The moment Tom realised that April had left, he switched his focus to survival.
History suggested it was prudent to expect an immediate ambush. He sunk down into a basic spear stance with bent knees and wide feet, one that would let him respond to an attack from any direction, both as quickly and as violently as possible. Then, with his head on a swivel, he spun on the spot to make sure nothing was stalking him from behind. His mind rushed as he planned out the best strategy for the situation.
The answer was simple. Secure the area, clear out the entrenched monsters, make it safe, then hunt the butterflies.
With a worried glance at the wide views around him, he moved away from the exposed lakeshore to the tree line. He had no stealth skills, so his only defensive advantage were objects that could break sight lines, and those had the potential to be a double-edge sword. Just as he could use them as a visual shield, there were monsters that could use them for ambush. Every step felt dangerous, but he persisted. He had these dumb butterflies to chase, and he wasn’t doing that before he had secured the location. Once within the trees, with slowly widening circles, he set out on a find to kill pattern.
Tom’s eyes were continuously moving sideways, up, down, behind. There was a flicker of movement in his peripherals. His mind registered a potential threat. He knew it could be as minor as a falling leaf at the edge of his vision, but it could also represent something more substantial.
Without hesitation, he threw himself to the side, ducking and rolling as he did.
There was a shriek, and the wind buffeted him as the creature crashed through the spot he had just been standing on.
Its claws, almost large enough to encircle his head, thumped into the forest floor. It stumbled, righted itself, and then launched itself airborne. Tom observed everything he could to get intelligence on his opponent, even as he scrambled back to his feet. On the ground, its movements were ungainly. It was the size of an earthly hawk, but its skin was closer to rock in appearance than anything else. It was hard to tell when magic was involved, but it looked heavy.
It was a monster that would swoop down from the skies. While it would be driven mad with a desire to kill him, it would not make the mistake of putting everything into a single death plunge again. From now on, it would attack more strategically.
Mentally, Tom rehearsed the spear forms that he could use as it rose to thirty metres above him over five seconds, positioned itself so it was framed by the sun, and then swooped down upon him. It was heading straight at him, if slightly slower than with its first dive was, in order to allow the creature to redirect its course when he dodged to the side.
The way it attacked presented him with an immediate choice. He could crouch and brace his spear on the ground and let the thing’s own momentum impale it. Basically, he could kill it like you would a boar, but he was worried about how solid it looked and how flimsy his weapon was. It was only shaped tier zero wood with a metal tip, and without him having the skills to strengthen it into something more, there was a real chance it would shatter.
Too risky, he decided, and as it plunged down, he chose the more defensive option. His feet guided him out of its flight path, while his spear went for a slicing cut rather than a death blow.
The monster hit with enough weight to almost jar the weapon loose, despite Tom not having committed to a major strike. It was like stabbing a rock, and he was very glad he hadn’t tried to impale it - with the creature being as dense as it was, such an effort would definitely have destroyed his weapon. Even a tier one weapon would have been vulnerable to that. The sooner he got spear mastery and associated skills the better. Having to worry about his weapon in every clash was exhausting.
The thing rose back up with a shallow cut along its side, its own strike having struck nothing but air.
An animal in this situation would have retreated, unless it was starving, but Tom was facing a monster. It would attack as many times as it took until one of them was dead.
How long would it take to kill it? Ten engagements? Twenty? A hundred? And it wasn’t like the dodges were easy. They needed a split second timing to be successful, and a single mistake, one stray claw, would be the end of him, even if it left only a scratch. The margins he was working with were thin: any injury that slowed him down was a death sentence.
This was not a good first opponent for him.
He was under a GOD’s shield, so making a mistake wasn’t the end of things. But he didn’t want to die. The suffering he went through each time was equivalent to a real death, and having experienced that for real twice, Tom could say that conclusively.
Again and again, it plunged down, and he repeated the same tactics, using his honed battle instincts to time his dodges, and each one left another cut on its torso. It was riddled with them. The spots where he had managed to dig the tip into an existing wound bled more intensely than the earlier ones. It was gradual, but the accumulation of wounds slowed it down. With every engagement, the spray of brown blood from the creature became more extensive.
It swept down, and he repeated the manoeuvre, his spear digging in deep before he pulled it clear. Instead of banking and flying away, it crashed into the ground hard. It hopped to its feet, and its wings flapped erratically as it attempted to escape back into the air. The coordination he had observed earlier was gone.
Stolen story; please report.
He crossed the space separating them. The footwork he had been training for the last couple of months ensured he was perfectly balanced, and, once he was within the range, he thrust. He drove the weapon between the creature’s eyes. The tip struck true, penetrating through the soft tissue into its brains.
He wrenched it back out.
The monster’s blood, a dirty, thick, brown substance, was streaming out of the gaping wound. He pulled away, ready to strike again, but it was unnecessary. It collapsed, clearly dead.
Tom didn’t celebrate.
