It was twice an adult human’s size, and only seemed to get larger as the enormous frame erected to its full imposing height. Horns jutted from its head in an angle for the headlong charge, its face a distorted, primal shape, its eyes an unfathomable dark. Each of its burly limbs bore the breadth of a tree trunk, upon which visible veins pulsated with a long-repressed rage.
All the same, the monster, for it could be of no intelligent race, at best a bizarre primate, was a thing imprisoned, and try as it might with feet stomping the stone floor, the thing could not reach further than a few feet from where it was. An enormous stake had been driven to the ground, around which fetters on the creature’s limbs had been set to.
“What the hell is this heaven-forsaken thing!” Agravain cried.
“An ogre!” Iranon shouted. The youth had pressed himself flat against the wall as though fearing with an effort the monster would reach him with its claws. The only thing seeming to keep him in this place was the closer and more visible threat in the barbarian.
“A tamed ogre, to be precise.” Jophiel had pulled up a list on one of her holographic displays. “Well, even tamed is not the right word. A drugged one, more like. And...” She pinpointed one item on the list, then expanded it, “...a desert ogre, judging from the skin color. Not one you normally find in this far south. And from the setup, I suppose you can say it is kept here as some sort of exotic pet, huh?”
“What man under the vaulting heavens would keep such a foul thing as a pet,” Agravain exclaimed.
“Why are you so surprised? Don’t some people in your world keep baby-eating creatures as pets?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about. But what are we to do with this creature?”
“Well, the desert variants are usually sturdier than the common ones.” Jophiel returned to perusing her displays. “But yup, you should be able to do damage even with your bare hands. It works as a punching bag, perfectly even, I reckon you will get at least several skill levels out of--”
“What!” Agravain looked at the unconcerned angel with astonishment. “You want me to beat up this creature?”
“Why not?” she replied nonchalantly. “Should you find it too taxing after gaining Unarmed Level 5, you can just chop its head off, there’s some weapons in yon corner, see?”
As the angel pointed out, a rack at the corner of the large hall was lined up with certain tools: axes, maces, rods, whips and things of other unclear functions that Agravain dreaded to think of. Yet he could already subconsciously guess the chief usage of this room and these tools, judging from the weals and long scars upon the creature’s ashen flesh.
The chafed and scarred wrists of the creature where the fetters were attached told of long years in confinement. He would be angry too had he been subjected to such horrible treatments for so long.
And too, upon a closer look at the thrashing limbs, snarling teeth and eyes tearing blood, the barbarian wondered if the monstrous features looked not so familiar. Though he had never seen a thing like it, of course, except for in his worst nightmares.
Most people must have had such dreams at some point in their lives, chased by such nightmarish monsters for no reason. It was the kind of dream one awakens from drenched in sweat, heart beating fast, sighing a breath of relief.
But for Agravain, it was different.
Of course he had had those dreams too. Only, sometimes, he would wake up, wondering which one was he, the helpless man running for his life, or the monster.
An ugly thing.
An angry thing.
Filled with hatred without an outlet, this anger could only be expressed in the snarling of teeth and throwing of fists--all other means forbidden by the chains and fetters of a rational life.
Was this monster not him?
Had he not once been a bound creature as such for men to make fun of and treat like an exotic animal?
Forgetting failing to fulfill Estella’s last wish, his whole life had been a failure trying to break from his bondage. Always he had told himself he did not care when the subject of his lineage came up, in a flattering or unflattering way.
But in truth he was angry.
All his life he had been in his own mental prison. His ideas had been praised, his words treated with respect, but only because of his family’s prestige. Amazing how some people can sing praises for something they don’t even care to understand.
Even as a professor whose job was to be listened to, he soon found out that most people, young and old, only listened half-heartedly. There were those who robotically absorbed the lesson like mathematic equations, caring only for what was going to be on the exam. Then there were those hell-bent on bastardizing the idea, cheapening it to fit certain narratives.
It was as though every single person in this world had built their own mental prison and refused to ever step out of it.
What? Melville is boring but Hemingway is amazing?
What? Add Fifty Shades of Gr*y to the course to make it more accessible?
Can anyone in this world talk sense into such people?
In fact, there really was no other conceivable response for them in this mortal coil but a beating.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Extreme violence, while not always proving the best solution to a problem, remains a choice no matter the circumstance.
This world is just full of people and things you want to punch from existence.
And so, though his train of thought sort of derailed at the end, Agravain was feeling more of a kindred spirit with this desert ogre than with the cowering bard, or the angel who was urging him on to torture a pathetic thing in chains.
He went to the rack of weapons, and from which picked a large axe.
As expected, Jophiel went ballistic. “What do you think you are doing?! Can’t you just do as you are told for once?! You lazy ass, you coward, you...!
“Oh shut up,” he said, “I tell you this, angel, I do things my way. I shall listen to you when I feel like it, but I’m not your slave. And besides,...”
He circled around the monster. The fettered creature struggled to even turn after him. Then he brought the axe overhead in a two-handed grip, and downward he swung.
With one swift stroke the chains were broken.
“...I just need to punch the shit out of this monster, correct?”
The ogre turned around, at first uncomprehendingly tugged at its limbs still attached to the broken chains.
They say elephants in circuses are tied to small posts from a young age, so that they never attempt to break free even when they have grown large and strong enough to do it. The memory of an impassable obstacle remains, even after one’s strength has outgrown it.
Such mental restraints are common in this world. Seldom can we break ourselves out of the fetters shabbily called common sense.
