Blood Berserker - [ A Litrpg Apocalypse]

Pride comes before a fall—at least that was the saying in Nathan's situation. It hadn't been a matter of pride; the berserker had simply overestimated his own abilities, and he was now paying the price for that decision. It wasn't like Nathan was a big-headed individual, but it was more of the fact that he was pumped up, the sense of urgency eating into his very soul and messing with his brain, which was why he forgot who his true opponent was: Sparrow.

Nonetheless, he focused on the present, his chest heaving as he charged at the brave lapdog who decided to call his bluff. The mage, by the looks of it, seemed to be weaving some kind of spell underneath her breath as she walked towards Nathan, but the berserker had no plans to hang back and let her complete her spell. Like a flash of lightning, he was gone. His fist was the first to reappear, and it did so on the other side of the mage, covered in her blood and that of the others. Nathan didn't hesitate to pull his fist back as he let her body drop to the floor, fear etched into her features, but he was too preoccupied to notice.

"Is this all you've got? You're all pathetic and weak!" Nathan roared.

His sword flashed, taking the head off an unfortunate fellow. His fist was not to be denied of the fun as he tore through their ranks—him, the blood berserker, death personified and given human form. Nathan was unstoppable on the field; his entire body was soaked in blood, and this time, none of it was his. The puny army had managed to score some hits on his skin; their swords, scythes, arrows, and spells were doing damage to him, albeit it was minimal, especially compared to the destruction he wreaked upon them. For every cut he received, a life was ended brutally.

He was quick and brutal with his assault, making sure to maintain some kind of animalistic one-hit-kill principle. He was as efficient as they came. Alas, he wasn't the only one built for murder, he wasn't the only one with skills, and he wasn't the only one with something at stake in the fight—a reality that started to creep in as he started to feel himself slowing down.

It wasn't the normal fatigue that came with fighting; no, this was something else, something abnormal. This felt odd. His jabs felt slower, his movements sloppy, and sure enough, he began to feel his eyelids becoming droopy. That was when panic set in. His eyes searched frantically until they landed on what looked like three mages in robes standing away from the fight, hoods covering their faces as their hands were outstretched in his direction. He could see their lips moving from underneath the hoods, and that was when he put two and two together.

Shit.

His survival instinct kicked in a little too late, but Nathan wasn't having any of it. He pulled on everything that he could, on everything that made him him, and he charged towards the three mages in robes. For a fraction of a minute, he was successful in his charge; his blows became faster, and his unfocused form became focused. But no matter how many of them he killed, another was there to take their fallen comrade's place, much to Nathan's displeasure. The mages were still casting, and he was no closer to getting to them than when he'd started, which made Nathan's heart drop, but he kept punching and slicing, his blade still taking lives.

He could feel it in his bones: the abnormal fatigue was starting to return, and no matter how hard he tried and how much determination he had, his body was failing him. His swings were starting to become slower again, his movements sluggish, and worse, his blows were losing their power. He'd gone from having his punches tear through their bodies like paper to having them only let out a grunt of discomfort when his blows met them.

Now more than ever, the berserker was losing strength and was ripe for the picking, and as one, they charged at him. Nevertheless, Nathan kept fighting, but it was apparent to all present that the tide had changed. When his legs finally gave out, he continued fighting from his knees. When he could no longer lift his sword, he used his fists. And when even that became impossible, he crawled forward, inch by excruciating inch, leaving a trail of his own blood on the packed earth.

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The crowd of spparows men parted before him like a dark sea, opening a pathway. For one desperate moment, hope flared in Nathan's chest. Perhaps it was Sparrow himself, coming to offer some twisted mercy or acknowledgment.

But the figure that stepped into the clearing wasn't Sparrow. Instead, it was a cutthroat whose face looked like it had been carved by a drunken butcher with a dull knife—all asymmetrical scars and poorly-healed wounds. His yellowed teeth gleamed in what passed for a smile as he surveyed Nathan's broken form.

