They're to my left. One flexes his muscles, the other adjusts his spells, while I keep my eyes on the monsters from a distance. I don't have the luxury of watching my so-called "allies," because if I stare too long, I'll kill them. And I feel it—deep in my gut. Maybe it's the monster instinct waking up. Maybe it's just me. Me unfiltered. Me unleashed?
My hand clenches the hilt of the sword they shoved into my grip, and my fingers itch—not because of the approaching creatures, no… but because of those two sacks of shit who dare stand beside me like we're some kind of team.
[ You did agree to team up with them, though. ]
"Out of necessity, not choice," I think without saying it. Because if I start justifying myself out loud, it means I'm losing control.
The first one… I recognize his breath before his voice. It's him. The scumbag who tried to capture me in the lower depths of the labyrinth with his group before I shredded them to pieces—well, Senpai did the shredding while I put on the show. The kind of bastard who looks at you like spare parts, who thinks he's invincible just because he can swing a sword and bark orders.
And the other one… he's worse. He had that glint in his eye, that lecherous gleam, when he got close to Linie. He was drooling like a dog over prey. And now he dares call himself my teammate? This world is well and truly fucked.
A bestial growl snaps me out of it.
The first Elroe Mowajitz appears. Huge. Twisted. Deformed. Its antlers are bent at unnatural angles, and glistening pustules swell along its spine. That's not a monster from the regular bestiary. That's lab-born. A test subject, tampered with like a cursed toy.
"What… what the hell is that?" Pig Number One murmurs.
"Shut up," I reply flatly, not even looking at him. If he keeps talking, I'll slit his throat before the creature gets the chance.
I charge.
Not for them. Not to save anyone. Just to stop thinking. My brain's running on instinct. One strike to the hind leg of the Mowajitz, precise, enough to knock it off balance for a second. Dirty. Efficient. No time to let them learn.
My movements are smoother, more natural. The weapon handling is sinking in. It's not my style, not my reflexes, but I adapt. I pretend. Just this once, I fake it.
The other two throw themselves into the fight like savages without finesse. Fists and magic. A fireball, a hoarse scream, a pitiful attempt at coordination. But it works. The Mowajitz takes the hit, backs off. Not dead yet.
Then, a crack.
Two… no, three more Mowajitz leap forward, as if called by blood.
And the noble's voice rings out—mocking, distant, almost theatrical:
"Oh. It seems the test subjects reacted to their twin's injury. How ironic…"
I freeze for a second. He knew. Of course he knew. It was a test. Another game for his golden eyes and jaded laughs.
My gaze meets that of my two "allies." The first is trembling. The second is smiling like he thinks he's in a heroic tale. And me?
I'm just tired of pretending.
They move. Together.
The four Mowajitz spread out like one body, as if they share a brain, a will, a singular goal: turn us into pulp. The ground shakes under their hooves, the walls echo with their distorted cries, and a mist begins to rise from their mouths. That's not normal. None of this is natural.
Their coordination chills me. This isn't coincidence. Not some wild beast reaction. This is trained. Manipulated. Timed like a goddamn death symphony.
I take a step back. Not out of fear—just to gauge.
The guy to my left—the one who drooled over Linie—screams something useless and launches a poorly-channeled magic attack that explodes three meters short. I want to slice his vocal cords.
The second tries to flank. One of the Mowajitz reacts instantly and sends him rolling like a ragdoll with a single kick.
"Stay together, you fucking trash!" I bark.
But really, what do I expect? They're no better than the corpses I left behind.
The Mowajitz split up. Two rush me. The other two go after the idiots. Fine by me.
I raise the sword. Still heavy—not enough to slow me, but enough to remind me this isn't how I kill. I love my claws. My fire. My own body. But here, under the spotlight, I fake it.
One of the beasts charges, tongue lolling, pustules gleaming. I sidestep, swing in an arc. Hit. A slash across the flank, but not deep enough. It howls, spewing a jet of poison I dodge with a backflip. Shit, I might actually be starting to enjoy this acrobatic crap.
[ Probable analysis due to abnormal energy concentration in cranial glands. Assessment: elven experiment of collective fusion type. ]
"Great. Not a herd, a fucking hive."
The second one lunges at me. I crouch, let it fly over, then drive the sword into its belly as it lands. It screams, swipes at me, and sends me crashing into a wall.
Brutal impact. It hurts. But I get up.
My vision blurs, and a laugh rises in my throat. Not a happy one. One of those nervous chuckles you let out when the world's gone to hell.
All around, the crowd roars.
And I'm still standing—arms shaking, legs bleeding, sword in hand, blood in my mouth.
I'm going to kill them all.
Every last one of them.
But not to win—just to feel alive.
A trickle of blood runs from my lip. I feel it, warm and sticky, sliding down my chin. And when a drop hits the floor, I see it too.
Fuck.
I forgot my blood's blue, not red.
And with the harsh light and the screaming crowd, I'd hoped no one noticed—but up there, above it all, that gaze.
The noble is watching me.
Not like the others. Not like a spectator enjoying the show. He didn't smile. Didn't flinch. He just tilted his head ever so slightly, like he was confirming a theory.
I see him squint. Just a bit. Then he raises his goblet, as if nothing happened.
He knows.
He understood.
[ Alert: your racial identity may have been compromised. ]
"Don't worry, Senpai… I think he likes keeping secrets."
He didn't say a word.
He could've screamed "monster," alerted the guards, shouted to the crowd that an abomination stood among them. But no. He chose silence.
And that silence weighs more than all the screams.