As Lin looked up through blood-crusted lashes, the massive orc loomed above him like a living monument to war.
Its shadow swallowed him whole.
And then—movement.
The orc's fist descended like a meteor.
He twisted, desperate to roll away.
Too slow.
The hammer of flesh and bone collided with his leg.
CRACK.
White-hot pain tore through his body as if his very bones had screamed. The sound—an unnatural, wet snap—echoed louder than his own guttural yell. He slammed into the dirt, his leg twisting at an unnatural angle, pain roaring like wildfire up his spine.
But even with pain blinding his vision, even with bile rising in his throat and blood pouring from his mouth—
He stood.
Somehow.
One leg trembled beneath him, refusing to hold. His entire frame swayed like a tree in a storm. But he stood.
His lungs burned. The taste of copper sat thick on his tongue. His ribs throbbed with every breath. But he refused to fall.
(You're not dead yet,), he told himself, dragging breath into ruined lungs. (Stand. Fight. Even if the world breaks you—stand.)
The orc didn't flinch. Didn't move. Its red eyes watched, curiously now, as though it couldn't comprehend how this insect still had life in it.
A lesser thing might've turned away.
But Lin didn't care.
He had one weapon left.
One reason to keep fighting.
To be a protector in a world of dungeons and monsters cause if she had protected him without thinking twice about her life then he will do the same to not let her death be in vain.
He clenched the dagger in his hand—her dagger. His arm shook under its weight, not because the blade was heavy, but because his body was. Shattered, broken, bleeding. His knees buckled under the pressure, but he pushed forward, teeth bared, rage burning in place of strength.
With every shred of will, he charged.
Not from courage.
Not from hope.
But because if he stopped, the pain would take him.
He screamed, and slashed.
Once. Twice. Three times.
A wild storm of desperation. He moved like a beast, not a man, each strike fueled by fury and grief.
The dagger flashed under the crimson light, tracing arcs across the orc's torso, arms, chest—again and again.
And yet—
Nothing.
No blood.
No wounds.
The skin was unbroken.
It was as if the blade met stone instead of flesh.
His strikes slowed. Confusion dulled the edge of his rage.
(Why… why isn't it cutting?) he thought, staggering backward. (I hit it. I know I hit it—what the hell is this thing?)
The orc let out a low groan. Not of pain.
Of disappointment.
Then came the backhand.
A blur of movement.
Lin's world exploded.
The orc's massive arm crashed into him with terrifying ease. His feet left the ground. His spine bent mid-air, body twisting violently before smashing into a tree trunk, bark and bone breaking in unison.
He crumpled to the floor, unmoving, dirt and blood painting him like a corpse.
He could taste blood in places that weren't his mouth. His jaw barely moved. One eye refused to open. His ribs grated with every inhale.
He lay there for a moment. Staring up at the swirling red sky.
(This… this is what it means to be outmatched,), he thought distantly. (To bring a knife to a war against gods.)
He shifted. Just barely.
His fingers loosened.
The dagger slipped from his hand and hit the ground with a muted thunk.
It didn't matter.
He stared at it, the hilt stained with old blood.
Ara's blood.
The same dagger she had used to protect him. The one she had died giving him. The last piece of her that remained in this world.
And yet—it couldn't even scratch these monsters.
(Either the dagger is too weak…) he thought, wincing, spitting blood into the dirt, (or they are too strong.)
The weight of that realization didn't sink.
It crushed.
Everything in him wanted to scream.
But there was no room left.
So instead, he forced himself to rise again.
Barely.
His body was a ruin.
But his will was still intact.
He looked down at the dagger one final time. Then past it. At the orcs closing in.
He opened his fist.
Let the blade fall away.
"If a dagger can't do anything…" he rasped, his voice broken but defiant, "…then what's the point of using it?"
His hands curled into fists.
Knuckles white.
Body swaying.
Blood dripping down to the dirt.
And through shattered teeth, Lin grinned.
"Let's go hands for hands then."
——
They were all watching.
Every single one of them.
