The flames lick at my body, hungrily devouring the outermost layer of troll flesh, but they barely make it past the first muscle layer. Heat sears across my form, burning as if my body is made of oil, yet there is no pain—only the distant awareness of destruction.
I strip away a muscle layer from my bone helmet, peeling it back to clear my vision. The fire crackles, shifting in hues of orange and blue as it struggles to sustain itself against my flesh.
I observe it calmly, taking note of its effects.
Despite the possibility of combat looming ahead, my mind remains cold and detached. No instinctive panic, no reckless aggression—just stillness. Calculation. I haven't chosen a course of action yet, and until I do, there's no reason to go apeshit… yet.
First, assessing personal integrity.
I flex my fingers. No loss of mobility. The muscle beneath the flames remains intact, though the outermost layer blackens, curling into flakes of charred tissue before sloughing away.
Interesting.
I'm prepared to strip away the affected bits if necessary, but the fire—though magical—isn't absolute. No Amaterasu bullshit. It doesn't consume endlessly. It weakens. Flickers. Dies.
I continue to watch as the flames begin to fade, their power waning with every second.
Second, assessing surroundings.
A figure—small, fast—charging straight toward me, fire erupting from her feet with every stride. The flames surge and dissipate in controlled bursts, each one propelling her forward with impossible speed. She's not just running—she's launching herself.
Red hair. Smeared with blood, matted with dirt. A torn t-shirt clings to her frame, fabric stained and barely holding together, but I can still make out a faded design—a race car.
A bow gripped tightly in her hand. A quiver slung across her back.
Her form is lean, built for speed. Sprinting at a pace that would make Olympic athletes look like toddlers. Which means—heavy Dexterity investment.
Which also means sacrifices in Strength, Constitution and Mana. Unless, of course, she's figured out some way to cheese the numbers like I did.
As she approaches, I keep my attention split, scanning the surroundings as well.
And there, in the distance, three armed men emerge from the treeline.
I recognize them immediately.
The same three men I saw two days ago. The ones who ran from me.
Now they're running after the red-haired girl, weapons in hand, determination in their strides.
Third, assess the situation.
Simple, really.
The three cowards/cautious guys—apparently found their courage. Maybe they regrouped, maybe they convinced themselves I wasn't as dangerous as I seemed.
Either way, I am being attacked.
The real question is—how do I respond?
Red enters the radius of my Flesh Perception, and I feel her body.
At first, it's faint.
Her footfalls reverberate through the ground—lighter than expected, but forceful, controlled. Muscle fibers contract and release in her legs at unnatural speeds, a fine-tuned mechanism of propulsion. The tendons stretch and snap back like coiled springs, absorbing impact with inhuman precision.
She knows her body well.
As she gets closer, the details become clearer.
Her breath is shallow but steady, controlled despite the exertion. Her heart pounds in her chest, not with exhaustion, but with focus.
I can feel the precise tension in her quadriceps, the slight imbalance in her gait favoring her right side, the way her intercostal muscles strain with each breath.
Do I bother with words?
Would speaking even make a difference?
Could I even afford such a distraction, standing against four individuals of unknown strength?
Hmm... well, there's always a balance to be found...
The red-haired girl is right in front of me now.
I can see the shift in her grip—the subtle tightening of her fingers. Her bow is raised, her arrow already nocked, the tip aimed directly at my head.
I don't move.
I don't even flinch.
I just meet her gaze.
My bone helmet still covers most of my face, my eyes barely visible through the shifting layers, but I stare straight into hers regardless.
And I speak.
"WAIT, PLEASE! I AM A HUMAN, NOT A MONSTER!"
I feel the reaction before I see it.
A twitch. A hesitation.
Her breath catches.
Her eyes widen—not in fear, but in shock.
Her fingers—one millimeter away from releasing the arrow—tense, uncertain.
But she doesn't stop running.
Shit.
I sigh inwardly, already knowing, feeling the answer.
She won't stop.
And neither will the others.
I feel the shifting mass of muscle behind her—three bodies, closing in.
One of them-a buff guy with shoulders like small boulders and a spear—has already raised his arm, weight pressing into his back foot. He's winding up for a throw, angling his body for maximum force.
I barely have a second.
