Agony. Blinding, all-encompassing agony.


    My neck shifted, bones snapping back into place with grotesque precision. Nerve endings flared to life one by one, each a white-hot lance of electricity piercing deep into my body. It lasted mere seconds—an eternity trapped inside a moment.


    The world snapped back into focus.


    In the corner of my vision, a notification flickered into existence.


    <hr>


    System Message:


    Boon “Never Gonna Give You Up” has been activated.


    This boon has now been removed.


    <hr>


    I gasped, desperate to fill my lungs, but something was wrong. My right eye refused to open. Panic seized me, and my fingers shot up, trembling, reaching—


    I felt wet, mangled flesh dangling from the socket.


    A choked gag clawed up my throat, but I had no time to fall apart.


    As I gasped for air, the haunting strains of the calliope music swelled, drilling into my skull like nails.


    Then, footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.


    Mathews sauntered into the room, his movements unhurried, like a man finishing a job he’d done a thousand times before. I guess he knew better than anyone—around here, you step on their head to make sure they’re dead.


    He loomed in the doorway, studying me with a curious expression. For a moment, it almost seemed like he was about to say something.


    Then, without a word, he reached for his blade.


    The towering brute wasted no time closing the gap, moving even faster than he had in the fighting pit. His knife gleamed in the dim light, a silver arc slashing toward me. I barely twisted out of the way, feeling the blade whistle past my ribs.


    I retracted the spear tip on Milli’s Multi-tool and retaliated with a sharp thrust of my quarterstaff, aiming low to force him back. But he stepped in without hesitation, catching the haft in one meaty hand.


    I wasn’t ready to take another human life.


    Some naive part of me still believed that if I could hold out long enough, I could make him talk. That there was some way out of this that didn’t end with one of us bleeding out on the floor.


    Mathews had no such hesitation.


    With a sharp twist, he wrenched my weapon out of alignment, throwing me off balance. Then his free hand came up like a piston, slamming into my chest. The force sent me stumbling, my lungs seizing as the air was driven from them.


    I barely had time to gasp before his boot lashed out in a vicious kick, striking my thigh. Pain exploded up my leg, and I nearly collapsed.


    He wasn’t just strong—he was trained. Every movement was precise, every strike calculated to break me down, piece by piece.


    A detached part of my brain registered something cold and inevitable.


    I had likely just died.


    So why was I so calm? Shouldn’t I be sobbing, begging, breaking?


    My ruined eye dangled by a single thread of viscera. The urge to tear it out clawed at the edges of my mind, to rip away the distraction so I could focus on the fight in front of me.


    Gripping my weapon tighter, I extended the blade and jabbed toward his midsection—fast, controlled, desperate to force him back.


    The attack lacked power. It wasn’t meant to kill.


    It was just me trying to buy another second to live.


    If I could just get a few seconds, I could send a message to the party—warn them before it was too late. I had no idea how their fight was going, but if Mathews got past me without them knowing, he’d cut through them like paper.


    I struck again, but he dodged with startling grace, weaving around my attack and closing the distance in an instant. His hand clamped down on my wrist, twisting sharply. Pain shot up my arm as he drove his shoulder into my chest, knocking me off balance and slamming me to the ground.


    I hit hard, the impact rattling through my bones.


    Before I could react, his knife came down in a brutal arc, aiming to pin my skull to the floor. I rolled, the blade sinking deep into the wood where my head had been a second earlier.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Midway through the manoeuvre, something wet and foreign slipped beneath my boot.


    A small pop.


    A sickening smear of red.


    My right eye—what was left of it—had finally detached completely.


    Using the momentum, I swung my spear in a wide arc, catching him across the shin. It was enough to make him falter, giving me a chance to scramble to my feet. The deep wound on his leg healed instantly.


    He came at me again, leading with a feint from the knife before pivoting into a brutal elbow strike. I barely managed to block, but the impact sent shocks up my arm. His leg shot out in a sweeping kick that broke my stance, and I hit the floor hard, my spear retracted and the small metal cylinder clattering away through a cloth covered doorway.


    This is bad.  I thought to myself, he had me outclassed in raw power and technique, it was taking everything I had just to stay alive. But I wasn’t about to give up.


    I rolled through the opening, getting to my feet, grabbing a nearby stool and swinging it toward him. He deflected it with his forearm, but it gave me a precious second to dart toward Milli''s Multi-tool. He was on me again in an instant, though, his knife flashing toward my side. I twisted, letting the blade scrape harmlessly along the edge of my vest before snapping the staff to full length, swinging it up to catch him in the ribs. The hit connected and I felt one of his bones break from the force, he grunted and staggered back a step.


    The fight had spilled into the adjoining room, where the circus’s calliope stood, its exposed gears clicking and whirring ominously. The room was cramped, cluttered with half-finished machinery and maintenance tools. My opponent didn’t seem to care, weaving through the obstacles with unnerving ease.


