The taste of blood in my mouth had already become a habit. The air reeked of burnt wood, rotten sap, and something metallic that could be magical—or just my imagination trying to dramatize. Every breath felt like I was inhaling soot. I stepped over soaked soil, dead leaves, and shattered branches, like the forest had turned into a cemetery around me. Everything there wanted to swallow me.
My body trembled, but my hand still held the pickaxe tight. The fingers, rigid, ached as if carved from bone. I could barely feel my right arm. My left burned with the slash from the previous creature, though it wasn't bleeding too much—yet. My breath came out like I was spitting steam. Hot. Shallow. Furious.
Magic pulsed in my bones—weak, but stubborn. It was time to end it. I needed to finish this. For her. For me. For my reputation. Not necessarily in that order.
And so I advanced.
