper flooded his mouth.

But he never let go of the dagger.

Brock roared and charged.

Jagger rolled to his side just as Brock lunged to grab him. Thick fingers clawed at empty air. Jagger scrambled up, boots slipping, barely regaining balance before Brock’s fist came crashing toward his face.

“OPHILIA, WHAT THE HELL?! I THOUGHT YOU SAID HIS SIDE WAS EXPOSED!”

“Adapt. Or die.”

Brock’s right fist tore through the space where Jagger’s head had been. The wind of it grazed his cheek. The blow would have shattered bone. Asphalt cracked where Brock’s knuckles struck instead.

“Motherfucker! Face me!” Brock bellowed, swinging again.

The punches came heavy and wild, driven by raw strength. Each one was telegraphed, shoulders rolling before the strike, hips turning a fraction too wide. Jagger leaned back, twisted aside, and ducked under. Inches separated him from broken ribs and a crushed skull.

Rain ran into his eyes. Blood from his split lip dripped down his chin.

He needed an opening.

Brock pulled back his right arm again, muscles bunching, preparing a finishing blow that would crush Jagger into the pavement.

Jagger reversed his grip on the dagger in his right hand, blade running along his forearm, edge angled outward.

“Now.”

He stepped in instead of away.

Both men punched at the same time.

Their fists traveled side by side through the rain.

Jagger’s blade was carved.

Steel met flesh.

The dagger sliced deep across Brock’s clenched fist, split through tendons, traced along the forearm, tore over the elbow joint, and continued upward toward the shoulder in one savage, ripping line. It was like cutting open a seam that had always been waiting to burst.

Brock froze.

His roar died mid-breath.

He stared at his arm as blood fountained from the gaping wound, muscle parting under the rain.

“Now, finish him.”

Jagger did not hesitate.

He yanked the blade free and surged forward into Brock’s collapsing guard. He slammed into the larger man’s chest and drove the dagger in again.

“ARRRRGGGHHH!”

He stabbed high into the ribs.

Pulled out.

Stabbed again in the abdomen.

Again into the side.

Again, upward beneath the collarbone.

Each thrust was wet. Each impact shuddered through his arms. Brock stumbled backward under the barrage, strength draining as blood poured down his body, mixing with rain and pooling at his boots.

Jagger did not stop.

He shoved Brock back another step, then another, until the brute’s heel caught broken asphalt and he faltered.

For the final blow, Jagger seized the front of Brock’s collar and drove the dagger straight into his throat.

All the way to the hilt.

Brock’s body convulsed. A wet gurgle bubbled from the ruin of his neck. Blood surged hot over Jagger’s hand.

The massive frame collapsed forward, crushing Jagger to the ground beneath it.

For a moment, there was only rain, the weight of the corpse, and the sound of gurgling breath fading into nothing.

Jagger shoved the body aside and forced himself to straighten up. His chest heaved. Blood poured over him, soaking his clothes, streaking his face.

His jaw throbbed. His knuckles ached. His pulse thundered in his ears.

A translucent panel flickered into existence before his eyes.

–

[Quest: Kill five Bloodclaw hunters]

[Progress: 2/5]

[You have levelled up! lvl 5 ↑]

[+5 Stat Points Available]

[All Core Attributes +1]

[New skill acquired: Frenzy]

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