Chapter 50: Hurt with Me
Arthur settled into a ready stance, his breath coming easier now despite the pain in his side. The darkness around him seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat, responding to his newfound connection. With each passing second, he felt more attuned to his abilities, more aware of the potential that existed within him.
The Nightreaver circled warily, searching for an opening. Arthur tracked its movement without turning his head, his Dark Sense painting a perfect three-dimensional map of his surroundings. When the creature finally attacked again—this time from above—Arthur was ready.
His blade met the Nightreaver’s descent with deadly precision, cutting through wing membrane and sinew. The creature’s momentum carried it past him, crashing into the field of dead roses several feet away.
For the first time since entering this realm, Arthur felt something beyond fear or desperate survival. As he advanced toward the wounded Nightreaver, determination burned in his eyes. This was no longer about escaping death—it was about embracing the power to overcome it.
The Nightreaver writhed among the dead roses, its damaged wing dragging uselessly at its side. Black ichor seeped from the wound, staining the withered petals beneath it an even darker shade of crimson. The creature struggled to regain altitude, beating its remaining functional wing frantically, but each attempt ended with it crashing back to the ground with a pitiful screech.
Arthur approached steadily, his footsteps crushing dead roses beneath his boots. The sound echoed in the stillness of the night, a rhythmic counterpoint to the creature’s desperate thrashing. His sword hung at his side, the midnight-black blade seeming to absorb what little light reached it, giving nothing back but darkness.
The monster turned to face its hunter, primal instinct recognizing the imminent threat. Its eyes—multifaceted orbs that reflected the moonlight in fractured patterns—fixed on Arthur with an expression that transcended the boundaries between species. Even a beast knew fear when death approached.
A growl rumbled from deep within the Nightreaver’s throat, rising in pitch and volume until it became a vicious snarl. With survival instinct overriding pain, it gathered its remaining strength and lunged toward Arthur with astonishing speed, a final desperate attempt to turn the tables on its pursuer.
Arthur raised his sword in a defensive position, anticipating an attack aimed at his head or torso. It was a reasonable assumption—one that proved fatally incorrect.