The anticipation climbed his spine like electricity. Goosebumps prickled over Barrett’s skin. For one suspended moment, he thought:

  So this is what a predator feels right before the kill…hell of a feeling.

  Everything aligned—his breath, his heartbeat, his purpose. He was the hero of the moment, the badass stepping into danger for the people behind him. One perfect cut and the entire clearing would finally see him. They would finally see his strength and his worth.

  He would finally exist.

  His boots thundered toward Gabul kicking up dirt. The giant idiot wouldn’t even have time to register what was happening.

  He closed in, planted his foot, and launched upward. Every muscle fired. His veins lit as [Blood Rush] ignited, his stats spiking like wildfire coursing through him.

  Grimm’s vision fed into his mind, granting him total awareness of every angle, every blind spot. Nothing could surprise him now.

  His heartbeat slammed in his ears as he brought the machete down in a brutal, committed arc. Gabul hadn’t even turned his head.

  Perfect.

  Barrett put everything into the strike. No thought of defense. No thought of recovery. This was an all-in kill—if it missed, he was dead. But it wouldn’t. It couldn’t.

  The machete met its mark—

  —and skittered off.

  Gabul’s neck darkened instantly, the skin turning blacker, denser—stone-like—as some instinctive ability activated. Barrett felt the impact jolt up his arm as the blade bounced off uselessly.

  His eyes flew wide.

  Then—

  Pippy’s magic ran out.

  Time snapped back into full speed.

  Gabul blinked once, slowly, those obsidian eyes locking onto Barrett’s in a way that made the world tilt. A smile—both small and cruel—curved the orc’s mouth. Barrett’s blood went cold.

  Then the fist came.

  It slammed into Barrett’s chest like a meteor. His world inverted. Air blasted from his lungs as he shot backward like a ragdoll. The crowd erupted with orcish howls shaking the treetops, human screams splintering through the air. But one voice cut through the chaos, high and terrified:

  “BARRETT!”

  Pippy.

  He struck the ground hard, ribs screaming. A wet cough rattled out of him, blood spraying from his lips. Shock froze him. Pain hadn’t arrived yet, but he felt it building like a storm just beyond the horizon.

  He forced himself onto all fours. His vision blurred into streaks of color. Through the haze he saw Gabul approaching slowly and leisurely, savoring it.

  Barrett fought for breath.

  Nothing came.

  Panic tightened his throat. Tears of self-pity welled unbidden.

  Damn it, stop feeling sorry for yourself.

  He forced another breath—pain lancing through his ribs—then another. Air finally rushed in. He choked, sputtered, then dragged a deeper breath. Relief washed over him in a shaky wave.

  He glanced down. No cave-in, no exposed bone. Probably cracks…but he’d had worse.

  He could breathe.

  But Gabul was still coming. Unhurried. Confident. A hulking shadow savoring every step toward the kill.

  Barrett’s jaw tightened.

  This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

  —

  “Don’t die yet, HU-MAN,” Gabul rumbled. “You haven’t earned it.”

  Barrett pushed himself upright. First one knee, then the other. Each movement, a small war. His ribs screamed. His breath rasped. Dirt clung to his sweat-soaked skin.

  “Who said anything about dying?” he muttered, spitting blood into the dirt.

  “Barrett!” Pippy’s voice cracked across the clearing.

  He glanced in her direction. Fear shone in her eyes. It was raw, too big for someone her age. It twisted something deep within him. He forced a grin, even as pain knifed through his side.

  “That’s MISTER Donovan, Pipsqueak!” he called out.

  She swallowed, nodded shakily.

  Then his grin dropped as he turned back to Gabul. “As for you…” He spun the machete once, letting it whistle through the air before resting it lazily on his shoulder. “…round two.”

  He charged.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  A feint right. Blade flashing left. A narrow slip under Gabul’s brutal counter.

  This time Barrett fought like a student of violence, not a slave to it. Every strike was paired with footwork—angles, pivots, weight shifts. His old man’s voice snapped in his head:

  We’re fighters, not brawlers—keep your head, dammit!

  Barrett’s breath was steadier, more controlled.

  Attack. Dodge. Attack again.

  But every time his blade connected, the same thing happened—the orc’s skin darkened, hardened, turning to stone in the exact spot Barrett struck. It absorbed every hit, mocked every attempt.

  Step, step, slip left—swing. Recover with a kick. Follow through with an elbow.

  Nothing.

  The brute shrugged everything off, barely shifting under blows that would have crushed a goblin like paper.

  Barrett took more than a few hits himself. Glancing blows that felt like being hit with sledgehammers. One nearly took his head clean off, sending him stumbling, ears ringing, vision fracturing.

  He staggered back into stance, but the truth was settling in his bones like cold water:

  Gabul wasn’t even trying.

  This wasn’t combat. It was entertainment.

  Barrett’s breath grew ragged. Each inhale felt like a knife twisting between his ribs. Sweat poured into his eyes, blurring the massive figure advancing on him. His muscles trembled. His limbs were lead. And somewhere in the chaos, he realized.

  His mana was gone.

  [Blood Rush] wouldn’t come.

