CHAPTER 122: THAT SHROUD’S FAMILIAR

The shadow shroud still clung tightly to him, swirling in faint tendrils of black around his body, its defensive effect far from weak.

Even with its protection dulling the force of blows, he had still taken more than a thousand points of damage from a single strike.

His body trembled against the weight of that realization.

It wasn’t even a skill. It wasn’t some grand technique.

It was just... a punch. A simple punch. And yet it felt like he had been struck by a hammer forged to kill gods.

His ribs screamed, every breath a jagged reminder that his body wasn’t built to endure such overwhelming power.

Riley’s gaze flicked down for just a heartbeat, catching the faint gleam of the dagger still in the hooded figure’s grip.

His lips parted, dry and tight as his thoughts spiraled.

’If a bare fist can carve through me like that... then what happens if he actually cuts me with that dagger?’ His throat went dry, and for a fleeting moment, dread wrapped icy fingers around his spine.

He didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on it.

The air warped again.

His eyes snapped up, instincts screaming.

Another attack was already tearing through the distance between them, the dagger’s edge streaking toward his chest in a blur too fast to track.

Riley’s body moved without thought, shadows pulling at his limbs as he twisted, his dagger whipping up in a desperate attempt to deflect the strike.

The clash rang sharp—steel on steel—but the hooded figure didn’t falter. He pressed forward instantly, the momentum of his movements flowing like water.

Riley staggered backward, the force rattling his arm, his footing crumbling beneath the endless storm of strikes.

Another slash. Another blur of movement. Another blow he barely parried.

But then—

A fist drove into his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs in a sickening rush. He stumbled back, coughing, his dagger trembling in his grip.

There was no pause.

The hooded figure’s assault didn’t relent for even a fraction of a second.

Every step Riley tried to take backward, every breath he fought to drag in, was smothered beneath another dagger swing or another crushing punch.

His arms were growing heavy. His feet slid against the dirt as he scrambled to find balance.

The sound of each strike reverberated through his bones, a relentless rhythm that carved deeper and deeper into him.

And worse—more and more punches were connecting.

A fist slammed against his shoulder, sending his dagger arm jerking wide.

Another blow cracked against his ribs, white-hot pain exploding through his side. A third hit raked across his jaw, snapping his head sideways as stars burst in his vision.

Riley gritted his teeth, shadow shroud flickering desperately to absorb what it could.

But even then, it was clear—he was slowly losing ground.

Each step back drew him closer to collapse, his body shaking under the mounting barrage.

The hooded figure was overwhelming him.

And Riley knew—if this continued, he wouldn’t last much longer.

The hooded figure’s fists, which had been battering into Riley’s body without pause, abruptly stopped mid-motion.

The dagger—still glinting faintly in his other hand—remained unused, its blade reflecting the dim light of the shadow-strewn field around them.

Riley, chest heaving, shoulders weighed down, felt the sudden absence of strikes almost more crushing than their presence.

His muscles screamed from tension, his ribs throbbed, and yet what unnerved him most was not the pain—it was the way his opponent stood there, calm, composed, as if the entire barrage had been nothing but idle play.

In the blink of an eye, before Riley could even steady his footing, the figure blurred.

Shadows bent unnaturally, and his presence vanished, only to reappear directly in front of him.

So close now, Riley could see the faint shimmer of cold steel peeking from beneath the man’s sleeve, the way his hood dipped slightly to hide his expression.

But it wasn’t the dagger that the figure raised.

Instead, he lifted his finger—slender but steady—and pointed. Not at Riley himself. Not at his chest or his heart. But at the shroud.

The thick cloak of shadows that clung to Riley’s body like a second skin, wrapping his limbs in writhing, defensive darkness.

That small, deliberate gesture made Riley’s stomach twist tighter than any punch had.

The figure tilted his head faintly, his voice leaking out from beneath the hood, low and cutting.

