If it had been a clean, sharp blade, it would have been a swift, merciful execution.
But it wasn't.
The fractured tip of the cheap metal didn't slice like normal—It tore. It ripped brutally through what felt like the soft and meaty flesh of the Hobgoblin's neck, snagging on cartilage and violently rupturing everything in its path.
A horrific, gurgling shriek tore from the monster's ruined throat, instantly drowned out by the grotesque spray of arterial blood. Thick, hot, dark-red fluid erupted from the severed veins and arteries, spurting in chaotic, pulsing fountains that splashed directly onto my face and bare arms.
AH, FUCKK—!" I gasped, violently wrenching my head away and squeezing my eyes shut.
Without my helmet to shield me, the tang of virtual blood—THAT DEFINITELY DIDN'T FEEL VIRTUAL—flooded my nose and mouth, clinging to my eyelashes and sticking to my sweat. I let go of the hilt and rolled off the twitching corpse, scrambling backward on my hands and knees until I was out of the bloody spray zone. My chest heaved ragged, less from the adrenaline of the fight and more from the crash of monster blood blasting against me and getting into my mouth, down my burning lungs.
"HACK!"
A string of drool and spit flew from my mouth, wetting the sand with a sizzle that evaporated almost on contact. It was followed by worse—acoppery taste, and my stomach churned like a washing machine just from the sight. I barely pushed down the urge to hurl right there, as I forced crimson out of my system.
"Ugh… So…. BLEGH!... Fuckin'... NASTY!—GUH!"
I kept my eyes squeezed shut, violently scrubbing my forearm across my face to wipe away the viscous gore. The game was too visceral. The wet, tearing sounds of the flesh, the pulsing heat of the blood—Sensory Overload. Legit, nightmare-fuel, sensory-overload.
'I'm going to need real-world therapy for this,' I thought, a hysterical, cynical edge cutting through the panic, trying to keep myself light-hearted and totally not look at the stained brown sand. 'I am actively traumatizing myself for a stat boost. My brain is going to literally rot.'
I cracked one eye open(couldn't help it), glaring down at the mangled mess of the Hobgoblin, and then specifically at the now-blood-soaked hilt of my weapon protruding from its neck.
'Fucking Godspeed,' I seethed internally, gritting my teeth. 'I am going to STRANGLE him with this bargain-bin, thrift-store piece of GARBAGE sword. If he expects me to butcher an entire settlement, he can at least shell out for a weapon that actually CUTS cleanly instead of giving me a MEAT GRINDER for a WEAPON!'
I forced myself to take a deep breath; let its heat and dryness possibly overwhelm and drown out the sickening and rotting smell.
And with all hope, wait for my racing heart to finally slow down.
"—..."
"...--Congratulations."
'----!!! Oh my fu—.... Ugghghh…. My heart….'
I turn to face towards the second source of my heart attack.
"...It seems that you're finally putting together the fighting styles and instructions that I've been teaching you so far."
And yet the voice murmured right next to my ear. It was so close; the small blowing of wind from every sharp consonant brushed my skin and crawled down my neck.
A violent shudder of goosebumps erupted down my spine and immediately spread to my arms. I couldn't even hear him approach, even when he had already announced himself. There was no crunch of sand, no rustle of clothing, no displacement of air. He was just—suddenly there.
Like always.
'Always creeping.'
The low-tier compliment from him went in one ear and right out the other. I didn't care about his middling approval right now. My immediate reaction was a full-body spike of tension. I squeezed my eyes shut, clamped my jaw together so hard my teeth ground against each other, and balled my hands into tight fists in the bloody dirt to keep myself from turning around and screaming every curse word in the English language directly into his face.
'Can you please STOOOOOP being a creep?'
I held my breath, letting the red-hot spike of irritation wash run off until I could trust my own voice again. I slowly forced my fingers to uncurl from the dirt and forced my muscles to unclench, un-… un-tense(?), letting out a long, ragged exhale.
"I would feel a lot more proud of myself," I muttered, my voice raspy and exhausted, "if it wasn't for the fact that I am completely drenched in hobgoblin blood. I can literally taste it in my mouth." I spat to the side, trying to clear the last of its substance off my tongue. "It is Disgusting. Putrid. Rank. Horrid. Foul. And Revolting."
"Well—bouncing off of your feelings, let me explain the primary issue of your battle, for reflection purposes," Godspeed replied smoothly, completely unbothered by my disgust, "Truth of the matter is, you had the perfect chance to end the battle before it even reached ground-level. Because as you followed the hobgoblin's line of movement off the ledge, you already had it in the perfect range to—instead of stab—Slice, it's head clean off in mid-air. It would have saved you the... crime scene."
I sat there for a second, glaring at the sand. He always had an answer. He always had some lesson prepped after a comeback..
'But… Mmm… Nahhhh~~.'
I wasn't about to let myself be outdone.
I'm not holding it in today.
I aggressively twisted my torso, keeping my ass planted in the dirt, to look up at him. He was standing there with his thumbs hooked into his belt, looking as relaxed as a man waiting for a bus.
"Do you KNOW what the maximum durability of this sword is?" I demanded, pointing a bloody finger at the jagged hilt sticking out of the monster's ruined neck.
Godspeed blinked, his swirling red eyes dropping to the weapon. He didn't miss a beat. "A standard iron shortsword. Maximum durability of one hundred. Forged from basic Caeloran iron ore, with a simple crossguard cast from cheap pig iron, and a hilt wrapped in common cured leather."
"Yeah, RIGHT!" I snapped.
I scooched and reached over and grabbed the blood-slicked, leather-wrapped hilt. I planted my boot against the dead Hobgoblin's thick shoulder for leverage and yanked.
