[Welcome to Limbo!
This Game is sponsored by Dresel, Dresel, good for your teeth!
Goal: Survive 19 hours, 15 minutes, and 53 seconds.
Event A: All players are scheduled for smiting in the next 1 hour, 15 minutes, 53 seconds. For each Actgonian or Player killed, a random member on your team will be marked exempt from smiting.
Event B: Safe Zones have been activated across the map. Monsters cannot reach you in safe Zones. All players can access and use Safe Zones.]
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“I should have known the girl was going to get us killed.” Dima hissed, two hours, two whole hours and not one person came our way.” He grumbled. “But she flashes smile, says nice words and suddenly she has everyone eating out the palm of her hand.”
“I didn’t hear you offering up any suggestions.” The Asian replied, helpful as always. He stood next to him but his eyes were far away, gazing out into the rocky world around them filled with large jutting outcroppings and rough hills.
“Shut up Bruce Lee.” Dima growled.
The man affixed him with a frown. “What?” At first Dima thought that jibe had gotten him between the ribs and he felt pride well at finally getting to the stone faced bastard, but then he recognised the frown as not one of anger but confusion.
The realisation sunk into Dima like an anvil in the ocean. “You don’t know who that is?” The man’s face turned neutral but the change was too quick, too forced. He’s hiding something. “I’ve always had an off feeling about you, like I’m speaking to a thing and not a person.”
He didn’t say anything, just kept his eyes hard and levelled ahead, like the scope of a sniper. Dima couldn’t have that, he’d seen the cracks, he was almost getting to the bastard, he just needed to push a little bit further. He moved closer to him, face barely inches from his cheek. “What are you, Yakuza, Triad, or are you something much, much, worse?” He pressed.
“Hey, whatever’s going on between you two, you need to cut it out.” It was the old man who’d spoken, the one with dark skin and blonde eyes from the something islands.
“Nothing’s going on between us,” Dima smiled brightly. “Just trying to find out what kind of wrong our friend here is.” Dima pointed by poking the man in the cheek.
He hadn’t expected his eyes to harden at the touch, expected less that his grip would tighten around his spear when he began raising the weapon up to his shoulder for a javelin throw, Dima was still in the starting motions of getting a proper hold on his new bat. His life flashed before his eyes and he thought that maybe, just maybe it had been unwise to antagonise the psychopath.
As Chaghatai pulled his spear back, Dima braced for impact, hoping that it would be a swift ending. The man thrust it forwards and the spear went flying from his grip. Dima’s eyes followed it and watched as the knife-tip sunk into the side of a man emerging from behind an outcropping.
The stranger stumbled to the side, shock, confusion and panic written across their face, but just as he fell, five more emerged from behind him, each held crude blades in their hands and desperation in their eyes. Like Ade had told them, their attackers were in worse shape than them, many looking as if they hadn’t slept in days and others like they hadn’t quenched their thirst in weeks, in that sense they looked at the group as if they were the water they so desperately needed.
What came next was a wordless, hoarse roar as the attackers charged straight at them. “Shit, get ready!” Was all Dima was able to say before they met. The world became a thing of kicking limbs and growls as men clashed against men.
Dima swung his bat at the one in front of him, he was a smaller man, like most men were to him, but the way his attack caught only the air where his opponent had been made it clear Dima did not have the advantage of speed. The blade came quickly, he hadn’t even seen it, one moment his opponent was ducking and the next there was a hot, serrated edge in his shoulder.
His arm slackened, bat falling from its grip as a pain like glowing red iron bloomed from his wound. Dima heard himself growl as a distant thing, and it reminded him of the cries of a wounded lion.
His opponent was already moving to finish him off, and that twisted, ugly blade came leaping at his face this time. It was a wild thing and Dima dodged, feeling the proof of his avoided end as a cold breeze against the ridge of his nose.
Frustration wrinkled into his opponent’s face and calm cooled Dima’s mind. He got his bearings. He’d stepped into flames before, houses choked with smoke and the sound of crying children. This wasn’t a wildfire, it was just a wild man, and he could deal with wild men.
The man’s blade came again and Dima ignored it, instead taking advantage of his greater reach and cracking him across the face with his fist before the edge could rinse itself with his blood. His opponent’s head snapped back and he was stumbling, reeling like he’d just been hit by...Well, Dima.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Dima capitalised, with his one good arm his fist came again, finding the man between the ribs and folding him over. He coughed, wretched and was in the midst of letting out yet another pained sound before Dima sent him down with yet another hit.
The enemy was on the ground, face painted with blood and nose caved in. He looked up at Dima like he was a ghost, something barely there, but something he was utterly terrified of.
