Chương 21: Chapter 20: Steeled Resentments

I cut west from the driveway, my boots clicking rhythmically against the concrete before I took a hard right, tracking due north onto the first residential street. The midday sun was baking the asphalt now, and the neighborhood was showing signs of fractured life. More people were lingering on their lawns or checking the structural integrity of their roofs, but the baseline vibe had shifted dramatically from the morning. As I walked past, conversations died. Eyes darted toward me wearily.

I couldn't exactly blame them. I was walking down the center of the sidewalk looking like an absolute warlord—rigged out in a full tactical vest, a recurve bow slung over my shoulder, a broadsword clacking against my thigh, a heavy framing hammer stuck in my belt thong, tactical knives pinned to my gear, and my Glock sitting heavily in its right-side retention holster. To top it all off, a massive, gold-eyed apex predator was pacing silently at my hip.

The most telling thing about the state of humanity was the body language. A large percentage of the people I passed completely refused to make eye contact. The moment my silhouette appeared, they suddenly became hyper-focused on a broken fence board or a blade of grass. It was a classic, universal survival instinct: If I don't look at him, he doesn't see me. The underlying frequency of the entire block was pure, unadulterated fear.

I was about a block and a half out, rapidly closing the distance to my target destination, when Dog's fluid gait suddenly hitched. He dropped his height by two inches, his shoulder muscles bunching tight as a low, rumbling vibration vibrated through his chest. Directly ahead, on the opposite side of the street, three men stepped away from a parked sedan and began marching deliberately into the center of the roadway.

"Hold," I commanded softly, cutting a glance down to my left. Dog froze instantly on the concrete. The growling cut out, but his golden eyes locked onto the advancing trio with absolute, predatory focus. The man leading the wedge was of average height and build, matching my own physical footprint almost exactly. He was geared out in tan tactical cargo pants fitted with black hard-shell knee pads, a long-sleeved black polo shirt, and matching elbow guards.

A heavy ballistic plate carrier was strapped tightly to his torso, rigged with a hard-drawn kydex holster and two spare magazine pouches. But it was his headgear that made me pause. The guy was wearing a solid black, ancient Spartan-style metal helm. A thick, coarse black beard spilled out from beneath the cheek guards, reaching all the way down to the top of his chest plate. In his left hand, held casually down at his flank, was a massive, circular Viking-style round shield clad in heavy, bolted sheet metal.

Inset directly into the center of the steel was the stamped emblem of a Spartan helmet. His right hand rested comfortably on the wrapped handle of a large, single-handed bearded axe hanging from a thick leather thong on his belt. I narrowed my eyes, firing off a pair of quick, mental Inspects: [Race: Human | Level: 7 | Class: Warrior] The two men flanking his rear were dressed in similar tactical layers, save for the shorter individual holding the left flank.

I focused my eyes on him: [Race: Human | Level: 6 | Class: Paladin] He was wearing a dark, law-enforcement-issue tactical vest remarkably similar to my old duty rig. Instead of a standard blade, he was gripping a heavy, specialized boar spear that tipped into a viciously wide, flanged steel head.

The final man locking down the right flank pulled my gaze next: [Race: Human | Level: 7 | Class: Blacksmith] He carried a smaller, traditional iron-rimmed kite shield in his left hand, while his right fingers were wrapped around the shaft of a brutal, spiked steel morning star. Like the lead warrior, both flanking guards carried heavy-caliber semi-automatic handguns strapped to their right hips.

Keeping my left hand firmly anchored to the riser of my recurve bow, I let my right hand drift downward, resting my palm lightly against the grip of my holstered pistol.

"So, what's it going to be, boys and girls?" I taunted, my voice carrying clearly across the hot asphalt.

"A high-noon shootout? I mean, technically, we're a few minutes past twelve by my watch, but the math still works."

"I was thinking we settle this with something a little more... medieval," the lead man rumbled from beneath the dark steel of his visor. With a smooth, practiced motion, he drew the bearded axe from his hip. In a flawless display of intimidation, he brought the heavy shield up and slammed the flat of the axe blade twice against the face of the metal. Clang. Clang.

"Seems like a mathematically losing proposition for me," I responded, my posture remaining loose, completely unfazed by the theater.

"Three against one and all."

