Ch 91 - An Unfair Fight

I woke to the sound of ragged, agonized whimpers.

Pain surged through every nerve, sharp and relentless, pinning me in place. My body refused to move. I couldn’t even scream—whether from sheer exhaustion or some cruel impossibility, I didn’t know. My breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, my chest rising and falling in stuttering intervals.

The groan came again, low and guttural, from somewhere behind me—a sound teetering on the edge of death.

Slowly, I forced my heavy eyelids open, though only one obeyed. My vision swam in a haze of red and shifting darkness before finally settling. I was lying face down in a pool of my own blood, the jagged pebbles beneath me digging into my skin like a cruel bed.

I glanced at my arms—or what was left of them. One was twisted at an unnatural angle, barely recognizable as my own. The other hung limp, a jagged bone jutting grotesquely from my elbow, piercing through shredded flesh. The sight was nauseating.

Behind me, the roar of cascading water thundered, the pounding force of the waterfall still ringing in my ears. My mind was foggy, struggling to piece together how I’d ended up like this.

Then it hit me. The last thing I remembered was grabbing Miguel and leaping off the waterfall—plunging us both toward what should have been certain death.

The groaning sound came again, weak and wet, gurgling with blood.

Miguel.

He was alive. I couldn’t see him, but the noise—those faint, broken whimpers—told me he’d survived. Somehow.

Gritting my teeth—what was left of them—I forced myself to move. My twisted arm, barely functional, trembled as I pressed against the wet ground. Every motion sent waves of agony through me, but I pushed on, lifting my face from the dirt. With a final, desperate heave, I rolled onto my back, gasping as fresh pain tore through my body.

Something warm and wet dangled against my chest—a sickening, jelly-like sensation clinging to my face.

Frowning, I tilted my head, glancing down with my single good eye—and my stomach lurched at the sight.

A set of teeth, fresh and grotesque, was embedded in my belly. It looked like human dentures had been placed there, but only the lower half. Then it hit me—it was my own lower jaw, hanging by a thread of flesh. It dangled from my face, still connected by tendons and flayed skin, blood dripping in slow, steady rivulets down my neck.

I should have been screaming—from the pain, from the horror—but I wasn’t even sure I could anymore. My jaw was gone, and my voice with it.

By all rights, I should already be dead. Yet here I was, staring at my mangled arms and jaw, still conscious.

“Help me…” a voice rasped from behind, hoarse and broken.

Tilting my head toward the sound—pain flaring as my hanging jaw snagged on my shredded shirt—I finally saw Miguel.

He wasn’t in much better shape.

His face was pale, drenched in blood. A deep gash split his forehead, his skull barely holding together. His waist was twisted sideways in a way no human should endure, and his leg…

His leg hung by nothing but bone.

“I don’t… want to die,” he whimpered, his fingers twitching weakly in the blood pooling around him.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. His embers of life were fading, flickering out. If he’d just agreed to my plan, we could have avoided this—but now it was too late.

My focus shifted to the slow, unnatural pulsing within my chest.

I recognized the sensation. My regeneration had already kicked in, working with detached precision to repair me.

And for the first time, I watched it happen.

The broken bone protruding from my arm sank back into my flesh, as if devoured by invisible mouths. Shredded muscles twitched, stretching and reattaching like writhing tendrils. A soft green glow flickered around the wounds as splintered fragments of bone were discarded and replaced with fresh, pristine growth.

Veins reknitted. Skin sealed over raw muscle.

Piece by piece, I was rebuilding myself.

Minutes passed.

When I finally sat up, my legs twisted back into their proper shape with a series of sickening cracks. I flexed my fingers—once broken, now whole.

Miguel, who had begged for help earlier, finally noticed what was happening. His bloodshot eyes widened impossibly, his mouth hanging open in horror. He remembered now—the one responsible for his condition was me.

Ignoring his bewilderment, I reached down, grabbed my half-detached jaw, and pressed it back into place. Flesh and tissue latched on eagerly, sealing the torn sinew in moments. I clenched my teeth, testing my bite. It felt as though nothing had ever been wrong.

I stood, stretching my arms and legs to ensure everything worked perfectly.

Miguel trembled violently. Then, in a choked, broken voice, he whispered:

“You… What are you?!.. What the hell… are you?”

His final breath left him in a strangled wheeze, his body sagging into lifeless stillness. Whether it was the injuries or the trauma of what he’d seen, I didn’t know. But he was gone.

I exhaled through my nose, rolling my shoulders as the last remnants of injury faded.

“Human? Undead? Or something… else”, I looked up at the sky, my gaze steady, “Doesn’t matter.”