From the trees, from the shadows, from behind shattered stone and twisted roots—the orcs stood in silence, red eyes burning like embers in a dark forest. Dozens of them. Towering, snarling, breathing as one. Yet none moved.
Because one of their own stood between them and the boy who should already be dead.
The orc that had struck Lin down now cracked its neck left, then right. The noise was like dry wood snapping. It took one heavy step forward, shaking the dirt beneath its feet. Blood stained its chest where Lin's blade had harmlessly scraped, a faint scar that hadn't even broken the skin.
Lin's chest rose and fell, shallow and uneven. He could hardly breathe. His right leg was wrecked. His arm felt fractured. His jaw hung slightly loose. But his hands—his fists—still closed. Still shook.
Still wanted to fight.
He stared at the orc with unblinking rage.
(Weapons don't matter anymore,), he thought, dragging his ruined body upright. (I've bled too much to be afraid now.)
He took one step forward, then another.
The orc growled and rushed him.
No tricks. No weapons.
Just a mountain of muscle coming to crush the last ounce of life from a broken boy.
Lin didn't back away.
He met it head-on.
The first blow came—a wild swing from the orc's left fist, fast and heavy. Lin ducked under it, barely, the wind of it brushing his scalp. The second punch grazed his side, ribs cracking again under the pressure. He gasped but kept moving.
Then he closed the gap.
His fist swung forward and connected with the orc's ribs.
Nothing.
Like hitting a wall.
The orc didn't flinch.
It grabbed Lin by the shoulder and hurled him like a doll. He crashed into the dirt, rolled, then forced himself back up with trembling limbs and a growl clawing from his throat.
Blood poured from his mouth as he staggered again into striking distance.
He launched another punch—this time to the jaw. The orc barely turned its head. A backfist came in response, smashing into Lin's temple. The world spun sideways. Black dots danced in his vision.
He dropped to one knee.
But he didn't fall.
He couldn't.
(You're still breathing. Still standing. Ara died so you could keep going.)
He looked down at his blood-covered hands. They trembled violently.
(If you die here, it ends with nothing.)
The orc came again, lifting a leg for a savage kick.
Lin rolled under it—barely—and lunged with everything he had left, slamming his shoulder into the orc's abdomen.
It didn't budge.
But now—now he was close.
Face-to-face.
Too close to dodge.
The orc grabbed his head and pulled it down for a knee strike. Lin twisted. The blow grazed his temple instead of crushing it. Still, stars burst behind his eyes.
His nose was broken now. He couldn't see straight.
But his hand—his fist—
It was still there.
He dropped low, dug deep into his core, and clenched every muscle he had left. He felt his bones cry out, his nerves scream, but he didn't stop.
He planted his back foot.
Twisted his body.
And with every ounce of broken will and dying strength—
He punched.
Not at the head.
Not at the face.
He punched straight into the orc's chest.
And his fist went through.
There was no sound for a moment.
Only the wet, sickening feeling of flesh parting.
Lin's knuckles tore through muscle, sinew, and bone—until he felt air.
His entire arm now buried deep inside the orc's torso. Blood soaked his skin, hot and heavy, pouring over his elbow, his shoulder, his chest.
The orc's eyes went wide.
A breath escaped its throat—a confused, rattled gasp.
Then it dropped to its knees.
And Lin pulled his arm free with a brutal jerk.
The orc collapsed face-first into the dirt, its weapon falling beside it.
Dead.
Truly, finally, dead.
The clearing went still.
The other orcs—every last one—stood frozen.
None had seen what he had done. Not fully. Not clearly.
But they had felt it.
And they couldn't understand it.
They had watched a dying human child punch through one of their strongest like it had a hollow chest.
Lin, chest heaving, staggered back and dropped to one knee.
He tore a long strip from what remained of his shirt, soaking with sweat and blood. He wrapped it tightly around his ruined hand, still slick and pulsing. It burned like fire—but it still worked.
He stood again.
Just barely.
Then he turned to the rest of them—blood-drenched, trembling, hollow-eyed.
And he lifted that wrapped fist into the air.
"Come on then," he said.
Voice cracked.
Eyes blazing.
"I'm not done yet."