I spit, clearing the blood out of my mouth. There's more pouring down my side, gushing out of a gash just below my ribcage. I'm nothing if not hypervigilant, but it never seems to be enough to avoid getting blindsided. The culprit blinks at me innocently, blood still dripping down its claws.

"Is that really necessary? I was hoping we could keep this respectful, spitting at me feels quite uncalled for."

I know better than to respond. It won't help me to get caught up arguing about what it's doing to me, instead of putting a stop to it. I've made that mistake too many times. Memories of previous conversations bombard me as I lift my sword, hefting it into the air and back down, over and over. None of them have ever admitted to know what they're doing. To intentionally hurting me. Maybe they actually don't realize. It doesn't matter. Whether they're lying or stupid, the result is the same. It's not worth dying over.

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I don't stop until it's reduced to a mess of entrails strewn across the ground. As usual, none of them look anything like mine. I wish I wasn't so familiar with my own anatomy.

Once I'm satisfied that none of it's going to start moving again, I lift the hem of my shirt to inspect the damage. The cut's less deep than it feels. It's bleeding pretty badly, but doesn't seem to have hit any of my internals. Just another scar, cast across the criss-crossing pattern that already covers most of my torso. I'll be fine. I took care of it.