As the giant wolf-thing from hell was coming for my face, my brain kicked into some higher-level of processing.

The kind that's normally reserved, I suppose. Those so-called "off-limit" portions of the brain, set up so the human body doesn't just crumple under the stress.

Not that I actually believe in such a thing. No, the whole "you only use 10% of your brain" saying is utterly bullshit, but in that instant, it certainly felt as if that were the truth of things. Whether I should attribute this to hormones, organic chemicals, physical and environmental stimuli: the result was as if I were watching reality in slow motion.

My actions were planned.

My body was already moving.

My eyes were watching the jaws of death, coming towards me.

And, oddly enough, I found I still had time to think.

Even in the middle of all of this insanity: I had a thought, then.

How the hell do people ever get used to this?

There are career soldiers, in this world. There were people who you might go to, specifically, to kill things like this. People who picked this as a profession, and weren't just forced into it. The Guild, as Gregory had called them.

They must all be utterly insane.

Not to get sidetracked, but the human body is a fragile instrument. In some of the stupidest of ways, really, I still think it's a miracle more people don't die by accident, because we're very easily broken. Often enough, just one, tiny, little fall, away from being dead. One bad spill on the pavement away from becoming a vegetable. One poorly placed punch to the chest or bop to the head, and it's lights out.

Even back on earth, I knew that fighting and violence were a popular thing. For sport, for the purpose of self-defense, for the sheer excitement of it... but I never really understood why people held it to such high a value. Certainly not when given the backdrop of how utterly stupid and dangerous it was. Did they recognize how easily they could die? Was that part of the thrill?

No, fighting for sport had never made sense to me. In part because I felt that if I was going to fight in the first place, it was because I didn't have a choice. If I was going to commit to the concept, it wasn't because of concern about proving anything, or about being the best. There would be no shaking hands would be involved, no helping the other guy or the other team back on their feet: It would have to be about winning.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Winning by any means necessary.

And as those jaws closed down for the second time: that's what I did.

God damn.

It hurt.

The impact, alone, barreled me over. The audible crunch of wood, the smashing headbutt of a tackle cut short- the combination of these broke my pitiful half-staff, immediately. But, I'd known that was going to happen. I was counting on it, in fact, because there would be a very short gap of time to take advantage of when it did.

In total, I assume it was about a third to a half, of a second. And, a lot can happen during that. Especially, when the Fernwolf followed it up with the same method it had tried before: to throw me. As it tried to wrest the remaining splinters from my grasp and pull me off my feet entirely, though: I let it go.

I let the wooden pieces free. I let the wolf take them.

And then I began to stab.

Just stab.

Blindly.

Elegance was not a factor.

There was nothing professional or planned past this point.

The creature was as tall as I was, and having knocked me back, I was already in position. Rearing its head side to side in an effort to finish off my last defenses, perhaps a very successful method for this creature in the past, had in my case taken the most dangerous aspect of the fight out of the equation.

While it was doing that, it couldn't bite me.

All I had to do was point my dagger up. To grab onto the fur of its neck as if my very life depended on it: and plunge.

So, that's exactly what I did.

Screaming in a terrified panic, my dagger moved, caught, twisted, tore. I pulled it back, again- again. The beast howled in pain, and it tried to free itself, but I held onto its fur, clinging to the stench of blood and filth, and mud. Kicking back off the ground, letting the wind get smacked out of my chest, as heavy paws fought for a purchase of their own.

On the fifth stab, I lost my grip, only to find my hand on Gregory's knife instead. Hanging off its side, as the wolf bucked and gasped.

On the seventh, I realized the creature was slowing down. The spray of red might as well have been a mist. Horrible spurts of crimson.

On the thirtieth, I was hyperventilating. I was all but drowning, under heavy fur and heavy weight.

By the time I lost count, though, I realized the monster was already long dead.

Strength +1

My reward.

Crawling out from beneath the corpse, I found the reward to be lacking.

My arms were made of jello. I suspected my shoulder might have been pulled out of its socket, and then wedged back in. My clothing, what tatters remained of my armor: these looked as though they had been dumped into buckets of blood. Corrosive, dark, red, with a horrible taste of sulphur.

If this was the kind of thing that you've heard bards sing about, then you've been going to the wrong taverns for entertainment.

This was not a heroic battle.

Neither, was it a heroic march back, through the thickets and stalks. Tripping and stumbling from sheer pain and exhaustion...

See, in the stories, the heroes always defeat the monster and save the day. The books, the movies: that's how it's supposed to go, I think. As a hero, I was supposed to vanquish the evil, to rescue the people.

But I didn't quite manage the last part.

Because by the time I found him again, Gregory was already dead.