Stepping over Miguel’s corpse, I took a moment to assess myself.

No scars. No lingering pain. Just tattered clothes clinging to my frame and the gnawing emptiness in my gut, growling like a caged beast. That could wait. For now, there were more immediate concerns.

I crouched beside Miguel’s lifeless form, my movements swift and methodical. My fingers rifled through his pockets with practiced ease, searching for anything useful. A small pouch caught my attention—his coin purse. I untied the string and peered inside.

Silver. Copper. A faint grin tugged at my lips.

“Well, nothing like looting after a deathmatch. How nostalgic,” I murmured, securing the pouch to my belt.

Next, I unfastened the daggers strapped to his waist. They were decent—well-balanced, sharp, and clearly cared for. A good backup. His other belongings were less impressive: a few low-grade healing potions, an adventurer’s guild card, and a bundle of cigar weeds. I scoffed at the last one, tossing it aside.

I glanced down at his corpse, feeling… nothing. No guilt. No remorse.

This was the first time I’d killed someone since arriving in this world as Benjamin. Well, technically, I hadn’t killed him. Dragging us both off the waterfall was more of a double suicide—a reckless gamble born of desperation. If my regeneration had been weaker, I’d be dead too. But my undead body had saved me.

One thing was clear: my regeneration was extreme, almost unnatural. It needed to remain a secret. If anyone probed too deeply, they’d realize I was undead—and that would make me a target for extermination.

Miguel’s reaction made sense now. His horror wasn’t just at my survival—it was at what I was. I made a mental note: never rely on regeneration so recklessly again. Some secrets are better left buried.

The first rays of sunlight crept over the distant mountains, casting the forest in a soft, golden glow. Time was slipping away, and I adjusted my direction, moving forward with light, deliberate steps.

Following the stream was out of the question—it was too exposed, leaving me vulnerable to prying eyes. Miguel’s party members were still out there, hunting me.

To the south of Zephinya lay the Heirya Nation, one of the nine major countries. Between them stretched a vast expanse of untamed wilderness—a no-man’s-land teeming with wild beasts, where only adventurers dared to tread.

This domain, though technically unclaimed, was heavily influenced by the adventurer’s guild. Unlike the rigid rule of kingdoms, it offered freedom and fewer regulations. It had become a refuge for the oppressed, for those seeking a fresh start beyond the reach of royal decrees. Over time, many had migrated there, choosing to live among the guilds rather than suffer under noble rule.

Zephinya, however, had taken notice of this growing exodus. Their solution? The Grand Ascension Ceremonies—an elaborate event designed to lure mana-sensitive individuals back into their fold. But there was a catch.

Only registered citizens of Zephinya could participate.

And that was the problem. More than seventy percent of Zephinya’s population wasn’t registered, despite generations of residency. They had no rights, no protections—just ghosts in their own homeland. To shield these people, the adventurer’s guild would step in, claiming territory and providing resources to these forgotten souls.

There had to be a guild-operated town nearby. I made a mental note to keep an eye out.

As I moved through the forest, my thoughts drifted, but my stomach had other concerns. A deep, guttural growl rumbled through me, forcing me to pause mid-step.

Since regenerating from that fall, my hunger had been growing by the second.

I sighed, pressing a hand to my gut. Food was my next priority. But the forest offered little. The smaller animals seemed to have vanished, likely driven away by the magical array rumored to guard the Zephinya border. Even the stream was lifeless—no fish, no ripples breaking the water’s surface. Just the steady, ghostly flow.

While I was looking around, I also found some rare herbs. However, having healing abilities like mine, they were pointless. Nonetheless, I discovered some useful ones and tucked them in my pockets. Still, I had not found anything to eat.

Frowning, I scanned the area until my eyes landed on a cluster of trees bearing dark berries. With no better option, I quickly foraged, shoving handfuls into my mouth. The berries were sweet, but each one carried a hard seed. After stripping away the pulp, I spat the seeds onto the ground, leaving a small pile beside me as I rested under the tree.

One berry caught my attention—it was shriveled, barely holding any pulp at all. Just a dry, hardened seed. I rolled it between my fingers, studying it absently.

Then, something strange happened.

A soft green glow flickered at my fingertips, and before I could react, the seed cracked open. A fragile sapling sprouted from within, twisting and unfurling in my palm, its tiny roots curling around my fingers.

I stared at it, stunned. “So this is plant magic…” I muttered, exhaling slowly. “Cute.”

A small smile ghosted my lips. My mother would have loved this skill.

Tucking the rest of the berries into my pouch, I got back on my feet and pressed forward. But as I moved deeper into the woods, something changed.