Dima reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife. His hands were trembling, why were they trembling?
Because I’ve never killed a person.
Oh sure he’d been in his fair share of brawls, and people were quick to glance at a man who looked and spoke like him and assume he was just the sort for violence, but he wasn’t a killer.
“Please…” The man wept.
“I’m sorry,” Dima replied.”
He got on his knees, raised his blade and- there was something moving behind him. Dima turned just in time to see another man racing straight at him, the same crude weapon in hand, with eyes that seemed far more eager to use it.
He was crouched down, not the best position to take an attack from, and needed to get fully on his feet quickly. He sprung up fast, but not fast enough, his opponent was on him in half a moment and the pair went crashing down into the dirt.
The world was a blur, filled with kicking limbs and strained groans. When Dima could finally make sense of it, his enemy was on top of him, blade held high and racing for his chest. Dima raised an arm to catch his hand, the man twisted trajectory in response and Dima’s motion and he caught the man’s blade in his arm instead.
Dima found his shock mirrored on his opponent’s face, but the pain was all his. He decided to fix that.
He capitalised on the shock by slamming his head into the man’s face, and while he didn’t take on Dima’s pain, the cry he let out made it clear he now had some of his own to deal with.
Dima reached for his own blade, found he’d lost it and chose to instead wield the one currently sunk into his arm. He wrapped a hand around it, braced himself then pulled it out with a muted groan and an amplified agony. Blood steamed from the wound in far greater volumes than he’d expected, and he felt dizzy for a moment looking at it. Only a moment, then his thoughts were on the knife.
He was turning it on his opponent when the man caught his hand, he’d already recovered. Shit. The man’s two hands closed around the weapon, wrestled against Dima’s grip and began pushing the deadly edge downwards at Dima’s chest once again.
Dima couldn’t do much to stop its descent when his enemy had not just gravity but two hands working against his one. He raised his second hand to push against him and the enemy jabbed a finger into the wound in his shoulder, eliciting a cry from Dima and leaving him one handed once again as his bad arm fell to the side.
He was going to die if he didn’t think of something quick, and as the steel came low enough to kiss his skin, Dima knew he was not going to be thinking of anything much.
Except one thing.
He leaned up a shade, trapped the man’s nose between his teeth and jerked his head back violently. What followed was a crunch, a ripping of skin and a scream that would stay with him forever. The man scrambled back, almost instinctively, like some panicked animal.
The taste of warm iron filled Dima’s tongue, but he didn’t let that slow him down one bit. With bits and pieces of his opponent still between his teeth he twisted the blade back into his grip and slammed its edge upwards. It found a home in the man’s chest with a wet squelch.
There was a sharp cry, a struggle like the efforts of a child and then the dead man was silent. The screen lit up in front of him.
[Chaghatai Ragibagh has been marked exempt from Smiting.]
Dima had not been a killer before, but now he certainly was.
[Dima Balandin has been marked exempt from Smiting.]
He looked up in time to see Chaghatai pull his spear out from his enemy’s eye socket. The man might as well have been stepping on a bug for how little taking a life seemed to bother him. Still, there was relief at seeing his own name pop up.
Dima turned to see the other man, the one he had been about to stab before being interrupted, running away. He was far already, far enough that Dima doubted with his wounds the way they were he could muster the strength to chase him if need be.
The fighting had died down now, all that remained around them was a field of corpses. His eyes moved quickly to see if anyone from the other team had fallen, first they rested on the boy, ‘Taksh’, he remembered hearing his name was, the one who had been shaken to his core by everything that had happened so far. He was tucked away in a corner, hands held around his head and body curled up.
He was alive, yes, but looked like he’d been barely part of the fight. He probably hadn’t been able to gather the balls to lift up a finger while the rest of them fought for their lives and yet he had an exemption mark on his hand. Dima silently wished the boy could trade places with the man he’d killed. At least he had been brave.
With one of their members useless, that increased the likelihood of there being a casualty on their side. He found it in the sight of the Solomon Islander kneeling above the Brazilian's corpse.
Chaghatai was moving, each step a silent stride, each step drawing him closer to the kid. It was when he tightened his grip on his spear that Dima finally understood what was about to happen.
He was marked exempt and so was Chaghatai, but Ade hadn't been marked exempt and he was going to fix that.
Dima didn’t want to witness this, he’d seen enough death today, and participated in far too much of it. He caught a glimpse of Chaghatai thrusting his spear, eyes cold, unshaken by the murder he was about to commit. He heard the boy scream and then as he expected, the flash came.
[Adeyemi Adebayo has been marked exempt from Smiting.]