Chapter 75: Infested Scavengers (2)

Behind him, glass shattered again.

The first spike-ball rat uncurling from the cooler hissed as it dropped back to all fours, bleeding from several fresh cuts where its own momentum had driven shards into its flanks. It was angry now. The thing near the hot dog rollers dragged itself upright, too, one hind leg bent at a wrong angle but still functional enough for the fight.

Jagger’s breath was coming harder.

Blood ran down his forearm where the bite had landed. His left hand burned from the claw marks. The wounds were already tingling with the first awful stirrings of Regeneration, but they were not closing yet. Not fully.

He needed to end this before the pain piled higher.

The rats split again, forcing him to turn.

One darted under the shelves and disappeared behind a display of instant noodles. The other began circling wide near the counter.

Then both screeched.

At the same time.

The rat behind the noodles curled into a spike-ball first and launched straight through the lower shelves, bursting through packets of ramen and plastic wrappers like a shot cannonball. The second followed a heartbeat later from the opposite side, rolling over the counter and crashing through hanging cigarette displays.

Jagger saw both trajectories at once.

He moved.

His foot slammed into a fallen mop bucket, sending it skidding across the floor. The first spike-ball clipped it, lost just enough momentum, and bounced upward. Jagger stepped into that tiny opening and drove his dagger straight down as it came level with his chest.

The blade punched through fur, skin, and whatever compacted nightmare anatomy held the thing together. Its spin stopped instantly. The force nearly tore the dagger from his grip, but he held on, snarling through the shock in his wrist.

The second spike-ball hit him in the side.

The impact sent him crashing into the slushie machine. Plastic cracked. Neon syrup burst over his shoulder and ran down the front of his shirt in sticky red rivulets that almost looked like fresh blood. One of the protruding spikes stabbed into his flank, not deep enough to gut him but enough to tear flesh.

He gasped and nearly dropped to a knee.

The rat uncurled at his feet, ready to spring again.

Jagger kicked the slushie machine.

The already fractured unit toppled forward, crushing the rat beneath its weight with a wet crunch. The machine shuddered once, then settled crookedly on the floor as blue syrup and melting ice poured from its broken side.

–

[Quest: Eliminate the Infested Scavengers.]

[Progress: 4/4]

[Quest Complete.]

–

For a few seconds, Jagger just stood there, chest heaving, listening.

No more screeching.

Only the hum of the damaged refrigerators, the hiss of leaking carbonation, and the soft drip of rainwater through the broken roofline.

Then the system returned.

–

[You have leveled up! lvl 9 ↑]

[+5 Stat Points Available]

[All Core Attributes +1]

–

He let out a long, ragged breath and finally lowered the dagger.

The adrenaline dropped all at once.

Pain rushed in to take its place.

The bite on his forearm throbbed. The claw marks in his palm stung like fire. His side burned where the spike had gouged him. Even the shallow rake across his shoulder began pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

He stumbled toward the refrigeration units.

The glass was mostly gone from one of the drink coolers, leaving cold air spilling into the ruined store. Jagger leaned his back against the metal frame and let his head fall back for a second. He was soaked in rain, blood, and soda syrup. He smelled like a slaughterhouse and a convenience store aisle at the same time.

With a tired grunt, he reached into the cooler beside him and pulled out an energy drink. The can was icy in his hand. He popped it open and took a long swallow, barely tasting it beyond the chemical sweetness and metallic hint of blood still coating his tongue.

Then he bent, reached down, and snatched up one of the packaged snacks scattered near his boots. Some crushed triangle rice sandwich. He tore it open with one hand and bit into it almost without thinking.

Food.

Fuel.

Survival.

He chewed slowly as he slid down the side of the refrigerator until he was half-sitting, half-collapsed against it.

That was when Regeneration fully kicked in.

He almost choked.

Pain detonated across his body in layered waves. The bite in his forearm felt as though invisible hooks had sunk into the torn flesh and were now pulling it back together one strand at a time. The cuts in his palm burned as skin tightened and sealed. The wound in his side crawled with a nauseating pressure, muscle knitting beneath the skin in twitching spasms.

His eyes squeezed shut.

“Fuck… fuck…”

His good hand clenched around the can until the metal dented.

The process was slower than the catastrophic healing from before, but that only made it crueler in a different way. It was not blinding. It was sustained. Grinding. The kind of pain that wore at the mind rather than overwhelming it.

’You should be grateful,’ Ophilia said softly from the back of his mind.

Jagger let out a humorless laugh that sounded more like a gasp. “Grateful?”

’Your body is adapting. The pain is proof you are still alive.’

“Your pep talks suck.”

She hummed, amused. ’And yet you keep surviving through them.’

He took another drink, hands trembling.

For a little while, neither of them spoke. The refrigerator hummed against his shoulder. Somewhere outside, a distant siren rose and died.

Then Jagger straightened a little, breathing a little steadier now.

“Five into Agility,” he said.

–

[Stat Allocation Confirmed]

+5 Agility Applied

Agility: 20 (+9)

–

A subtle shift passed through his body. Not a violent pulse like Strength. Something lighter. Finer. His muscles felt less dense and more responsive, like tension had been combed out of the fibers.

“And five into Dexterity.”

–

[Stat Allocation Confirmed]

+5 Dexterity Applied

Dexterity: 20 (+9)

–

This one settled differently.

His fingers flexed. Even through the ache and lingering regeneration, the movement felt more exact. Cleaner. The dagger in his hand suddenly seemed less like a hunk of metal and more like an extension waiting to be used properly.

He lowered the screen with a flick of his wrist.

The snack wrapper lay crumpled beside his boot. The empty energy drink rolled gently when he nudged it.

For a little while, he just sat there in the dim hum of the ruined 7-Eleven, wounds knitting, rain whispering outside, and the city of Singapore rotting quietly around him.

Then Ophilia spoke again, voice low and measured.

’Better.’

Jagger let his head rest back against the refrigerator.

“Yeah,” he said, exhausted. “Better.”

But neither of them believed it.

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