The birds stopped chirping. The breeze stilled. Even my own footsteps felt muffled, swallowed by the hush.

I wasn’t alone.

A presence lurked nearby, unseen but close.

My fingers tightened around my dagger as I slid it from my belt. The moment the blade met the air, a sickly sweet scent hit my nose. My hand felt sticky, and that’s when I noticed the honey nectar clinging to the dagger’s hilt.

My stomach dropped. Crap.

I barely had time to process the realization before a figure erupted from the bushes. A tall, muscular man with fresh tattoos on his body, armed with an axe, glared at me with furrowed brows.

“Found you,” Sandro muttered.

His massive frame charged straight at me, his axe gleaming under the dim forest light.

“Now you’ll die!” he bellowed, his voice shaking the stillness like a war drum.

That bastard had tracked me using the nectar still stuck on the dagger. I’d failed to thoroughly check all the daggers, and one had been stained with nectar—likely during Miguel’s confrontation. But that didn’t matter now.

I cursed under my breath, yanking out my second dagger and gripping both tightly.

No more running.

I steadied myself, heart pounding as Sandro closed the distance. His eyes burned with fury, his face smeared with crimson markings that gave him the look of a battle-hardened shaman. Despite his earlier fight with the panther, he didn’t look the least bit exhausted—if anything, he seemed even more energized, as though violence itself fueled him.

With a guttural growl, he lunged, his massive axe slicing through the air in a deadly arc aimed straight for my neck.

I barely ducked in time, the whoosh of air brushing past me as the blade narrowly missed. Seizing the opening, I drove my dagger toward his exposed midsection.

Sandro reacted instantly, jerking his knee up to block. The blade pierced his leg, but his muscles were so dense it barely sank in. Before I could yank it free, he retaliated with a vicious kick.

I had no time to dodge.

His boot slammed into my guard like a battering ram, launching me backward. I crashed into the ground, rolling through dirt and broken twigs. Pain lanced up my arms from the impact, but I couldn’t dwell on it.

“Good reflexes, boy,” Sandro mused, rolling his shoulders. “But I’m faster.”

He closed the distance with terrifying speed for a man his size.

His axe whistled through the air, slicing through shrubs and thin trees like paper. I danced between his swings, narrowly dodging each one, but the relentless pace was wearing me down. My regeneration was strong, but pain was still pain, and I wasn’t eager to test how well I could function missing a limb—or worse.

I was so focused on evading the axe that I didn’t see the roundhouse kick coming.

The blow slammed into my face like a sledgehammer. My vision blurred as I went airborne, landing hard on my back.

Dizzy and dazed, I forced my eyes open just in time to see Sandro approaching, his axe resting casually on his shoulder. A grin stretched across his face.

“Nice instincts,” he admitted. “But how long will they last?”

Blood trickled from my nose. I wiped it away with my sleeve, tightening my grip on my daggers.

“Well, your friend thought the same thing—until he regretted it,” I shot back, rising to my feet.

Sandro smirked. “That fool? He lost his life because he was weak. But don’t think your words will rile me up—I’m enjoying this little spar.”

His grin was devious, almost playful.

No more running. I lunged.

He swung to intercept, but instead of aiming for his vital spots, I slashed at his arms. His skin was like iron, my blades barely making shallow cuts. But I didn’t stop.

I weaved around him, darting in and out, leaving quick, precise incisions across his body. The wounds were minor, but they bled, and with enough time, blood loss would slow him down.

Sandro’s grin faded, irritation creeping into his expression.

Then, before I could react, he did something unexpected—he grabbed my dagger mid-swing with his bare hand.

The blade sank deep into his palm, but his fingers clenched around the handle like a vice, trapping my weapon—and my hand along with it.

“Got you now,” he said, eyes gleaming.

His other arm lifted, axe poised to cleave me in two.

Shit—!

Without hesitation, I made a split-second decision.

I grabbed my second dagger and swung it with full force—at my own arm.

The blade sliced clean through, severing my limb.

Pain exploded through me, but I didn’t stop to register it. I ripped myself free, blood spraying as I bolted backward, leaving my detached arm still gripped in Sandro’s stunned hand.

For the first time, he hesitated. He stared at my severed arm as if it were some strange relic, glancing between it and me in bewilderment.

Gritting my teeth, I tore a strip of fabric from my ruined shirt and hastily tied it around my stump to slow the bleeding. The pain was excruciating, but I forced myself to focus.

I couldn’t beat Sandro in a prolonged fight.

If I wanted to win, I had to go for the kill.

Sandro chased after me, his heavy footfalls thundering against the forest floor. A crazed grin spread across his face.