And so it stays, unless an immense rage could dash all ingrained reason and habitual thoughts from a creature.
With a roar, the ogre charged headlong at Agravain, seeing in him the race it hated.
And with a primal roar to match the ogre’s, the barbarian threw aside the axe and leaped at it with his bare hands.
He respected its rage, and had elected to let the poor thing discharge it for one last time.
Or his. Whoever would emerge from this battle alive.
Being the swifter fighter, he scored the first strike--a savage, full-force hook at the beastly face.
Despite somewhat reeling at this effective opening, the ogre recovered even before he could retract his arm. A hammering fist sent him flying against the wall.
The barbarian crumbled, yet as quickly climbed to his feet. His vision covered in red, he saw the ogre charging again, horns leveled at its target. Without a moment to waste, he leaped aside, and none a fraction too soon. The horns grazed his shin, shed blood, but still far from affecting the barbarian’s mounting rage in any meaningful way.
Now some distance apart from the monster. He attempted to study his foe. But neither time, the enemy’s aggression, nor his own conditions was on his side.
“Your rage bar runs low!” Jophiel cried, “End it quickly! Equip yourself if you must!”
The angel seemed to have abandoned the plan her checklist had outlined. But he had not. It was a matter of pride now. Man against monster. Like against like.
“Well, I sympathized with you, beast,” he shouted, spitting blood, “But that sympathy expands not into combat! Nor shall we ever be friends in this life though we are kindred. For two stars keep not their motion in one sphere!”
The ogre charged. The barbarian leaped. His feet passed cleanly over the grievous horns. Upon its back he descended, and swiftly he swung his arms over the creature’s neck, strangling it.
With a loud chain of gurgles, the ogre thrashed violently. Side to side its massive body swung. And though the barbarian held on, that trunk of a neck proved far too large to maintain a deadly choke in such a condition.
Realizing the futility of his move, Agravain let go of the monster, allowing himself to be dashed across the room, smashing against the rack of weapons. Along with the clattering arms, the barbarian fell to the floor.
“Take a weapon now! It’s going to kill you!” Jophiel cried.
“Least of my concerns!” Agravain the Barbarian roared.
Once again, both combatants charged at each other. And once again, Agravain’s speed proved the better. Another hook caught the monster’s jaw. But this time he neither cared nor spared a thought for his own safety, his other hand shot again at the monster. One. And one more. And one more! With all his rage behind each fist, his arms thundered away with stretched sinews like a madly hammering machine, if a machine could contain so much anger behind its hydraulic mechanism. With each strike he knew he had dented the beast’s skull some more. Yet even this was not enough to conquer the unbelievable monster. Much reeled even then, the beast still managed to score with its hooked claws an open wound at his flank. This one strike was enough to throw him off balance.
Warning:
Low Rage Bar capacity: less than 1%
“3 seconds left!” cried Jophiel.
Howling, the barbarian leaped to his feet, meeting the charging monster head-on. His burly, overwrought arms reached out and seized the beast’s shoulders, barely enough to keep the jutting horns several inches from his fierce grimace.
His terrible grips digging into the ashen flesh, the barbarian howled deeply, then with the last of his desperate might hauled the enormous beast overhead. Backwards he arched, slamming the creature headfirst on the stone floor.
The gory sound of the ogre’s neck being broken came when the last of the barbarian’s strength deserted him.
At once the barbarian limped away, ready to charge in again. But it was done. The ogre now spasmed in a death rattle.
Thoroughly spent after overexertion, Agravain dropped to his knees, watching as the ogre’s eyes rolled back.
He sighed, “Now you’re food for dust and worms.”
His rage almost immediately withered now that the fierce combat had ended. But he wasn’t feeling sick like yesterday.
“Oh, god.” Jophiel was on all four, having dropped there due to the excitement and relief after the battle. “Oh, god,” she repeated, face blanched.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked, breathing hard.
“What do I think?” She said weakly, seeming near to drop. “If you weren’t a non-fictional character I would have fallen in love with you right there. That was cool as heck.”
“Good to hear. But what about my skills or whatever?”
As though on cue, the cool, disembodied female voice from before rang in his head.
Achievement unlocked: Boss Brutalizer
Defeating a boss-level creature with bare hands
Effects:
+1000 Unarmed skill points
+Gain the trait: Pugilist
Trait developed: Pugilist
Effects:
+5 points of magical and physical defense
+5% Unarmed damage
+15 tribal opinion
“You hear that?” Agravain asked. “That was the weird voice I heard from before.”
“Yes! Yes! Of course I do! Am I dreaming or what?”
Or what! the angel repeated, shouting.
She was nothing but obnoxious, but for once, the excitement was contagious.
Meanwhile, the strange voice went on.
Reward from skill level milestones:
+2 points of magical and physical defense (Unarmed Weapon skill level 5)
+ 20% to find enchanted unarmed equipment (Unarmed Weapon skill level 10)
+ 15% bonus to Initiative when an unarmed weapon is equipped (Unarmed Weapon skill level 10)
+ 2% bonus to Initiative when a melee weapon is equipped (Unarmed Weapon skill level 10)
That didn’t mean a thing to him, the barbarian concluded.
“This means a lot, a loooot!”
“Well, now,” he said, grinning, “let’s look for the princess, and hope there’s no other boss-level thingy out there. Though I doubt that ogre was this gang’s boss in the administrative sense.”
He scanned the room, and immediately caught a face overhead. It was a second floor that he had not noticed before, accessible by a flight of steep stairs. Whoever up there must have been watching his fight with the ogre from the window of that tier.