The cold was worse now. Or maybe Knox was just feeling it more.

  He kept one hand clutched to his side where the pig’s charge had slammed into him, tearing a gash through leather and flesh alike. Blood soaked into the lining of his cloak, warm and sticky. Each breath came harder than the last, and the ache in his limbs made the ground feel farther away with every step.

  He hadn’t planned for a second fight—not so soon. Not like this.

  Snow crunched behind him.

  Knox turned.

  A new pig. No—**boar**. Bigger. Meaner. Fur matted with old blood, snout flecked with foam. Its breath came in visible clouds, steam rising from the heat of rage. Eyes locked on him.

  This one hadn’t been in the beta.

  Another change. Another gift from Myth.

  Knox’s grip tightened around the axe’s handle. He could barely lift the thing. His left leg dragged behind him, useless from where the last pig had slammed him. And this new one? It wasn’t just hungry. It was out for vengeance.

  The boar charged.

  Knox dove sideways, pain flaring through his ribs. He barely avoided the tusks, but the impact of landing on hard-packed snow knocked the wind from him. He rolled, came up to a crouch, and scrambled backward.

  No time. No space. No plan.

  Another charge. Another dodge.

  Again. Again. Each time by a hair’s breadth. Each time a reminder of how fast things could end here.

  And yet—beneath the adrenaline, something stirred. A rhythm. Not power, not clarity. **Flow.**

  But no time to dwell.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  He needed something. Anything.

  A broken fence loomed nearby, half-buried under wind-packed snow. Strange icicles jutted from it like teeth—thick, jagged stalactites formed where the winter had warped the wood and steel. Knox bolted toward it, dragging his ruined leg behind him.

  The boar chased him relentlessly, snorting and bellowing, carving a trench through the snow.

  Knox reached the fence, turned hard, and braced.

  He broke the largest icicle free with a grunt, spun, and jammed it forward.

  It sank into the boar’s shoulder with a crunch. Not deep enough.

  The boar swerved mid-charge and caught him with a grazing strike. The tusk carved a fresh line across his side. Shallow, but hot. Immediate.

  Knox screamed.

  He twisted and stabbed with another icicle, then another. One cracked on impact. One slipped. One found a gap in the boar’s hide and sank in deep.

  The beast reared, screeching, thrashing in place.

  Knox staggered backward, clutching his side.

  "Alright," he growled. "I’ve taken the hits. I’m bleeding. I’m pissed. Let’s see it."

  He focused inward. Reached for the skill he’d just earned—[No Room for Pain].

  Nothing.

  He tried again.

  Still nothing.

  "What the hell?" he snapped, blinking sweat and blood from his eyes. "I’m hurt. I’m angry. What more do you want?"

  It didn’t make sense. He’d been in combat long enough. Taken enough damage. A Berserker should be overflowing with resource by now.

  Something was wrong.

  Another charge forced him to move. He barely cleared the beast’s path, falling hard, scraping his knuckles raw against packed ice.

  The axe.

  He still had the farmer’s axe.

  The field narrowed around him. No more space. No more options.

  It was this or die.

  Knox pulled the axe from his belt, drew a shaking breath, and sprinted forward.

  The boar matched him.

  At the last second, Knox threw the axe with both hands.

  Then dove sideways.

  The axe struck. A wet crunch. A squeal.

  When he looked up, the boar was rearing back, shrieking. The axe handle jutted from its face—lodged in one eye socket, trembling with the beast’s pain.

  Not dead. But hurt. Scared.

  It bolted.

  Snow flew in every direction as it crashed through the fence line and disappeared into the woods, howling in agony.

  Knox watched it vanish.

  Then, one foot at a time, he began stumbling back toward the farmhouse. The adrenaline was fading fast, and every step dragged pain up through his ribs and down his spine. The snow blurred beneath him, the world tilting sideways. He didn’t make it far.

  Then collapsed.

  The sky blurred overhead. Snowflakes drifted lazily past his vision. His side burned. His head rang. And his body refused to move.

  He could just make out the edge of the farmstead ahead—two figures silhouetted by the grey light. One broad and familiar. The other smaller, clad in armor.

  His last thought before darkness took him was simple, sharp, and a little annoyed.

  *...Great. I lost his axe.*