“Boy, you’re full of surprises! Never seen someone chop off their own limb so cleanly before!” he bellowed, the thrill of the hunt evident in his voice.

I didn’t reply. My teeth were clenched, my breath ragged, and my vision wavered from blood loss. Even with my regeneration kicking in, it was draining an absurd amount of energy. The mana coursing through my body worked relentlessly to repair the damage, but every second it continued made my limbs heavier and my mind foggier.

And Sandro was still right behind me.

By now, running through the woods felt like second nature—I vaulted over fallen logs, navigated uneven terrain, and ducked beneath low-hanging branches with practiced ease. But Sandro matched my pace effortlessly, his towering frame moving with an unnatural agility that defied logic.

“How long do you plan on running, boy?” he called out, his voice laced with amusement. “This is getting boring.”

“That depends,” I shot back, not bothering to glance over my shoulder, “on how long you plan to chase me.”

Sandro chuckled darkly. “Fine, if that’s what you want.”

I pushed harder, ignoring the burning in my legs. Sandro wasn’t invincible—his stamina would falter eventually. Or so I hoped.

Then I heard it—a sharp whistling sound slicing through the air behind me. My instincts screamed.

Shit!

I threw myself to the ground just as something massive whizzed past my head. Sandro’s axe flew overhead like a missile, tearing through branches before halting midair—and then, to my horror, it reversed course.

It’s coming back!?

The axe snapped backward, yanked by an unseen force, and returned to Sandro’s waiting grip.

“What the hell…” I muttered, scrambling to my feet.

That’s when I saw it—a long vine, barely visible in the dim light, looped tightly around the axe’s handle and tethered to Sandro’s hand. It wasn’t just an axe; it was a whip-axe, wielded with precision.

Sandro gave the vine a casual flick, spinning the axe in his grip. “Guess it’s time I get serious,” he smirked.

Before I could process his words, he snapped his wrist again, sending the other end of the vine flying toward me. Attached to it was a heavy, spiked metal ball.

He’s using it like a whip!

I barely dodged as the ball slammed into the earth where I’d been standing, leaving a small crater in its wake.

Sandro’s grin widened, his muscles bulging as he swung the whip-like weapon in wide arcs. The axe and spiked ball tore through shrubs, branches, and even tree trunks with deadly precision, leaving destruction in their path.

Gripping my dagger tightly with the only arm I had left, I attempted to intercept the vine mid-swing, slashing at it—but the blade slid off as if I’d struck solid steel. My heart sank; the vine was enchanted, as durable as metal.

“Nice try, kid,” Sandro sneered. “Special enchanted fiber—no normal blade’s cutting through that.”

With a powerful jerk, he sent the spiked ball hurtling toward me again. I raised my dagger in a desperate block, but the sheer force behind it sent me skidding backward, my arm throbbing from the impact.

Sandro advanced, twirling the whip with ease, his movements precise and practiced. I was running out of space to dodge.

I needed to change the tempo.

As he stepped in for another attack, I kicked the ground, sending a spray of dirt and debris flying into his face.

Sandro’s movements faltered, just for a second.

I seized the opening and hurled my dagger, aiming straight for his throat.

But Sandro’s reflexes were too sharp—he threw his arm up, and the blade embedded itself in his palm instead. Blood dripped from between his fingers, but he didn’t even flinch.

He pulled the dagger out with a disgusted look and tossed it aside like garbage. “That all you got?”

I exhaled, shaking my head with a cold glare,
“No… I think that should be enough.”

Sandro scoffed and took a step toward me—then suddenly, his grip on the vine slackened.

The spiked ball crashed to the ground. His legs wobbled.

His face twisted in confusion as he fell to one knee, his breathing labored, veins bulging unnaturally beneath his skin.

He looked up at me, eyes bloodshot. “You… what have you done?”

I pulled another dagger from my waist, twirling it between my fingers.

“What, you thought I’d fight you fair?” I smirked.

Sandro’s jaw clenched.

“When I was loitering around, I found a patch of poisonous herbs. Nasty stuff. I coated a few of my daggers with the concoction during our fight.” I gestured toward the bleeding cut on his palm. “I wouldn’t stand a chance against you in a direct fight, so I improvised.”

During the chaos, I’d crushed the herbs in my pocket and smeared the blades with their venom. My hand still stung from the toxins, but it was a small price to pay. Sandro’s trouble was only beginning.

Sandro’s fingers dug into the dirt as he clenched his fists. His body trembled, his strength rapidly draining.

I crouched slightly, shifting into a ready stance.

“Now then… round two?”