Chapter 23: The Currency of Terror
The searing pain in his chest failed to waver his anger. Blood gushed out of the brutal wound, pooling under him.
The stalker circled around him, its yellow eyes burning with greed, sniffing at his blood. Yet it didn’t rush to fight, as it appeared to be waiting for him to bleed out.
"How cute," Rhys laughed. His flawless regeneration kicked in, the torn flesh and muscles knitting back together at a visible rate.
This process was not without pain. The agonising torment reddened his eyes, and with it, fuelled his fury to unimaginable levels.
The stalker showed a confused expression, glancing at his now half-healed chest. Before it could come to its senses, he rushed again.
Unlike before, he didn’t kill it in a single blow. Rather, he started to peel its skin with each movement. He wasn’t without injuries, as the monster also grazed him with its claws.
The brutal fight continued, over and over. At some point, Rhys forgot how many times he had killed it. But he perfectly remembered how much he enjoyed this very process.
Each time it revived, it seemed to become a bit more scared, eventually turning to terror. He saw its movements slow, its malevolent aura dimming.
The previous anger in its eyes was replaced by horror. He was winning. Rhys knew it.
Not only that—he was erasing whatever memory caused its creation and imprinting the one he wanted.
Fear.
[The Host’s combat style is adapting. Practical experience is being assimilated.]