He moved away immediately, trading distance between himself and the monster. Both the spilled blood and the noise would attract predators, and he knew April. She didn’t do things by halves; he expected this to be a functioning ecosystem, not an Earth-style one, but an Existentia environment where, if you wanted to fight a monster, you just needed to walk a hundred metres in any direction and it would find you.
Two, three, four, five? He didn’t know, but he predicted that numerous creatures would already be making a beeline to where he had fought.
Fifty metres later, crouched behind a tree, he relaxed slightly, and sought to calm his rasping breath and pounding heart down. There were the sounds of fighting from where he had killed the bird thing. He heard squeals, hooting, and the screech of creatures dying. He thought he recognised the calls of lizard dogs, and there were at least two of that species fighting over the remains he had left. The hooting he was less sure of, but he was certain he would run into whatever was creating the noise sooner or later.
A throat cleared itself behind him.
He didn’t jump, he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction, and this was something he was mentally prepared for. He turned slowly to face the new presence, and April waved to him.
“You know you’re not here just to fight.” She pointed at a nearby butterfly with a knowing smirk.
He wanted to argue back, ask what would happen if he refused to play her game, but unfortunately, he knew the answer. She would do as he asked and not force the issue, but then he would delay his progress, and that was unacceptable.
He lowered his eyes briefly, and, when he raised them again, she was gone.
With a groan, Tom threw himself at the problem.
It took four hours, thirty battles, two deaths, twenty white butterflies, and a single orange one that he was moments from catching when something killed him from directly above. There was barely even a moment to register he was in danger: just a sharp, mercifully brief pain, and then he was back in the café.
Tom stared at the coffee and the plastic table blankly for an instant as he internalised any lessons to be found in the last few hours.
The final death was irrelevant. The monster had killed him easily, and his failure was in his perception. That was not a concern because of the body he was in. An almost five-year-old body was not a deadly instrument. He had been in a hostile environment, stalking the butterfly constructs in a form too weak for the area. Being eliminated was not much of a surprise, and, if anything, dying only three times in four hours was actually better than he had expected, especially given that he had slain ten times that number of monsters. Each individual battle had been good. His awareness across the entire period would have received an ‘A grade’ mark. However, the hunting of the butterflies had been a disaster. He looked up at April:
“What am I doing wrong?”
She shrugged. “You’re too slow.”
Tom resisted the childish impulse to roll his eyes.
“I know that. It’s obvious. Is there a movement ability I should be using?”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no? You’re usually more verbose about something like this.”
She shrugged:
“I mean you’re like a sloth. You have no chance of snatching them up, and there’s no easy movement skill available that can fix that. It’s an attribute problem, not one that practice can overcome.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“You tell me.”
She stared him down, and it was Tom who looked away. In what had been a regular occurrence, he considered the oath she had made. This process, if he solved it, would be helpful. But what was the solution? She had set the challenge, and his efforts had proven that his approach to hunting them was ineffective. He was too slow to catch them, which was something April had now confirmed. What else, then?
There was an answer in there somewhere. What did he know about the constructs that were mimicking butterflies? They only reacted when he was within a metre of them, but, when they responded, they were far too quick for him to grab. It was those final moments where he failed. What could solve that, he wondered? A net might be able to do it. He looked up at April hopefully@
“Can I have a net. You know, a butterfly one.”
“No.”
Tom licked his lips. He hadn’t expected any other answer. That was too simple, and not how April operated. While he racked his brain, he took a tiny sip of the coffee, limiting himself, because it was still piping-hot.
“Maybe, if I’m more careful, I could spear them.”
“No,” she said, chuckling. “You’ve already tried that. It won’t work, and, besides, would defeat the lesson that I’m imparting.”
“So, there is a lesson?”
April was less constrained by the concept of keeping her dignity. She rolled her eyes. He felt suitably chastised.
He frowned, annoyed at his own question about the spear.
They had burst every time his weapon had pierced them. Whether he pinned a wing or struck the body, the same thing happened: they self-destructed. But there was something there. He could get near them. It was just the last scramble to catch them which was the issue.
“Their perception is shit. I can get close.” He reasoned out loud. “It’s my final lunge that’s the problem.”
“Good, you’ve worked it out.” They both knew he hadn’t, but she obviously thought she had provided sufficient clues to let him solve it via practical experimentation. “And, Tom, don’t read the obvious into this, because that’s not what I’m intending. You’ve already tried stealth. It won’t help. Even skilled stealth won’t cross that divide. Your presence is too bright, and you have no way of masking it. Find a different solution.”
“I don’t understand what I have to do. No spear, no stealth. I’m too slow. What’s next?”
“You’ll get there.” She promised. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s happening in the real world?”
“Real world! I’m in an artificial environment, hiding my real self. This is more real than out there.”
She rolled her eyes again:
“It’s not that bad. You have friends now.”
“I wouldn’t call them that. There aren’t any opportunities to chat and shoot the breeze. I don’t know Kang any better than I did two weeks ago when I found out about him.”
April made all the right sounds as Tom unloaded all of his pent-up stress and frustrations. The moment he took his final sip of coffee, he was returned to the lake shore.