"Not so high and mighty are we now," the cutthroat said, his voice like gravel being crushed underfoot. His grin widened as he circled Nathan, savoring the moment like a fine wine.

Nathan met the man's gaze unflinchingly. Though his body lay broken on the blood-soaked ground, his spirit remained indomitable. His eyes—clear and defiant—conveyed what his failing voice could not: This isn't over.

Mustering the last remnants of his strength, Nathan pushed himself up from the dirt. Every muscle screamed in protest; every wound reopened. Sparrow's men tensed, weapons half-raised, but the cutthroat waved them back with a casual flick of his wrist.

Nathan swayed on his feet, a tree in a hurricane, refusing to topple even as the odds mounted against him. Blood trickled from a dozen wounds, but he paid them no mind. Instead, he gathered the last weapon available to him—a mouthful of blood and saliva—and with perfect aim, spat directly into the cutthroat's face.

The red spittle struck its mark, trailing down the man's scarred cheek like a crimson tear. The cutthroat didn't flinch or wipe it away. Instead, his smile grew wider, revealing blackened gums and several missing teeth.

"Inspiring but yet so futile," the cutthroat said, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "I was hoping for a more entertaining performance from someone who claims to be Lord Sparrow's son." He leaned closer, his breath rancid. "I guess I'll have to settle for torturing you instead. Night night, prince."

Those were the last words the berserker heard before the hilt of a blade came down on his head. Suddenly, there were no problems, no Diane that he had to save; his body didn't hurt so much anymore, and the weight on his shoulders was lifted—all because the darkness had claimed him.

"Take him to the dungeon," the cutthroat said, taking out a piece of cloth to wipe the unconscious berserker's spit off his face. "Oh, and feed the corpses of our fallen to the flames. Their death was a worthy one."

"You got it, boss," replied one of the soldiers, already barking orders to others.

With a grunt of approval, Brian—the cutthroat—turned and walked into the stronghold, his mind whirring at the events that had transpired a few moments ago. He couldn't name a single person—him included—of Lord Sparrow's men who could have done what that monster had just done. Hell, it had taken the three mages to take him down, and even that had come with a cost. One of the mages had died. Whoever it was that was under the hood had probably overdrawn and had now paid the price with their life, and all for what? Just to incapacitate one man.

He snorted at the label he'd used. That wasn't a man; that was a monster in human flesh, and it made a bit of sense if that thing was even remotely related to Lord Sparrow in the slightest. It turns out that the apple doesn't fall that far from the tree after all. Sparrow's men greeted him as he continued his stride towards Lord Sparrow's seat of power. He nodded back absentmindedly as he tried to figure out what his odds would be if he had gone toe-to-toe with that beast at full strength. Somehow, he doubted that he would've made it out alive, and he was Sparrow's right-hand man—a position he'd schemed and killed for, a position that basically made him untouchable.

If that beast was truly Lord Sparrow's son and they reconnected and all sins were forgotten, then what would happen to him? Would he be discarded like the others before him, or would he be relegated back to nothing but another foot soldier?

Shaking his head, he walked through the doors opened for him by the two guards standing guard at the doors to Lord Sparrow's throne room. The interior was made to look like it housed royalty, not the mafia boss that was seated upon his throne, flicking his hands nonchalantly as though he couldn't care less if the world was burning. But Brian knew better than to fall for that facade.

"Brian," Lord Sparrow's voice, cultured and refined, carried effortlessly across the chamber. "I hope you bring me good news."

"Yes, Boss," Brian confirmed, stopping at the precise distance that protocol demanded—close enough to converse without shouting, far enough to show proper deference. "We knocked him out and captured him. He'll be thrown in the dungeon soon."

"Excellent, excellent," Lord Sparrow crooned, his thin lips curving into what might generously be called a smile.

"One more thing, Brian," he added, his tone deliberately casual. "Tell the guards to let me know once he's awake."

"As you wish, Boss."