CHAPTER 115: QUESTION

And a pattern flared across his forearm, jagged lines etching themselves into his skin as if carved by invisible heat. The marks glowed faintly, spiraling toward his palm, the light pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The hum that followed wasn’t mystical so much as physical—like air vibrating under strain.

With a snarl, he thrust his hand forward, and a blast of compressed force erupted from his palm.

It wasn’t fire, not light, but a violent discharge of energy, air compressed and released in a single destructive pulse.

The impact tore through the clearing, sharp enough to sting my eyes.

I warped sideways, space bending in a ripple, and the blast hit the ground where I’d been standing a heartbeat before.

The detonation struck with brutal precision. Soil and stone erupted upward, gouging out a shallow crater that still smoked at the edges. It didn’t have the overwhelming devastation of [Inferno Lance], but the control was unmistakable—tighter, sharper.

The difference between a scalpel and a sledgehammer.

A grin tugged at my lips. That would be a useful skill to steal.

I advanced steadily, unhurried, each step measured. The archer stumbled back, trembling, wide-eyed panic twisting his face.

"Stay away..." he rasped, desperation cracking through his voice.

I didn’t.

He thrust his hand forward again, panic overriding thought, and multiple bolts of compressed air shot toward me. They sliced the air with a whistling shriek, each one deadly fast—but none struck home.

I slipped between them, short bursts of warping carrying me forward, weaving past the attacks until I was already closing the final gap.

His arm remained outstretched, his palm glowing faintly as if straining to summon another strike.

But I spun past him, my blade carving a vicious arc, steel singing as it tore through flesh and bone. My movement was fluid, one step flowing into the next, every angle calculated to cripple.

And when I stopped, the forest held its breath.

Then the truth revealed itself.

His hand, split apart by the slash, scattered in ruined fragments onto the dirt, bloodied flesh twitching in the leaves.

His right ear, severed cleanly, followed, tumbling into the soil.

"Aaaargh!"

The archer’s scream split the clearing as he collapsed, clutching the mangled stump of his hand. Blood sprayed in uneven bursts, soaking the dirt, his body convulsing as shock overtook him.

I stepped forward with calm, deliberate strides, Gravefang still slick with his blood. He was too far gone in agony to notice me at first, his entire world narrowed to the searing pain in his nerves.

I pressed my boot against his chest, pinning him to the ground. His body jerked weakly under the weight, his limbs trembling as he fought to break free.

I leaned closer, shadow falling across his pale, sweat-streaked face.

"Are you going to talk? I have a few questions."

His bloodshot eyes locked on mine for an instant, then hardened. He clenched his jaw until his teeth cracked faintly.

His silence was his answer.

Then something shifted.

A glow spread across his skin, faint at first, then pulsing brighter with each beat of his heart. Energy threaded across him, weaving into unstable patterns that made the air hum.

My instincts screamed.

I lifted my boot and stepped back, Gravefang ready.

And then he detonated. Literally.

The energy he’d been forcing outward turned inward, rupturing his body. Flesh, blood, and bone exploded outward in a grotesque spray, the force magnified like one of his bolts pushed beyond the body’s limits.

The blast swallowed me whole.

For an instant, there was only raw concussive force, shredding air and trees in a violent storm.

But [Fractured Existence] stirred. Reality bent, the detonation folding around me as if the world itself refused to acknowledge my presence. When the smoke thinned, I stepped forward from the haze, Gravefang still in hand, my expression bitter.

The goblin had killed himself.

He had chosen obliteration over surrender, suicide over spilling even a single secret. That kind of resolve was rare. And in a twisted way, I couldn’t help but respect it.

But respect didn’t dull the irritation.

Because of his choice, the system gave me nothing.

No kill notification. No skills. No rewards. And worst of all—no answers. Everything I’d wanted to drag out of him vanished in a single, brutal instant.

I let the frustration simmer, but didn’t dwell. The goblin archer wasn’t truly dead.

Our paths would certainly cross again. And when they did, I wouldn’t waste time with questions. I’d end him before he robbed me twice.

But for now, there was still another.

My gaze shifted toward the massive body slumped against a tree. Blood pooled beneath his throat, bark stained dark where he’d been thrown. Yet his chest rose faintly—shallow, but steady.

The goblin berserker wasn’t dead. Not yet.

Even with his throat torn open?

Insane.

I warped across the clearing, reappearing in front of him. The air shimmered faintly as I crouched low, Gravefang in hand, studying him.

That’s when I saw it.

The edges of the wound—the gashes that should have ended him—were knitting together. Not perfectly, not instantly, but slowly. Blood still seeped, but no longer in torrents. Torn flesh puckered, strands of sinew twitching as though pulled by invisible threads.

His body trembled, every motion weak and jerky, but the truth was undeniable.

He had regeneration.

Some kind of skill that slowed his bleeding and forced his body to heal at a pace just fast enough to cheat death. He was still pale, still slick with blood, but it was enough to keep him alive when anyone else would already be cold.

I exhaled sharply, a grin tugging at my lips.

Alright. This kill I’m not going to miss.

Leaning closer, I watched the process unfold.

It was grotesque, but impossible to look away: tissue knitting, muscle fibers twitching as they reattached, skin drawing taut like wax softening and sealing. His breath rattled wetly, every inhale dragging him deeper into pain.

I weighed my options. A part of me wanted to end it now—bury Gravefang in his skull and erase the risk of him clawing back up again.

But another part hesitated.

Questions gnawed at me. Questions I couldn’t ignore.

Especially the one that had lingered since I used [Analyze] on him. A single word that didn’t belong. A name no goblin should carry.

The berserker stirred. His eyelids fluttered. His chest hitched. Then his eyes shot open.

His pupils dilated the moment they found me—fear, I could tell.

He tried to crawl away, dragging himself weakly, but the tree at his back stopped him cold.

I closed the distance and pressed Gravefang against his throat. The blade bit shallowly, enough to draw a new line of blood.

He winced, a guttural rasp escaping—half pain, half protest.

"I have a question," I said, my voice quiet but sharp. I leaned in, feeling his pulse hammer against the steel.

"Are you willing to answer?"

He didn’t speak.

His chest heaved raggedly, his eyes fixed on mine, silent defiance etched into every line of his face.

I took that silence as permission.

"Then let’s start with the one that matters most." My voice dropped, measured, as I studied every flicker of his expression.

"Are you... human?"