Wonderful Insane World

The pain in his back was a distant memory compared to what came next. As he pivoted, his sword sliding off the flank of one Warg, another beast, faster and quieter than the rest, lunged at him from the left. Dylan caught a movement at the edge of his vision, a flash of muscle and scale. He tried to evade, but he was off-balance from his own strike.

The Warg's gaping maw clamped down on his left arm, just above the elbow.

There was no sound of sinking fangs. It was a dry, horrible *crack*, the sound of a piece of green wood snapping. A white, absolute pain exploded in his brain, sweeping away all coherent thought. He saw, incredulous, his own arm, still gripping the hilt of his sword, being torn from his body in a spray of warm blood and tossed like a rag into the undergrowth.

A moment of sheer void. The world seemed to stop. A primitive, all-consuming panic rose in his throat, ready to transform into a scream. He was going to die. Here. Now. Dismembered.

Then, something else happened.

The anima within him, the storm he had been desperately trying to channel, reacted instinctively. It didn't need his conscious will for this. It was a survival function, rooted deep in his spiritual core. An intense heat, far stronger than the pain, radiated from the wound. It wasn't a burning heat, but a living, reparative one.

Before his eyes, the shredded tissue began to pulsate. Muscles, like agitated snakes, started weaving themselves back together. Shining white filaments – his bones – shot forth from the wound and began to grow at a visible speed, shaping themselves into a new structure. Pink, glistening skin gradually enveloped them. The sensation was both excruciatingly painful and incredibly intoxicating. It felt as if his arm was being sewn back on with needles of fire, but he could literally feel life returning.

The panic shattered, replaced by a horrified fascination, then by an icy determination.

*I can regrow.* The thought was clear, devoid of all emotion. *I am not as fragile as I believed.*

He didn't waste time contemplating the miracle. As his left arm reformed, still weak and trembling, he tightened his grip on his sword in his right hand. The four Wargs, perhaps surprised by this monstrous regeneration, hesitated for a fraction of a second.

It was all he needed.

He took two quick steps back, placing a tree trunk at his back for cover. His breath was short, and he felt a void growing within him – the spiritual essence spent on regeneration was colossal. His spiritual core, so swollen after weeks of slaughter, suddenly seemed less dense, less bright. He had used at least half of his reserves.

But some remained. Enough.

He concentrated what anima he had left not in his new arm, but in his legs. The sensation was immediate: a granite-like stability, as if his feet had taken root in the ground. *Footing*. Julius had drilled the importance of footing into him enough.

A Warg charged, spewing a jet of corrosive black vapor. Dylan, anchored, pivoted on his heels. The jet missed his head by a hair's breadth, eating away at the bark of the tree behind him with an acidic hiss. Instead of retreating, he used the force of his rotation to deliver a low, sweeping strike, aiming for the beast's hind legs. The impact was still harsh, but his sword, guided by the power of his well-anchored body, bit a little deeper, slicing a tendon. The Warg let out a grunt of pain and limped slightly.

His left arm was now almost fully reformed, covered in new, smooth, sensitive skin. It was weak, but functional. Without hesitation, Dylan gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands.

The difference was immediate and electrifying.

Holding the sword one-handed was an exercise in speed and precision. With two hands, it was a demonstration of channeled brute force. He pushed his remaining anima into his arms, his shoulders, his torso. His muscles swelled slightly, veins of pure energy tracing patterns beneath his skin. The sword, which had felt heavy one-handed, became a natural extension of his body.

The Wargs, sensing the change, roared and attacked as a group. Two from the front, one from each side.

Dylan didn't let them complete their maneuver. With a hoarse cry, he lunged forward, his overpowered footing propelling him like a ballista bolt. He aimed not for the head or the body, too well protected, but for the neck of the beast he had already wounded in the leg.

He ignored the Warg on his right that raked his thigh with its claws. He ignored the maw that clamped down on his left shoulder, tearing through the fur and flesh of his new arm. All his attention, all his strength, all his essence was concentrated into that single blow.

The sword, held in two hands, described a perfect arc, charged with all the fury and frustration accumulated during this impossible fight. It didn't whistle. It roared.

The metal met the scales of the neck with a thunderous noise. This time, there were no sparks. There was a sharp *crack*, followed by a wet, brutal *schlack*. The blade sliced through flesh, muscle, and spine with obscene force.

The Warg's head, its violet eyes wide with disbelief, flew through the air, tracing a bloody arc. The massive body stood for a moment, as if frozen, before a jet of black, stinking blood gushed from the wound in a pressurized geyser. Then, it collapsed heavily to the ground with a final, dull thud.

The silence that followed was almost as deafening as the beasts' roars. The three remaining Wargs took a step back, a glimmer of doubt replacing the certain hatred in their gem-like eyes. Their brother was dead. By the hand of this prey they had thought so fragile.

Dylan, panting, his sword dripping with black blood, stood among them. His regenerated arm was covered in blood, his thigh and shoulder bleeding profusely. He was exhausted, his spiritual essence was at its lowest, almost depleted.

But he was standing. And for the first time since the fight began, a cold, savage smile, worthy of Julius's own, spread across his lips. He had just understood something. The fear of death could be bypassed. Pain could be ignored. And even faced with the impossible, a single blow, struck with absolute determination, could change everything.

The fight was far from over, but a balance had just been broken.