"Three against two," the bearded man corrected, his visor shifting slightly toward my flank.

"Your pup there looks like he's actively calculating exactly how long it would take to eat us alive." Right on cue, Dog let out another short, gravelly vibration from his throat.

"I'll tell you what," I countered, crossing my arms over my chest plate.

"I'll tell my dog to sit, just as long as you instruct your hounds to do the exact same thing." This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. A low, muffled chuckle resonated from behind the iron helmet. The lead man turned his head a fraction of an inch and gave a single, sharp nod. The two flanking fighters immediately broke formation, backing slowly out of the roadway until their boots hit the opposite sidewalk.

I turned my head down toward my left flank, keeping my tone firm and unyielding.

"Mine." Along with the verbal command, I projected a heavy wave of raw willpower through our mental tether, explicitly forcing the intention for him to remain entirely out of the coming engagement. Dog let out a sharp, annoyed chuff, but he dropped his haunches back onto the concrete and sat down. Turning back to face the street, I reached back with my right hand, smoothly drawing a carbon-fiber arrow from my quiver and nocking it into the string. I let a slow, deliberate Southern drawl bleed into my voice.

"I'm your huckleberry." Mimicking the exact same country accent with flawless comedic timing, the bearded visor tilted forward.

"Say when." The second the word left his mouth, I snapped the bow string back to my cheek and let the first arrow fly, my right hand already dropping instinctively to my hip to pull a secondary shaft. The man was incredibly fast. He caught the incoming broadhead dead center on the face of his round shield, the steel tip sparking off the metal sheet. He exploded forward into a dead sprint, closing the gap across the asphalt rapidly, but I managed to release the second arrow before he could close the distance.

Again, the shield swung inward, deflecting the projectile with a harsh metallic screech. Knowing the bow was useless in close quarters, I violently pitched it over my shoulder, sending it spinning into the manicured green lawn of a nearby front yard. I dropped into a low crouch just in time to see the wicked, curved edge of the bearded axe sweeping down toward my carotid artery.

I ducked hard beneath the arc, letting my momentum carry me into a tactical roll across the asphalt to the left, coming back up onto my boot heels right in the center of the two-lane street. Spinning to face him, I gripped the leather wrap of the Broadsword of the Miller, drawing the heavy steel from its scabbard with a sharp ring. I lunged back into the pocket. The warrior never lost his stride. He pivoted cleanly, swinging the axe in a brutal, horizontal trajectory from my left flank.

I brought my broadsword up in a vertical guard, meeting the blow head-on. The steel connected with a deafening jar that vibrated straight up my forearms, but I deftly turned the angle of my blade downward, sliding his axe head away and breaking his leverage. Letting the kinetic momentum of the parry carry my sword around in a fluid circle, I executed a flashing, downward slashing strike aimed directly at the unarmored gap between his right shoulder and neck line. The guy was a professional.

He stepped perfectly offline to his left, thrusting his iron shield upward to catch my descending edge. The heavy clash echoed off the surrounding houses. With my offensive momentum neutralized, I executed a rapid back-step to clear his counter-swing, then instantly re-engaged, throwing a blinding horizontal slash toward his left ribs. Once again, the heavy sheet-metal shield was exactly where it needed to be, absorbing the impact with an iron thud.

As we locked eyes across the rim of his guard, I could feel the mechanical attributes at play. Even though the System logged him at a slightly higher level than me, my active dexterity and speed were marginally superior. However, his Shield Mastery skill level was clearly dominating my middling, self-taught Sword Mastery. No matter how I angled my angles, his defensive coverage was absolute. I needed to find a structural way to negate that shield and force him onto his heels.

If I could shatter his posture, I could end this. I darted a quick glance at the top corner of my vision. My green stamina bar had already plummeted by at least a third. At our current low levels, the human body simply couldn't sustain this intensity of high-tier combat execution. I could only pray his tank was running dry just as fast as mine. We traded another rapid sequence of heavy blows, steel clashing against steel in a blurring rhythm, but neither of us could force a definitive opening.

I tried stepping completely offline, exploiting a blind spot to spin around his frame and drive a point into his exposed lower back. But it didn't matter what angle I chose—the shield, and occasionally the thick cheek of his axe, materialized just in time to intercept my edge. Realizing the sword alone wasn't going to break the stalemate, I kept my eyes locked on his visor while blindly reaching my left hand behind my back.