  He was running on fumes and stubbornness.

  “Is that all?” Gabul asked, strolling toward him as if on a pleasant evening walk. “You HU-MANs are pathetic.”

  Barrett didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His lungs wouldn’t obey. His vision tunneled. His legs trembled beneath him.

  He sank to one knee.

  It wasn’t courage now. It wasn’t bravado. It was exhaustion so complete he didn’t even have room left for fear.

  Not like this, he thought. Damn it, I’ll be nothing but a memory.

  He tried to rise again, but his body refused. All he could do was gasp for breath that wouldn’t come, sweat dripping into the dirt.

  Gabul’s shadow fell over him.

  And for the first time since arriving in Gateway…

  Barrett Donovan felt the cold certainty of defeat wrapping around his throat.

  —3 months ago—

  “Come on, Barrett! Get those hands up,” the old man barked.

  Barrett wanted to obey. He really did.

  But his arms felt like anchors. His gloves sagged near his hips. Sweat pooled on the gym mat beneath his feet, dripping off him in steady streams. Every breath dragged like a cinder block up his throat.

  Baha circled him with the calm footwork of someone jogging through a park. The old man tapped Barrett’s guard aside, countered lazily, and slipped every swing. He didn’t even look winded.

  Barrett, meanwhile, was a collapsing star, heavy and overheated, seconds from imploding.

  “I’m done,” Barrett gasped, vision swimming. “Kill me. Just kill me.”

  “Hey. Hey.” Baha stepped in close, tapping Barrett’s forehead with a calloused finger.

  “Repeat after me.”

  Barrett stared up at him miserably.

  “And now…we begin.”

  Barrett almost laughed. Or cried. Hard to tell.

  He was empty. Beyond empty. A man hollowed out.

  “Say it,” Baha ordered.

  Barrett’s voice cracked. “And now…we begin.”

  “Again.”

  “And now we begin.”

  “Again. But mean it.”

  The old man’s tone softened. The tone he used when trying to pry open the locks in Barrett’s soul. Locks that made up his beliefs about the world, and himself.

  “Barrett,” Baha murmured, “believe it. Really believe it.”

  Barrett hesitated.

  Not because he doubted the phrase, but because he feared it.

  Feared that if he believed he could keep going.

  Then he would have to.

  And the nightmare would continue.

  Baha smiled knowingly. “There it is. Doubt. You’re realizing the truth. You can keep going. Stay with it. Don’t be afraid.”

  Something shifted.

  A small crack opened in the concrete of Barrett’s belief system.

  A hairline fracture.

  His body had assumed this was the end.

  But the moment he reframed it, by even a fraction.

  The truth seeped through: It wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of the next level.

  His body didn’t suddenly get fresh energy.

  It just got new orders.

  We’re going forward anyway.

  Exhausted or not, hurting or not—

  Barrett’s body understood the orders.

  He lifted his gloves.

  Slowly and stubbornly.

  He was ready to go again.

  —Present—

  Barrett’s eyes snapped open.

  The pain was still there. The exhaustion was still bone-deep.

  But the fear was now quiet.

  A new focus spread through him like fire catching dry brush.

  Gabul noticed. The orc’s eyes flashed with startled recognition before hardening into hatred again.

  “And now…we begin,” Barrett whispered, rising fully to his feet.

  His breaths were still ragged, but they no longer wavered.

  His mind had finally aligned with his battered body.

  He would simply fight tired.

  If the world wanted more from him than he had left, then he’d give it to them.

  No jokes or quips now.

  Just work.

  Gabul lowered his center of gravity, ready to rush.

  “Your look disgusts me,” Gabul said, voice a rumbling growl. “It is the look of those who don’t know their place.”

  Barrett didn’t reply.

  The silence enraged the orc. With a roar, Gabul charged.

  Barrett pivoted aside, the attack whistling past him.

  He countered with a quick slash, then retreated, conserving energy, using every inch of space.

  Again, the rush.

  Again, Barrett sidestepped, struck, and disengaged.

  Gabul’s fury built with attacks coming faster, heavier, each blow shaking the ground.

  Barrett kept moving. Footwork, angles, breathing.

  Step, slip, counter, retreat.

  He could feel the circle shrinking behind him. And then—the cold stink of orcs at his back.

  He had reached the edge.

  “No more retreat,” Gabul snarled, triumphant.

  Barrett sank into a stance and entered [Predator’s Mark].

  His eyes glowed with azure fire.

  He spun.

  A single precise strike.

  Steel kissed flesh, then severed it. An orc head tumbled to the dirt.

  [You have slain Orc Warrior — Level 12]

  Barrett didn’t pause. He moved like a storm breaking free, slashing at the cluster behind him.

  But his opening evaporated. There were too many, too close, for him to grab any more kills.

  Gabul roared, triumph turning into a savage command.

  “FOOL! Now, your death will come slowly! GRAB HIM!”

  Dozens of dark shapes surged toward Barrett.

  And then —

  BOOOOM.

  An explosion ripped through the clearing, washing the world in fire and shock and flying dirt.

  All the orcs jerked their heads toward the source as the battlefield lit up.

  Barrett grinned.