The silence was as heavy as lead. Particles of ash swirled in the stagnant air, painting the world in shades of gray and despair. Noel stood motionless, the gun in his hand trembling with a hidden dread. His breathing was labored, not from fear, but from the icy, lethal focus that gripped him. Before him, the beast "Airghoul" let out a venomous snarl, toxic steam rising from its hideous armored form.
The massive body shuddered. A deadly tension vibrated in the space between them.
But Noel did not move.
All he did was observe, with steady, analytical—inscrutable—eyes. No panic, no urgency in his stance. Only a silent readiness more terrifying than any cry of defiance.
The beast struck first.
It lunged forward, leaving a crater from the force of its leap. Venom sprayed from its gaping maw, hissing as it scorched the stones beneath. The distance between them vanished in the blink of an eye.
But Noel was no longer there.
He had moved before the beast even acted.
A sidestep, a swift roll—time itself seemed to slow around him. His body moved not with trained precision, but with instinct—an instinct honed by a struggle deeper than mere combat. He was not fighting to win. He was fighting to survive.
The dagger reappeared in his hand.
One cut. Then another. And another.
Superficial wounds.
Yet each strike was calculated, aimed at weak points—joints, gaps in the armor, exposed tendons. He never repeated the same angle twice. He circled the beast like a ghost, a shadow without weight.
Airghoul roared in fury.
It twisted, lashed out with its tail, slashed with its claws, even spewed its lethal venom. And each time, Noel was already a step ahead. Cold sweat trickled down his back, but his expression remained unreadable. His heart pounded violently, yet no hesitation showed on his face. He didn't need to defeat the beast. He only needed to endure... and wait for the decisive moment.
Then—it came.
The beast reared its head high, its chest swelling with corrupted mana. The thick mist shrouding the battlefield grew denser, charged with deadly toxins.
Noel's eyes narrowed. For the first time, a spark of resolve ignited within them.
He charged forward.
Straight toward death.
Airghoul unleashed its toxic breath.
A wave of venom and seething energy erupted like a storm.
Yet in the heart of that storm, one man emerged.
Smoke, wind, and raw power tore at his flesh, yet his steps never faltered. His body bled, his bones groaned in agony, but he pressed on.
He ducked beneath a lethal claw, slid beneath the beast's body, and—with a single motion—drove the dagger into the one vulnerable spot beneath its ribcage: the pulsating venom gland.
Airghoul convulsed.
It froze, a long, guttural groan escaping its throat. Its limbs spasmed, it staggered back—then collapsed.
But it was not dead.
Only unconscious.
Noel did not celebrate.
He remained standing, watching.
Waiting.
Even as blood soaked his tattered clothes, even as pain wracked his body, he did not let his guard down.
Minutes passed. No movement.
Then suddenly—his knees trembled.
Darkness crept into his senses.
Before he fell, his eyes caught one last sight—the beast was still breathing.
It was not dead.
But the darkness came faster.
He collapsed to the ground, finally succumbing to unconsciousness.
Just before his eyes closed completely, he whispered one last phrase, barely audible:
"This... isn't even the real threat..."
Then silence.
And darkness took him.