Whether it's sensing a change in its prey or catching a scent it wasn't expecting, the beast suddenly seems unsure. It snarls, then barks straight into Irvine's face, like a dog that just realized it's been chewing on a wasp nest.
Then, completely by accident, the boy's pinky brushes against something cold and metallic on the floor. His eyes snap open, not with fear, but with something sharper. A thin arc of lightning hisses between his fingers.
Tssssk!
The sound bites through the air, like dry leaves catching fire. His muscles tighten. His instincts rise to the surface. In that heartbeat of chaos, something within the foreign soul inside him makes a decision.
He doesn't need to look at the metallic object. His hand clamps around it, and with a sudden surge, a bolt of spirit-born energy pours into the metal.
Krrrrck!
Electricity dances down the weapon in jagged pulses. It comes not from wires or circuits, but from the burning reservoir of force locked within him.
And…
Jlbs!
He drives the weapon upward into the beast's chest.
"Kaing…!!!"
Blood follows, slow but hot.
It's a broken crowbar, rusted and blunt, useless on its own. But now, it's warm to the touch, humming faintly with the ghost of the current that just tore through it. The beast doesn't know what hit it, only that something sacred and furious has entered the fight.
He rips the crowbar free and….
Jlbs!
"No free dinner for you tonight," he mutters.
His voice has gone back to flat and cold, disturbingly calm for someone elbow-deep in monster guts.
One stab turns into two.
Then five.
The beast's chest becomes a patch of minced meat under a storm of violence. Blood splashes the walls, the floor, the boy's face. It paints the scene like a performance art piece titled 'Therapy Session from Hell.'
The beast is still on top of him, claws buried in his shoulder, but the boy doesn't hesitate. He bites into its neck—because apparently, stabbing isn't personal enough—and drives the crowbar back into the gash like the thing just insulted his mother.
This isn't Irvine Donovan anymore. At least not fully. He's never fought like this. Never snapped like this. Whatever has taken hold of him now is wilder, more prepared to go down swinging.
The stabbing doesn't stop until the creature finally slumps lifeless on him. Breathing hard, he shoves the dead body aside like it's an old mattress, the crowbar stays firmly in his grip.
"There's no way I'm letting a glorified dog beat me."
His left shoulder is a mess, ragged, torn, and oozing, but healing. It's slow, no dramatic regeneration, no instant patchwork. The wound closes at a sluggish pace, like even his own body is exhausted from the ordeal.
"Sigh... How am I supposed to fight a Nephilim with a shoulder that lost a fight to a small dog?"
Using his good arm, he pushes himself up. He stands like a zombie that caught the sound of ice cream truck passing by.
The crowbar dangles in his grip, still humming faintly with leftover lightning energy. Around him, the pack of White Fangs watches from the shadows, their snarls now tinged with something else, caution.
He turns slowly and faces them, eyes locked as if daring the dogs to move. For a moment, he looks ready for another kill, like the fight hasn't left his blood yet.
But then, something shifts. A flicker of confusion crosses his face.
"…God, my vision's going fuzzy."
His legs tremble.
But then, the lightning returns, faint but visible, wrapping around the crowbar like a warning sign.
"What are you looking at? Come and fight me if you dare."
A pressure hangs in the air. The beasts flinch. Some snarl louder. A few of them step back.
They see the crowbar still drips steadily, blood is still flowing. Whatever they've seen, it's enough.
The pack begins to back away, one by one, until the shadows reclaim them entirely. The street falls silent once more.
"Smart move. You better leave before I kill you too."
That's what he says. Soon, he collapses again, this time without the beast on top of him.
Still, his body refuses to let him pass out completely. Pain keeps him pinned to reality, throbbing like a bad pop song stuck in his head. Sleep would be nice, but the agony makes sure he doesn't get too comfortable.
"So much for a quick-start mode."
***
Three hours pass…
He lies there, mostly still, barely conscious.
When he finally stirs and sits up, he checks his shoulder. Most of the damage has closed. A few scrapes remain, but nothing worth crying over.
"At last."
The healing is just good enough to move. He rises slowly, tests his balance, then takes the crowbar with him as he limps back toward the main road.
Blood still trails behind him, dripping from the bar and his tattered sleeve. Some of the White Fangs follow from a distance, sniffing, watching, but none dare come close.
Once he nears the western border of Frasklock, the beasts stop, only watching from behind wrecked cars and trucks.
At the city gate, two border guards spot the boy and don't take it well.
"Hold up... is that a zombie?"
"Looks like one."
"And a bunch of white fangs? What are they doing down there?"
Rifles are raised.
Then, one warning shot cracks into the air. The White Fangs jerk and flee in panic.
The gate crew squints through the fog, trying to make out what's walking toward them.
"Wait. Hold your fire," one guard mutters. "I think that's the kid from before."
"You sure?"
"He's walking like it's him. Just… dirtier."
The gray-haired boy keeps coming. Blood-soaked, bruised, silent. The crowbar hangs at his side like it belongs there. His face is calm, but there's something in his eyes that wasn't there before.
"Kid! You okay?"
"Is that blood yours?"
He doesn't answer. He just walks, step by step, like a man returning from war.
A guard reaches out and grabs his shoulder to stop him. It's the same shoulder that was nearly torn apart by the beast, now miraculously healed without a single scar.
"Hey, whose blood is this?"
The boy turns his head, slowly. His eyes shift to the guard's hand, then meet his gaze with a hollow stare.
"It's the beast's blood."
"…What?"
"It tried to eat this shoulder. So I killed it."
His voice is flat, calm, but filled with intimidation.
The guard takes a step back, no further questions. The boy simply drops the crowbar and walks through the gate without another word.
***
Half an hour later…
The streets blur. His mind drifts. He stops at nearly every corner, trying to remember the way home like he's been gone for years. At every crossing, he looks up at the signs and squints, piecing together old paths.
"Didn't they say he's a student at Ezlenmir Academy?"
"Wasn't that up by... Blemlisk Hill?"
Luckily, one bus is still running.
He boards and slumps into a seat. His clothes are stiff with blood. His body reeks of sweat, dog saliva, and dried piss.
The other passengers, a group of eight girls in uniform, start whispering.
"I think I know this smell…"
"Isn't he that Seed E student?"
"The one who got peed on by Mathias Burke?"
"Ew..."
"So, he actually confronted the governor's son, huh?"
Their voices lower, but he hears them anyway, every word, every whisper. The boy turns and looks, and that's all it takes. Their mouths close almost immediately.
Silence spreads across the bus like a spell. No one dares say another word, because this isn't just Irvine Donovan anymore.
This is Livne Atniel, the Skywrath Comforter.