**SQUELCH!**
The blade tore free, flinging a fresh splatter of dark gore onto the sand. I held the weapon up, shoving it toward him so he could see the utterly mangled state of the metal. The edge looked like it had been chewed on by a rock grinder, and the tip was completely jagged and fractured to all hell.
"So, wanna guess just how much durability I have on this thing right now?" I asked, my voice dripping with venom. "Don't bother. It's Fifteen."
I let go of the hilt.
**PLAT!**
The ruined sword smacked the sand between us for heavy emphasis.
"And do you KNOW how much durability it had when you first handed it to me?" I glared up at him, raising my hands.
"Fif—"
**CLAP!**
"—ty!"
**CLAP!**
The sharp cracks of my bare hands slapping together echoed sharply in the quiet desert air.
**CLAP! CLAP!**
I give a few more; just cuz I can.
"I've been seeing a kind of a… trend, here," I continued, narrowing my eyes at him. "I'm getting a lot of broken weapons from you. A lot of cracked staffs and chipped swords. Mind telling me why this keeps happening... Hmm~~?"
Mr. Always-Has-Something-To-Say didn't answer right away, this time. His eyes drifted away from the mangled shortsword in the dirt and stared off into the middle distance, past the headless hobgoblin corpse. I could practically see the gears grinding in his head. He was making up an excuse on the spot. It was painfully obvious.
After a long, agonizingly silent moment, he finally looked back down at me. He settled right back into that infuriating, detached 'professor' stance—shoulders relaxed, head tilted just slightly to the side. It was a vibe that made me weirdly itchy. Made me want to…. Want to punch that smug, placid expression right off his mouth, but I knew if I tried, my hand would shatter against his jaw long before his health even registered the impact.
"You 'know'," he started, his voice smooth and maddeningly even, "this is a perfect time for another little lesson. You having an understanding of how important durability is to your gear and your weapon is very veteran of you."
He gestured vaguely to the ruined blade.
"Because durability isn't just about weapons breaking. Take for example that same blade—it's chipped edge," he laid out, his style of talking really trying to take on that professor-likeness, "As is, it is unable to bite into targets as deep as you would like. It'll skid off armor, fail to sever a tendon, and turn what is clean, into what is messy. It also compromises your damage output; can also force you to expend more energy—and all of that, for a worse result. Constant maintenance and worry over your equipment's durability isn't just about preventing a weapon from shattering; it's about ensuring you're always performing at your absolute peak. Every fight, every time."
"You understanding this is vital to your success, however you define said 'success'. For you to have figured that out all on your own? Congratulations are in order."
'... Love the flattery,' I thought, my eyes narrowing into a harsh glare, 'Hate the fact that you're totally deflecting. You aren't actually giving me an answer.'
I jabbed a bloody finger toward the discarded weapon again. "When you gave me that, it was a beat-up sword," I stated bluntly, ignoring his praise. "Now... it's damn-near a broken sword. So My guess is? You are NOT buying these weapons. Not the staffs. Not the spears."
Godspeed gave a small, theatrical shrug, casually brushing a hand down his chest in a little flaunt of his attire. "For as high-level as I look," he countered seamlessly, "I am not as rich as my gear would indicate."
I stared at his grime-stained bandages, his unbuttoned, faded vest, and the thrift-store traveler's cloak. 'You look like a homeless cosplayer,' I thought. I swallowed the insult, knowing full well he could probably vaporize me by sneezing, and settled for a deadpan stare.
'Rather not think about how he almost blew up my shit the first time I encountered him, please.'
"Wowwwww~~," I drawled, my voice dripping with pure exhaustion and sarcasm. "I'm so, so, so, SOOO surprised."
He let the sarcasm fly right by him, completely unbothered. "These types of weapons, though not perfect, are the most abundant," he chimed, "and the easiest to obtain."
"So are you, or are you not buying them?" I pressed, refusing to let him wiggle out of the interrogation. "At least so... It's a consistent quality?"
"I… am not buying them," he finally admitted, but still casual. "But if I were, well… Well, I would not. It's an unnecessary expense."
"Mm-hmm!" I declared, sitting up a little straighter. I wagged a bloody index finger at him, as if I were connecting a diagram of accusations right there in the hot air between us. "So you're not buying them. Then, where are you getting them from?"
Annnnd… The persona vanished.
Godspeed.
It was like the air stilled as his seriousness filled it. His eyes narrowed—just a smidge—but it was enough to make those typhoon irises suddenly feel intensely lethal against my mind. The gravity itself seemed to grow a fraction heavier, a suffocating pressure that made my lungs threaten to seize up.
When he spoke, his voice dropped into a low, quiet register that carried an unquestionable weight.
"I travel to many places," he explained slowly. "And these places can be extremely dangerous to the average adventurer."
He stopped right there. No More Elaboration.
Silent oppression settled over the desert. I thought it over for a minute, holding his gaze. I could stare into those vortex eyes a little longer now compared to our first meeting at the blacksmith. But it was a cold bead of sweat trickling down the back of my neck—a sudden, nervous sweat that had absolutely nothing to do with the blistering sun or my physical fatigue—that helped remind me of my place.
I got the gist of what he was saying. High-level zones. Dead adventurers.
Scavenging the fallen.
But a primal feeling in me screamed.
Screaming like alarm bells in the back of my skull telling me and warning—past that grim observation, there was something else. A darker, much worse truth lurking beneath his vagueness.
And I absolutely did not want to hear it.
His possibly appalling deeds I left unspoken, rather letting the silence hang in the air for a few seconds more. Then, I swallowed hard and completely dropped the topic.
"...okay," Was what squeaked out, allowing his heavy words and heavier implications to drift away on the desert wind.
I waited another beat, donning a mask, a polite mask, back onto my face to cover my anxiety.
"So... May I have another sword?"