I dodged a vicious horizontal sweep, parried a quick follow-up thrust, and stretched my fingers down until they finally wrapped around the solid steel head of my framing hammer. I yanked it clean from the belt thong. I flashed a look at my stamina bar. It was flashing a dangerous amber, sitting at just under a quarter remaining. I have to end this right now. The warrior unleashed two consecutive, heavy downward cleaves, splitting the air from left to right. On the second rotation, he overextended.

The sheer downward momentum pulled the axe head an inch too far away from his centerline, exposing his guard. I didn't hesitate. I thrust my left arm forward, catching the curved claw portion of my framing hammer over the top rim of his round shield and violently ripping it downward. The sudden loss of leverage pulled him completely off balance. Seizing the micro-second opening, I pivoted and brought the flat side of my broadsword around in a heavy, echoing strike across the left temple of his Spartan helmet.

The impact sent him stumbling sideways across the asphalt, his boots shuffling to maintain his footing. But as I surged forward to capitalize on his broken posture, the man recovered with terrifying instinct. He whipped his body back around, converting his momentum into a devastating, vertical Shield Bash that drove the iron rim of the shield directly into my face. The world blurred into a white flash of pain.

I staggered backward three full paces, my boots dragging against the road, but my military training overrode the vertigo. I forced my arms up, locking my sword into a high defensive guard to shield my vitals from a killing blow. From the sidewalk, a deep, guttural roar ripped through the air. I shook the fog from my eyes just in time to see Dog on his feet, his hackles raised like razor wire, his head lowered as he prepared to launch his massive body across the street to rip the warrior's throat out.

"HOLD!" I roared, the command directed entirely at both Dog and the man in front of me. Dog froze mid-stride, his claws digging into the dirt, his chest heaving as he reluctantly held his ground. The systemic exhaustion was hitting me like a physical weight now. My vision was swimming slightly at the edges, and my stamina tracker was flashing a critical red, warning me I was seconds away from complete muscle failure.

I planted my boots, keeping my broadsword extended at a textbook low-ready, staring intently into the narrow eye-slits of the black metal helmet. The warrior stood completely motionless, his axe lowered slightly, matching my intense gaze with equal ferocity. Slowly, the thick black beard beneath the visor began to shift. The corners of the man's mouth curled upward into a wide grin. Across the street, my own bloody lips mirrored the expression.

A second later, the silence of the apocalyptic afternoon was completely shattered as both of us burst into uncontrollable, roaring laughter. We stepped across the remaining gap, smoothly sliding our respective weapons back into their tactical holsters and sheaths. We locked right hands in a violent, mid-air grip, pulling each other into a massive, heavy bro-hug, slamming our palms against each other's plate carriers with deafening, rhythmic slaps.

"Damn, it is incredibly good to see your ugly face, Joe," I breathed, slapping his shoulder one last time as we broke the embrace.

"It's good to see you too, brotha," Joe replied, his rich voice echoing beneath the steel helm as he reached up to unbuckle the chin strap. He pulled the Spartan helmet free, revealing a sweat-drenched face and a massive grin.

"I knew your stubborn ass would clear the line and show up around here sooner or later." Letting go of his hand, I turned my attention toward the sidewalk. The shorter man holding the boar spear was standing there with his arms crossed, a thoroughly annoyed, aggrieved expression plastered across his face. I couldn't help but bust out laughing again.

"What's the matter, Johnny? Did someone come along and take a giant piss in your Cheerios this morning?"

"You two absolute idiots could have literally killed each other right there in the middle of the street," Johnny snapped, shaking his head in sheer disbelief.

"And then what?"

"Oh, come on, I wasn't worried," I smirked, wiping a streak of sweat from my forehead.

"I figured since Paladins have access to high-tier divine magic, you could just patch up any minor decapitations or grievous wounds." Johnny froze, his jaw dropping as he nearly choked on his own breath.

"We can... Wait, what? How in the hell do you already know I'm a Paladin?"

"The exact same way I know Joe here is a Level 7 Warrior," I said, casting a casual glance toward the third man who was currently leaning against the sedan, "and the same way I know Pete over there is sitting at a Level 7 Blacksmith. I've got skills, bro."