Chapter 8 — Fifty–Fifty
Day Twenty-Eight.
Lufias didn't plan to fight.
His objective was simple: extend his exploration radius by exactly one block. Observe the terrain. Log the threats. Return to the sanctuary of the apartment. That was the algorithm.
The street was unusually quiet. Too quiet. There was no rhythmic dragging of feet, no distant, guttural groans. The air felt unnaturally still, as if the world were holding its breath. He moved past an abandoned bus stop, his footsteps measured and his breathing synchronized with his stride.
Then, he heard it.
A footstep.
It wasn't the clumsy, heavy thud of a Walker. It was firm. Deliberate. And it was directly behind him.
Lufias spun around.
Ten meters away stood a creature unlike any he had encountered. Its spine wasn't curved by rot. Its arms weren't limp ornaments of flesh. Its eyes were clouded, yes—but its posture held a haunting structural integrity.
It was balanced.
The creature stepped forward. It was fast. Not a sprint, but a predatory glide that was miles ahead of anything he had seen in the Silent Delta.
His chest constricted.
Variable change: High-tier kinetic response detected.
He backpedaled instinctively. The creature lunged. It closed the gap with terrifying efficiency. Lufias barely managed to pivot his torso as the creature's shoulder slammed into his chest like a battering ram.
He hit the pavement hard. The air was violently expelled from his lungs, leaving him gasping. Pain flared across his back, a white-hot bloom of agony.
The creature didn't reset. It didn't stumble. It turned immediately, its movements fluid and hungry. It seized Lufias by the collar and hauled him upward. The grip was crushing—strong enough to bruise through his jacket.
Its teeth snapped inches from his throat. The stench at this range was suffocating: the smell of old iron mixed with a wet, fermented heat.
Lufias shoved upward with both forearms, straining to keep the snapping jaws away. The creature's weight pressed down with mechanical force.
It adjusted.
The word flashed through his mind like a warning light. It wasn't guessing or stumbling; it was reacting to his resistance.
He drove his boot into its knee. The creature staggered, but it didn't collapse. It corrected its balance mid-fall.
Lufias's heart hammered against his ribs.
If he swung wide, he might miss the small, vital target of the brain. If he hesitated, the jugular was gone.
He rolled sharply to the side. The creature's nails scraped across his sleeve, missing the skin by a fraction of an inch. He scrambled to his feet, backpedaling as the creature rushed again.
Faster this time.
He swung the axe. The blade struck the side of the creature's skull with a dull, sickening clunk.
No penetration.
The bone was too thick. The creature barely flinched.
Lufias's hands began to tremble. This wasn't a routine hunt. This was a struggle for existence.
The creature tackled him against the hood of a rusted sedan. The metal buckled under the impact, the sound of denting steel echoing through the empty street. Pain shot through Lufias's shoulder. Teeth snapped toward his neck.
He jammed the axe handle horizontally across the creature's open mouth. The wood groaned and cracked under the biting pressure.
His muscles were screaming, his arms vibrating with the effort of holding back the dead. He had one chance. A shallow strike would be useless. He needed absolute commitment. One opening.
But that meant letting it get closer. Closer than safety. Closer than human instinct allowed.
Fifty–fifty.
Lufias inhaled sharply. Then, he stopped resisting.
For half a second, he went limp. The creature, sensing the sudden lack of opposition, pushed harder to compensate. Its upper body leaned forward, overextending its center of gravity.
That was the gap in the data.
Lufias shifted his hips downward, letting the creature's weight tilt over him. Its jaw was now aligned in a perfect vertical line above his face.
He ripped the axe free from the creature's mouth and drove it upward with every ounce of kinetic energy his body could muster.
No hesitation. No correction. Full commitment.
The blade pierced the soft tissue beneath the jaw. Bone resisted for a heartbeat—then gave way with a wet, splintering crack.
For a split second, the world went silent.
Then the creature convulsed. Its weight collapsed onto him, heavy and lifeless.
Lufias lay pinned beneath the corpse, his breath coming in ragged, desperate bursts. The world rang in his ears. He didn't move for ten seconds. When he finally shoved the body aside, his limbs were shaking uncontrollably.
His shoulder throbbed. His ribs felt like they were on fire.
He checked his neck. His arms. His torso.
No bite.
He slumped against the dented car and forced his breathing into the four-count rhythm. That creature had been an anomaly. Stronger. Faster. More aggressive. Maybe it had been an athlete in its former life. Maybe a soldier.
It didn't matter. He only knew one thing: If he had swung blindly, he would be dead.
He stared at the axe blade. It was dark, stained with a fluid that looked like oil.
That strike hadn't been about technique. It hadn't been a pattern he learned from a video.
It was resolve.
Reality: 2066
He woke with a deep, searing ache across his ribs and shoulder.
He sat up slowly, his breathing shallow. His physical body in the real world carried the phantom memory of the impact—the dented car, the crushing weight.
He stood before the mirror. The sterile, filtered air of 2066 felt like a joke. It felt artificial, a thin veil over the raw truth of the Delta.
His reflection was steady, but his eyes were changed. There was no longer just calculation in them. There was recognition.
This world could escalate without warning. It didn't care about his plans.
He clenched his fist once. No smile. No pride. Just a quiet, cold acceptance of the reality of his situation.
"Month one isn't over," he whispered to the glass.
And neither was he.