I was practically vibrating in place after I finished slotting the auto-cast sequence.
Slash, thrust, dash, strike, the four pathetic little gym shoes of the skill tree, the ones I'd always sold for pocket change in patch 3.2.
But in Leonhart's hands? In his body? They were a scalpel. A freakin' surgical laser wrapped in Renaissance chisels.
So the first idiots charged like they were in some heroic montage. I braced, squared my shoulders (my avatar's shoulders, wide enough to hide three secrets), and let the auto-sequence do my job while I mentally prepared a victory speech I'd never get to deliver.
My avatar moved like a machine finally given a sane instruction set. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't cinematic. It was efficient. A clean series of hits, each one a small, precise argument against the concept of regret.
The first opponent fell. The second shrieked. The third tried something dramatic and regretted that decision immediately.
I turned because you know what you do after a job well done? You check the scoreboard. You bask. You maybe flex. And then I saw it.
Limbs. Limbs like a modern art installation gone wrong. Gore as if a butcher practiced avant-garde. The grass soaked dark.
The air smelled of iron and everything that makes your stomach file a formal complaint.
I made the single worst possible decision a sentient being can make in a warzone: I looked.
The world went pitch. My body, Leonhart's ridiculously broad body, bent over like a folding chair and my lunch made a reappearance.
I hurled into the dirt next to the flag, bile a monument to poor life choices. The taste of metal and regret flooded my mouth. I gagged until my throat felt like it was apologizing.
"Oh right," I croaked between heaves, hugging my knees. "I keep forgetting this isn't a cartoon. People literally feel things here. People scream."
Luna was there in two strides, halo of healing light and zero patience. "Idiot," she said, but her fingers were already in motion, a gentle warmth unspooling through my belly and my heave-sore throat.
Bless the healer. Bless the patient chaos witch who could make my stomach stop flip-flopping.
The corpses, the horrible, uncompromising mess, vanished like an embarrassed ghost at a wedding.
No stains. No sounds. No evidence of me going full slasher villain.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, swore, then grinned stupidly.
"Okay. Okay. Clean, tidy kills. I like this. Surgical. Targeted. No craters, no burned trees, no angry eco-warrior NPCs coming to sue me."
Luna narrowed her eyes. "You are sick."
"Proud," I said. The grin felt wrong on Leonhart's chiselled face but I couldn't help it. Little victories.
Then another notification blinked across my floating UI: Enemy Wave Approaching.
Of course it would be squaddies with more confidence than sense.
They marched up, chest out, banners flapping like they were going to pose for an inspirational poster.
I iced my palms mentally and said to myself the pep talk every doomed hero deserves.
"Don't look at the aftermath. Do not, under any circumstances, turn around. You looked once. You puked once. We have standards."
Auto-cast engaged. I planted my feet.
I kept my head turned unwavering toward the flag, eyes locked on the cloth like it was a boring museum plaque.
The sounds behind me were a symphony of carnage: armor shredding, inhuman yelps, the wet percussion of impact.
I hummed internally to drown it out. "La la la. Flag is beautiful. The flag is my child."
A moment later the system chimed: [Enemy squad eliminated. Flag defended.]
I exhaled so hard my chest hurt.
I did not look. I did not take even the smallest peek. I had made it a rule. Do not witness your own neat work.
Luna, still a saint among chaos, hovered a hand at my shoulder. "You okay?"
"Fine," I lied. "I am emotionally fine. No trauma permanently stored. I just, need a mint."
I fished in my inventory, there was always a ridiculous inventory, and found a peppermint like this was the economy's answer to PTSD.
Tiny guilds kept trying. Another five members charged. They did the whole theatrical "for honor!" thing.
Their leader shouted a battle cry like he was trying to audition for a tragic opera.
My auto-cast hummed. Slash. Thrust. Dash. Strike.
After the third wave, I realized I was actually trembling.
Not from exertion, HP and stamina did their usual suspiciously full thing, but from the adrenaline of being a human shield made of chiselled marble.
It was terrifying and ridiculously empowering. The best combo nobody asked for.
Keiji's voice floated to me through the comms: "Good defense. Keep rotating shifts. Luna, get him some food later. He looks like someone who pugged through a raid with no sleep."
"I'll kill you in your sleep for saying that," I muttered, and then laughed, an ugly, exhausted sound that Leonhart's jaw made look heroic but in reality was me trying to stop trembling.
Another guild, bigger and stupider this time, thought they could grab the flag under cover of night.
They tiptoed like they were sneaking into the royal kitchen.
I'd had enough compassion to spare for absolutely no one.
This time when the victory pinged, I let the image of the clean field sink in.
No blood. No cries. Just the flag, stoic as a lighthouse.
I blinked, then puked again because apparently my digestive system had strong opinions about moral responsibility.
Luna sighed and replayed the stomach-heal animation like she was rewinding a sitcom laugh track.
"You keep your jawline. I'll keep your hands. We'll figure out dignity later."
A kid from a passing patrol peered over the wall and cheered, "Sir Leon, you are invincible!"
My face, that is, his face, gave a curt nod, because illusions are everything.
Inside, I was a mess of flailing feelings and adrenaline.
I wiped my mouth, swallowed, and said quietly to the sky: "Please don't send any more novelty chuds. My stomach can only handle so many existential crises per hour."
Then the map updated, bright little icons syncing across the globe.
The immensity of the job settled like a lead cloak on my shoulders.
But the auto-cast worked.
The basics were boring and surgical and mercifully not world-ending.
I preferred it.
Targeted damage, no collateral forest casualties, no angry druids marching on the guild hall looking for environmental reparations.
"Alright," I said, more to myself than anyone. "Round two, or thirty-two. Come at me. Daddy's got auto-slash now."
I'd found a way to be useful in a body that made my chest hurt in all the wrong ways.
Luna rolled her eyes and tossed me a healing herb. "Eat this. And for the love of whatever deity you worship, stop puking on the job."
I popped the herb in my mouth, grimaced, and grinned anyway. "No promises."