Edgar was pale, mouth agape, unable to grasp what he had just witnessed.
Lucy said nothing. He simply turned, spat to the side, and dashed into the forest.
"Is he running away?!" one of the bandits yelled.
"Get after him, you idiots!" roared Borrek, his belly bouncing under his open shirt, his breath reeking of fermented liquor.
The scrawniest one, a lanky guy with gapped teeth —the one whose nose Lucy had broken— stayed behind to keep Edgar from escaping, trembling more than standing his ground.
'When you're surrounded and unarmed, run,' he thought, recalling the voice of the old Sensei he had once met. Not a martial arts master, actually—just the local butcher—but he knew a thing or two about surviving surrounded by knives.
But Lucy wasn't running. At least, that wasn't the plan.
He ran between the trees like he knew where he was going. He didn't have a map, but he had instinct. He counted his steps, felt the crunch of leaves underfoot, and then turned abruptly, hiding behind a thick tree.
The hurried footsteps of the bandits were drawing closer. He could hear their breath. One, agile and swift, led the pack. Light on his feet, nearly silent. He landed in a jump, his clothes brushing against branches. Just what Lucy needed.
As he passed the tree, Lucy sprang like a coiled spring. His fist, imbued with mana, slammed into the man's side. A dry crack—fractured rib. The bandit cried out and tumbled to the ground.
"Oops. Was that your favorite rib?" Lucy whispered.
But there was no time. The other three had caught up. The second, a huge guy with arms like tree trunks and a face caked in dried mud, charged with a sadistic grin. Lucy barely dodged the first blow—a shoulder bash that splintered the tree he'd been leaning on just seconds ago.
"Great. A walking tank."
The third, short and stocky, moved slowly but steadily, wielding a club studded with rusty nails. He wasn't in a rush, but the fixed look in his eyes warned Lucy not to underestimate him.
And of course, Borrek.
That pig with the sagging belly and drunk's grin, who seemed the least dangerous—until his hands began to glow with a reddish light.
"Did you really think you could run, little rat?" Borrek growled, snapping his fingers. A spark flared from his palm, and in an instant, it was engulfed in liquid fire.
Lucy didn't answer. He took a deep breath and thought, Great, just what I needed… another episode of "How to Ruin Everything in Record Time."
The agile guy, though injured, got back on his feet. He was leaping between branches, throwing knives. Lucy dodged one; another grazed his arm. The big guy tried to grab him from behind, but Lucy rolled between his legs, delivering a kick to the crotch. …No effect. Maybe there was nothing down there. Or it was armored.
"Right. Probably uses his head for thinking… and for smashing."
Borrek hurled a fireblast that Lucy barely dodged by diving to the ground. He felt the heat lick his neck, like the breath of a hungry furnace.
He leapt to the side, took cover behind a root, and sprang back into action.
He struck the club-wielder in the knee, making him stagger. Then, purely on reflex, he dodged the big guy's swinging arm. A kick sent him reeling back a meter, but cost Lucy a groan of pain. His body wasn't keeping up.
His mana was faltering. Sweat poured down his face. Everything hurt.
"Another fight. Another bunch of idiots with main-villain syndrome. And I've probably got a few broken bones."
"Tired, little boy?" Borrek growled, spinning his fire-wrapped sword. The weapon hissed, thirsting for blood.
Lucy raised his fists. "Just warming up."
Borrek laughed, then charged. Fire trailed behind him, scorching the ground with each step.
Lucy dove back, but the blade grazed his chest, searing through fabric and flesh. He fell, rolled, barely dodging the big guy's next blow—a crushing stomp to his leg that made Lucy scream in pain.
The guy with the club took the chance and slammed him in the side. Another scream.
The world warped. His ribs burned.
"I can't keep going. Not like this."
The system, with its usual annoying punctuality, spoke in his head:
[Plan analyzed: 3% effectiveness. 97% chance of ending up unconscious, mutilated, or dead. Good job.]
"Shut up," Lucy muttered, coughing blood.
[Recommendation: Don't die. It would greatly improve your long-term stats.]
Lucy laughed. He wasn't sure if it was from desperation or resignation.
Then he felt something. A heat in his chest—not like Borrek's fire, but deeper. Like a spark waiting to be fed from his soul.
Pure instinct made him channel mana into his core.
His senses sharpened. The world slowed down. The forest's sounds grew louder. The leaves. The enemies' breaths. The pressure of mana.
[Late Instinct: Activated → Grants deadly focus in desperate situations. Use limit: when everything's truly going to hell.]
Lucy stood up. He looked terrible—but he was alive. For now, that was enough.
Time felt thick. Borrek raised his sword, and Lucy honed in. He felt it. Heard the fire crackling. The heavy steps of the big guy approaching from the left.
The whistle of a knife thrown by the agile one, from above. And the dull roar of the club swinging toward his head, from behind.
Then, just as everything seemed to close in on him...
Lucy moved.
He stepped back, narrowly dodging the club aimed at his skull. Spun fast—fluid—dodging the knife that whistled through the air. The blade sank into the trunk beside him.
A punch crashed into the big guy's gut with brutal force, blasting the air from his lungs. His eyes rolled back, turning white as he doubled over, choking and wheezing.
Without missing a beat, Lucy threw an elbow at the club-wielder, making him stumble back. Borrek charged with his sword, but Lucy slid beneath the blow, mana crackling in his fingers, ready for the next move.
Lucy panted, bracing himself briefly against a tree as he shifted his stance, firm and focused.
"So much for a 'blind kid,' huh?" Lucy spat, half-smiling.
Everyone stared at him, eyes wide. Their bodies tensed. And deep inside, a burning pressure began to churn in their guts.
It wasn't magic. It wasn't logic.
It was pure instinct.
Fear settled in—uninvited. And it had no intention of leaving.