The forest was quiet—eerily so.
Alaric's eyes scanned the dim woodland path as the wind whispered through the leaves above. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, twisting beneath the pale moonlight. There was a sound—something soft. A crack. A footstep on dry leaves. And then… movement.
A figure stepped out from the dark, emerging like a phantom from the deeper gloom of the trees. His silhouette was jagged, not from armour or clothing, but from what looked like massive spikes protruding from his body. They shimmered faintly under the moonlight—some long as swords, others shorter, like thick quills bristling across his arms and back. The creature was nearly two meters tall, lean yet solid
Spiked.
Menacing.
Towering.
Rhogar's entire body stiffened beside Alaric.
"You," the tiger Beastman growled, not loudly—but with enough venom to boil blood. Alaric caught every syllable clearly, even though it sounded like a whisper. He didn't reply. He simply adjusted his stance, calm and composed—but inside, his instincts screamed.
The porcupine Beastman didn't wait.
He moved like a blur.
Twin blades—spike-swords—sliced the air as he closed the gap with terrifying speed. Rhogar met him halfway, clawing against the blade, blow for blow. The impact of their clash sent wind rippling through the forest.
Alaric stayed back, watching. Analyzing. Every strike was a calculated exchange of fury and precision.
Then he saw it—the strange movements, the odd angles.
The porcupine was good. Too good.
But his fighting style…
"Morimo…?" Alaric blurted under his breath, eyes widening.
It struck him—this porcupine fought just like that directionally challenged, green-haired swordsman from those Earth shows. Wild, aggressive, but surgically skilled. Attacks came from every direction, every blind spot, as if up, down, and sideways had no meaning.
The porcupine paused for the briefest second, clearly puzzled by the word. Then he lunged again.
Rhogar roared, launching a counterattack. His claws swiped low, aiming for the knees, followed by a brutal punch to the ribs. The porcupine jumped back and spun mid-air—firing a spread of quills like bullets.
Alaric ducked as a trio of spikes embedded themselves in the bark of the tree behind him.
He's angling them. Intentionally.
The realization hit hard. The porcupine wasn't just fighting Rhogar—he was forcing him to protect Alaric. Every ranged attack was curved, bent subtly, and positioned so that evading would endanger the halfling. It was deliberate, cruel, and effective.
Rhogar grunted. His shoulder was bleeding. He couldn't move freely—every step, every dodge, was half a calculation and half a shield for Alaric.
The porcupine pressed his advantage, alternating like a maestro between dual-wield swordplay and quill barrages. His speed increased, and his footwork was unpredictable. He flowed like liquid steel—an artist of violence.
He's faster than Rhogar. Stronger too.
Alaric gritted his teeth. He had to try.
He summoned his will, and reached inward to that primal command within him.
Dominate.
The world darkened for a moment. His soul extended like a hook—searching for control.
And then—emptiness.
No pull. No contact. It felt like throwing power into a bottomless pit. His skill was consumed by a void… and then the porcupine's aura surged.
Stronger. Faster. Sharper.
It failed… and he got stronger?
Alaric's chest tightened. Was it backlash? Recoil? Or did I empower him somehow? He staggered back. This wasn't just failure. It was a revelation.
I only beat Rhogar before because I caught him by surprise. Does my skill limited… to a single being?
The porcupine roared, launching another barrage—this one vicious, meant to end the fight.
Rhogar caught several with his arms, blood flying, before being slammed into a tree.
No! Alaric's heart raced. I can't let him die. Not like this.
The Beastman's movements were sharp, his strikes precise, aiming for Rhogar's vulnerable points. Rhogar parried and dodged, but it was clear that the Beastman was stronger, faster, and more skilled in his attacks.
But then, as the Beastman advanced again, Rhogar's body language shifted. The Beastman's eyes glinted with a cruel satisfaction—he believed he had won. He raised his dual swords high, preparing to finish the fight.
But something happened.
The Beastman froze.
And that's when he noticed.
Alaric was gone.
No presence. No sound. No scent.
The halfling had vanished.
A heartbeat later—he felt it.
Pain.
A sharp, searing stab—straight through the chest.
He looked down in horror to see one of his spike blades, driven deep into his heart.
Behind him stood Alaric, silent, calm, eyes unreadable.
He pulled the weapon free. The porcupine crumpled to the ground.
Rhogar stumbled forward, breathing hard, blinking at the corpse, then at Alaric.
"You—how…?"
Alaric didn't answer right away. He stared at his hands. At the corpse.
I disappeared. Not physically. Spiritually. Humility.The other side of his power.
Where Dominate failed, Humility had succeeded. By silencing his will, erasing his presence, he became invisible—no, undetectable—to even primal instinct.
A perfect opening.
A perfect kill.
"I need to understand this better," he murmured. "My powers. Skills. Triggers. This world."
But before his thoughts could deepen, Rhogar's voice cut through again.
"You're not going to eat him?"
Alaric blinked. "What?"
Rhogar looked puzzled for a moment, then a realization showed on his face.
"…Must be because you're a halfling."
Alaric turned sharply, but then—
Everything changed.
The air turned cold.
Not chilly. Wrong.
The shadows darkened unnaturally. The wind died. Every tree, every blade of grass seemed to hold its breath.
Something was coming.
Something ancient. Hungry.
Alaric's blood ran cold. He turned, instincts on fire.
Rhogar's body trembled—trembled—as he crouched and grabbed Alaric like a sack of rice.
"Hold on," he whispered.
And then they ran.
No words. No questions.
Rhogar moved faster than before—faster than anything had a right to move. Branches blurred. Trees vanished in streaks of color. Alaric clung to the tiger's shoulder, feeling every tremor in his muscles.
Whatever had arrived… it wasn't meant to be seen.Not by them.Not yet.
And neither of them dared look back.