"That ability..." His words dripped with interest, yet also carried a strange weight. A sharp curiosity laced with something more dangerous. "How did you come about it?"

The question echoed in Riley’s ears, carried not just by sound but by intent. The shroud flickered faintly, the shadows seeming to quiver as if even they knew the interest of this enemy was dangerous.

Riley grunted. His throat felt raw, every breath grinding like sandpaper, but he forced himself upright.

His knees ached, his muscles trembled, but he refused to remain hunched and broken before that gaze.

Slowly, painfully, he straightened his posture. His dagger remained clenched tight, knuckles white, though his hand trembled faintly.

A deep breath shuddered out of him. He could feel it—the raw depletion, the way his body was screaming that it had already gone too far.

His health bar was dangerously low, the result of that ceaseless barrage. In less than a few minutes, nearly five thousand points of health had been ripped away from him.

Not by daggers. Not by skills. Not by abilities enhanced with mana. But by bare fists.

The thought sank heavy into him, dragging with it a bitter sting.

What gnawed at him most wasn’t the pain. It wasn’t even the health loss, though that was dangerous.

No—the most frustrating part of all this was the clear, undeniable fact that he was being toyed with.

This hooded figure—this shadowed opponent—was not fighting him seriously.

He could have cut Riley down long ago. The dagger in his grip was more than sharp enough, more than fast enough.

Riley had no doubt that one true slash from that blade would have been enough to cripple him, maybe even kill him outright. And yet the figure hadn’t done it. Not once.

Instead, he punched. Over and over again. Crushing fists slamming into his body, relentless, almost casual in their rhythm. It was deliberate. A choice. A mockery.

The realization burned in Riley’s chest. It was humiliating. Every strike that landed wasn’t just damaging his health—it was rubbing salt into the raw wound of pride.

It was as if the figure were declaring, without words: You aren’t even worth my blade.

That alone was enough to drive a sharp crack through his pride.

It was proof—solid, inescapable proof—of the insane, towering gap that separated them.

A gap that no amount of grit or luck could immediately close. Riley hated that feeling. He hated knowing someone was so far above him they didn’t even need to try. His lips curled into a tight line as his mind raced.

But even so... he had a plan.

His body screamed with pain, his health dangerously low, but his mind remained sharp.

He had prepared for this—had thought of a way, however risky, to deal with the hooded figure.

Whether it would work or not, he didn’t know. But he couldn’t afford to second-guess himself. He clung to that plan now, hoping against hope that it would be enough to turn the tables.

The figure’s head tilted further, a faint chuckle breaking the silence. It wasn’t the kind of laugh that carried warmth. It was low, annoyed, dismissive—like the sound one made when a child refused to answer a question.

"You’re ignoring me... again." The words cut sharper than the dagger, laced with mild irritation yet threaded with cold amusement.

Riley’s jaw clenched.

The hooded figure took a small step forward, his shadow stretching long beneath the dim light, brushing against Riley’s own.

His tone sharpened, mocking, every syllable pressing down like a weight.

"You should know better by now," he said. "It’s best if you just cooperate. You have no chance against me."

The words weren’t just spoken—they were declared as if they were law, undeniable and absolute.

He slowly lifted his hands, pointing straight at Riley—or rather, at the thick layer of swirling shadow that coated his body like armor.

The figure’s tone was low, probing, carrying a strange weight of curiosity and menace at once.

"That ability..." his voice rolled out, deep and steady. "How did you come about it?"

Riley grunted, however, he didn’t respond.

The hooded figure chuckled, the sound low and sharp like the scrape of steel.

"That shroud..." he continued, his tone shifting to something oddly contemplative. "It’s familiar. Similar to the skill the Dark Fanged Boar is supposed to possess."

His hand lowered, and his body bent slightly forward, his free hand tapping a single finger against the ground with a steady, absent rhythm.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound echoed faintly against the floor, unsettling in its calm repetition.

"But..." his words hung for a moment, his voice carrying a low hum of suspicion.