Chapter 59: Clean Kill!
It was moving toward him, a guttural laughing sound echoing from its maw, tongue lolling to the side as thick saliva dripped from its fangs.
The creature’s gait was familiar—the hunched shoulders, the thick limbs, the jerking rhythm of its stride. Even from afar, Bruce recognized it instantly.
A Mutant Laughing Hyena.
The beast roamed restlessly, its large body prowling across the dusty terrain. Even as a sound-affinity predator, it retained that primal scavenger instinct.
And when it saw the scattered corpses lying around Bruce, the scent of fresh blood heavy in the air, it didn’t hesitate.
It charged.
The creature was enormous, towering over its lesser kin with a height of nearly seven feet and a weight well over three hundred pounds. Its fur was a mottled mix of browns and grays, crisscrossed with jagged black streaks that shimmered faintly when it moved.
Its face was monstrous. The jaw was too wide, too strong—capable of crushing bone and flesh without effort. Even with its mouth closed, the tips of its razor-sharp teeth protruded, glinting menacingly in the light.
But what caught Bruce’s attention the most were its eyes.
Beady. Red. Aware.
Those eyes missed nothing.
The hyena’s large, twitching ears flicked in every direction, picking up the faintest rustle, the faintest tremor of movement. Its gaze locked on Bruce as it kept running and laughing...
That horrible, distorted sound rolled across the plains like a mocking echo.
The mutant beast lowered its body, muscles tensing, then sprinted forward on all fours, its claws tearing through the earth, each step pounding like thunder.
Bruce’s expression hardened as he raised his blade.
The real fight was about to begin.
"Let the hunt begin," Bruce muttered under his breath as he dashed forward, twin daggers gleaming with a cold, lethal light.
He moved fast, so fast that the air behind him split apart in faint ripples. The bronze dust of the savannah scattered in his wake as he sprinted head-on toward the charging beast. This was peak Rank A speed!
The mutant hyena, confident in its strength, roared with guttural laughter. Its muscles bulged beneath its mottled hide as it lowered its body and lunged forward. With a snarl, it raised one of its massive, clawed paws, intending to use the momentum of its speed to crush Bruce in a single, decisive strike.
And then, they met.
The distance vanished in an instant. Both man and beast struck at the same time.
But Bruce was faster.
He stepped slightly off the center line, his motion fluid and deliberate, and his daggers blurred through the air. The swing carried precision—clean, sharp, filled with intent.
The wind around him seemed to move in harmony with his blade, guiding it forward.
That strike wasn’t wild or instinctive. It was trained.
The technique, refined through hours of sparring under Vaelith’s watchful eye, had evolved since his battle with the mutant goats. Every motion, every pivot, every angle carried purpose.
And as his body moved, a memory surfaced.
Vaelith’s voice—calm, steady, and sharp as a blade—echoed through his mind.
[When you strike, your intent must breathe through the blade.
When you defend, you let no one fall behind you.
When you counter, you accept no wound.
And when you attack,
You kill.
Because the dagger is not for mercy. It is for resolve.
Every swing must be a choice, not a reflex.
A dagger without intent is just metal.
But a dagger with purpose... becomes fate.]
The words rang like a distant mantra inside Bruce’s head.
He exhaled slowly, his breath steady and cold.
"So this was what he meant," he thought.
In that fleeting moment, his movements shifted. His strikes grew calmer, sharper, more deliberate.
To the mutant hyena, the change was immediate and chilling.
The human before it no longer felt like prey.
Something in Bruce’s presence had shifted—his aura, his eyes, his rhythm.
The beast didn’t understand what it was feeling, but instinct screamed one truth louder than all others.
This man was dangerous.
With Vaelith’s words echoing in his mind, Bruce’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
"I understand it now," he murmured.
In the next instant, he moved.
The mutant hyena lunged again, its clawed paw slicing through the air with a feral snarl. The claws glinted wickedly under the light, each one nearly six inches long—capable of tearing through bone.
But Bruce’s focus wasn’t on the beast itself anymore.
His mind was on the blade... and the blade alone.
’Speed. The fastest path...’
Every calculation, every breath, every shift of his body aligned perfectly with that single intent.
In the space between two heartbeats, he saw the fastest path to its throat. His muscles moved without hesitation. His feet traced the rhythm of the strike, sliding past the beast’s momentum with effortless grace.
Then...
Shhk!
The hyena’s attack froze mid-swing. Its massive paw, still raised in the air, trembled slightly... then fell limp.
A clean, thin line of red formed along its neck.
And a second later, its head slid silently off its shoulders, hitting the dry earth with a dull thud.
Bruce stood there quietly, surrounded by the settling dust.
His expression didn’t change. His breathing remained calm.
For a brief moment, the wind carried only the sound of the dying creature’s body collapsing onto the soil.
Then, without a word, Bruce raised his dagger slightly.
With a sharp, practiced motion, he brandished the weapon through the air, so fast that the thin layer of blood along the blade scattered into the wind, forming faint crimson streaks before evaporating into the dry heat.
The movement was fluid. Controlled. Ritualistic.
When the blade was clean, he twirled it once in his hand before sliding it back into its sheath with a quiet click.
He straightened his posture, standing tall amid the fallen corpses, the faint light of the savannah reflecting off his calm, unreadable eyes.
For a fleeting moment, the world seemed to still.
Even the wind hesitated.
Bruce’s aura was serene, yet oppressive, an unspoken reminder that he had crossed the line between hunter and killer.
The hunt had only just begun. His understanding of dagger and it’s unique style to kill and fight had begun to rise.
***
A/N:
Why did the blood on the blade evaporate when Bruce Brandished at the air?
His brandish was so fast that the friction between the blade, the air, and the blood generated heat intense enough to vaporize it instantly. The crimson streaks turned to faint mist before the wind scattered them, leaving the blade gleaming, spotless, and cold once more. While in this VR, he was classified as an A-Ranked awakened, he’s still strong. Even without channeling mana, average A-Ranked awakened could effortlessly lift between 500 and 1,000 tons. He can also heal and adapt here btw...