The cold, detached clarity I had moments ago starts to recede, giving way to something else.
Adrenaline.
I feel it surge through me, washing over my limbs, burning away hesitation.
If they want to dance…
My flesh whip coils, ready to strike.
I can only oblige.
Alas, before I can get another word in—before I can push the momentum of that momentary hesitation—the girl suddenly twists in midair.
A clean, practiced motion.
Her torso pivots, her feet leave the ground, and her arms move in one fluid motion as she looses the arrow.
Not at me.
At them.
Oh.
The projectile screams through the air, wreathed in fire, cutting a straight path toward the three men chasing her.
The spear guy reacts first. His stance shifts.
A quick movement—his spear blurs as he swings it upward, intercepting the arrow before it reaches them.
The projectile shatters on impact, exploding into a shower of fire as the other two-a middle-aged man with a weathered face and a black teenager with wide, terrified eyes -dive out of the way. The flames lick at their clothes but don't catch. They hit the dirt, roll, and immediately spring back to their feet.
I blink, my thoughts struggling to catch up with the reality of what's happening.
"Umm, excuse me?"
I actually say that.
Out loud.
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, dripping with sheer confusion.
Because the girl—the one who had an arrow aimed at my head not two seconds ago—doesn't even glance at me anymore.
As if I had suddenly become a pebble on the sidewalk.
She just keeps running past me, her bare feet leaving blackened grass in her wake.
…Could I have reached her with my whip?
Probably.
Did I?
No, there was no reason to.
Because I think I finally understand what's happening as the spear guy throws his weapon not toward me, but toward the fleeing girl.
These guys are enemies. Red simply tried to use a "monster" as an obstacle to get rid of her pursuers.
So I do the most reasonable thing in this situation.
"I WANT NO PART IN THIS SHIT!"
I shout it at the top of my lungs, voice booming through the forest, despite the fact that the impact of the spear as it hits the ground (the girl dodges with a graceful twist) is far from impressive.
The swear word should at least cement the fact that I'm a human. Most of the monsters I've seen so far didn't have a particularly colorful english language, after all.
And indeed, my shout has its intended effect.
The buff guy—bare-chested, covered in burns, his skin smeared with dirt and dried blood—doesn't even spare me a glance as he rushes past.
Just like the girl did.
His focus is entirely on his prey.
That's fine by me.
Not like I have any reason to stop him.
…Even if I could use some human souls for my experiments.
No, no—too little information.
What if murderers are marked by the System in some way?
What if there's some kind of cosmic karmic counterbalance bullshit I don't know about?
Gotta ask the buff guy if he manages to kill the chick.
Morals? Chivalry?
What are those? Can they be Fleshcrafted?
Besides, if there was a monster chasing either of them, I would've already interfered.
But this? This was a human dispute about which I knew nothing, and didn't particularly care about.
The middle-aged man passes next.
He actually looks at me—like one might at a particularly rabid dog—but then… he nods. A brief, quick motion.
Then, he follows after spear guy, but gives me a wide berth.
Smart guy.
He looks weak as fuck, but moves fast even with a sword at his hip. Makes me wonder how that girl is still alive.
The black teenager, though, looks the worst out of them, puffing and wheezing as he falls behind.
No, not falling behind but voluntarily stopping... a few meters away from me.
The others disappear into the forest, leaving nothing but trampled undergrowth and lingering wisps of smoke from the girl's footprints.
But this guy stands there, panting like a fish out of water.
He's clearly at his limit.
I can feel his heart pounding—a frantic rhythm hammering at nearly 200 beats per minute.
He's clearly both tired and afraid.
…But despite all that, he hasn't run yet. He's just… staring at me.
Like he wants to talk… or maybe just process whatever the hell I am.
So, being the gentleman I am, I decide to break the ice.
"Hello there."
The dude jumps five feet away like I just pulled a chainsaw out of my chest cavity.
What the fuck? Did I say something wrong?
Or is it just my voice and appearance?
Ah, I know. Maybe I spoke the wrong language.
Let's rectify that.
"Wsup dawg, haven't seen you in days, homie. Where the opps at?"
" … "
He just stares at me, completely deadpan.
"Sorry, did I get the pronunciation wrong?"