    He feinted high, then kicked low, his boot catching me in the side and slamming me into the calliope''s frame. I could feel the cold metal pressing into my back, the vibration of the gears humming against my spine. He followed up with a grab, hoisting me off my feet and slamming me down onto the floor. My vision blurred red as pain radiated through my back.


    He took the moment to check his injured side, I got up, steadying myself as I stood.


    But then I saw it: an opening. The exposed gears. The glint of moving metal was like a beacon, and my Flaw Finder skill flared to life, highlighting the danger zone in my vision.


    A massive explosion rang out and the walls shook, it had come from the tent''s main area.


    When he lunged at me again, I twisted aside, letting his momentum carry him forward. I hooked my spear against his forearm, redirecting the knife’s trajectory, and with every ounce of strength, I shoved him toward the gears.


    There was a sickening crunch as his arm caught in the calliope’s mechanism. The sharp grinding of metal against bone made my stomach churn, and his howl of agony replaced the slow tune of the now disabled instrument. The knife clattered to the floor, forgotten, as he thrashed wildly, trying to free himself.


    But the machine had him. His forearm was wedged deep between the grinding cogs, and each desperate pull only seemed to drag him further in. Blood poured in rivulets from the mangled flesh, dripping into the machinery with a steady, metallic rhythm. Bones jutted grotesquely through torn skin, his arm contorted at angles that no healthy limb should be able to achieve.


    He roared in pain and rage, his free hand clawing at the gears, but the grimy metal showed no mercy. Then, with a sickening crackle, his healing factor took hold. The exposed bones began to shift, attempting to knit themselves back together as best they could. But the relentless machine worked against it, chewing through his flesh as fast as it could regenerate.


    The result was a nightmarish tug-of-war between his ability and the calliope’s gears. The arm healed in warped, misshapen clumps of flesh and bone. His strength faltered, his movements becoming sluggish as blood loss took its toll. His twisted, useless limb dangled grotesquely from the machine, fused into its grinding mechanism.


    He slumped forward, pinned, his expression a mask of fury and desperation. He snarled like a cornered animal, trying one last time to wrench himself free, but the machine’s iron grip held fast. He was trapped, defeated, as the calliope let out a loud grinding noise.


    My chest heaved, each breath sending waves of pain through my battered body. I stood there, torn, the question gnawing at me: should I try to free him or leave him to his fate?


    My interface chimed, and a message blinked into view:


    <hr>


    Sharla:


    Nobblecunt is dead, but the tent is about to collapse. Milli threw his own bomb back at him—it was fucking epic. Get in here before the whole thing comes down on our heads!


    <hr>


    Without a second thought I bolted out of the room and into the inferno that was once the main tent leaving Mathews thrashing violently at the machine. The heat was suffocating, the air thick with smoke as flames devoured the canvas walls and ceiling. The central pole supporting the structure had been obliterated, blown apart by the explosion, Milli’s handiwork. Through the gaping hole left behind, I could see the orange-blue expanse of sky bleeding into early morning.


    My party was clustered near the centre, hastily looting what they could from the remnants of the Nobblehob and the performers. Every single one of them was made it out alive, though they were all battered and bloodied, their faces streaked with ash and blood.


    Sharla’s eyes locked onto me, her face draining of color as she took in my empty eye socket. She hesitated, lips parting as if to speak.


    “No time, Sharla! Run!” I shouted, cutting her off before she could put words to whatever horror was written across her face.


    The others stood frozen, confusion flickering in their expressions. Sharla was the first to react—she grabbed Fiona’s arm and shoved her toward the exit.


    “Move! Now!” she barked, and that was all it took.


    One by one, they broke into a sprint, the tent groaning as its burning structure buckled behind us.


    We sprinted toward the exit, dodging falling debris and sidestepping patches of flaming rubble. I desperately wanted to know how the main assault group was holding up, but there was no time to double back. The structure groaned ominously as more supports buckled under the relentless advance of the fire. Milli would have to get us a report once we were safe.


    Sharla glanced back, her expression grim but focused.


    As we neared the exit, the flaps billowed wildly in the wind, revealing flashes of a surreal landscape beyond—a grand city of gleaming towers perched atop rolling hills blanketed in lush farmland. It was impossibly vivid, like a painting brought to life. Between us and the city, however, shimmered an opaque barrier that distorted the air like a heat mirage.


    None of us hesitated. The tent was collapsing behind us in a torrent of flames and ash, leaving no other choice. With a final push, we barrelled toward the barrier, the heat at our backs like the breath of a ravenous beast.


    The moment we hit it, the barrier resisted like thick jelly, pressing against us as if reluctant to let us through. Then, in an instant, it yielded. We stumbled forward, emerging into a blinding burst of light that consumed everything in its brilliance.