The air in the Iron-Grip Canyon didn't just smell like death; it smelled like copper and cheap ego.
Zayn stood in the center of a circular clearing, surrounded by twelve members of the "Blood-Hawk Mercenaries." They were mid-tier trash, the kind of guys who thought having a scar across their eye and a spiked club made them main characters.
To Zayn, they were just obstacles in a very long, very annoying day.
"You've got a lot of nerve, kid," the leader, a mountain of a man named Kaelen, spat. He swung a massive obsidian greataxe, the edge notched from years of hacking through bone. "Walking into our territory like you own the place.
Do you have any idea what we do to trespassers?".
Zayn looked at his fingernails. There was a bit of dirt under the left thumb. It bothered him.
"Let me guess," Zayn said, his voice a flat, deadpan drone.
"You're going to give a five-minute monologue about your tragic backstory, mention how many men you've killed, and then try to skin me alive.
Then, about three minutes into the fight, you'll realize you're outclassed, try to beg for mercy, and I'll have to listen to you cry. Honestly, the crying is the worst part. It's very high-pitched. Not very 'mercenary' of you."
The clearing went silent. Even the birds seemed to stop chirping, sensing the sheer audacity of the statement.
Kaelen's face turned a shade of purple that was almost impressive. "Kill him. Tear his limbs off. I want his head as a bowl for my morning porridge."
[Warning: Hostility Levels Critical]
[Primal Gauge: 14%]
[System Note: Your 'Rage' is currently 'Mildly Irritated'. Would you like to upgrade to 'Violent Intent'?]
Yes, Zayn thought, a cold, jagged smile finally touching his lips. Let's see if porridge tastes better out of a shattered skull.
The first mercenary lunged—a speed-type with twin daggers. He was fast, moving like a blur of brown leather and steel. In any other story, he would have been a threat. Here, he was a tutorial.
Zayn didn't dodge. He moved inward.
He caught the mercenary's wrists mid-air. The sound of bones snapping was like dry kindling being stepped on. Zayn didn't stop there. He used the man's own momentum to swing him around, slamming his head into the chest of a second attacker.
The sound of the impact was wet. A sickening thwack that suggested neither man would be breathing correctly ever again.
"Inefficient," Zayn muttered.
[Primal Gauge: 28%]
He felt the heat rising in his chest. It wasn't just anger; it was the "Primal" side of his core, the part that viewed biology as a series of fragile pulleys and levers just waiting to be snapped.
Two more mercenaries rushed him from behind. Zayn pivoted, his hand blurring into a claw-like grip. He caught one by the throat and the other by the face. With a roar that vibrated the very stones beneath his feet, he slammed their heads together.
The gore was spectacular. Brain matter and bone shards sprayed across Zayn's chest, painting his black tunic in a fresh, steaming layer of crimson.
"Ugh," Zayn groaned, looking down at the mess. "This was a new shirt. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get blood out of enchanted silk? You have to use cold water and salt, and even then, there's always a faint pink stain. It's unprofessional."
"HE'S A MONSTER!" one of the mercenaries screamed, dropping his mace and turning to run.
"Monster is such a harsh word," Zayn said, his eyes suddenly glowing with a feral, golden light. "I prefer 'Highly Motivated Individual'."
He vanished.
[Skill Activated: Primal Step]
He reappeared behind the fleeing man. He didn't use a weapon. He didn't need one. He reached out and grabbed the man's spine through his leather armor. With a sharp, rhythmic jerk, he pulled.
The sound was a long, horrifying zip.
Zayn stood there, holding a dripping, intact spinal column while the rest of the mercenary collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
[Primal Gauge: 65%]
[Status: Bloodthirsty]
Kaelen was the only one left standing. The "Mountain of a Man" was now shaking so hard his obsidian axe was rattling against his greaves. He looked at his twelve men—or what was left of them. The clearing was a slaughterhouse.
There were limbs in the trees, teeth in the dirt, and a general lack of structural integrity among the Blood-Hawks.
"Wait... wait!" Kaelen stammered, dropping his axe. "I have gold! I have maps! I have—"
"A very high-pitched voice," Zayn interrupted, stepping over a severed leg. "Just like I predicted. You're ruining the pacing of my day, Kaelen."
Zayn reached out, his hand dripping with the ichor of Kaelen's subordinates. He grabbed the mercenary leader by the front of his armor and hoisted him into the air with one hand. The strength was unnatural, fueled by the rising Primal Gauge.
"You wanted to use my head as a bowl?" Zayn asked, his voice a low, terrifying growl that resonated with the power of the system.
He leaned in close, his golden eyes locking onto Kaelen's dilated pupils.
"I'm more of a 'plate' person myself."
Zayn gripped Kaelen's jaw with both hands. There was no struggle. There was only the sound of heavy-duty hinges being forced the wrong way.
CRACK-SHREK.
Zayn tossed the remains aside with a look of genuine disgust. He wiped his hands on Kaelen's cape, which was surprisingly soft.
"Well," Zayn said, looking around the empty, blood-soaked clearing. "That was productive. I've reached the 19th Rank of the Primal Path, I've secured the canyon, and I've successfully ruined my wardrobe."
He paused, looking at a small, unscathed pouch of gold on the belt of one of the corpses. He picked it up and weighed it in his hand.
"On the bright side," he muttered, walking away from the carnage without looking back. "I can afford the dry cleaning now."
[XP Gained: 12,000]
[New Title Earned: The Canyon Butcher]
[Zayn's Mood: 2/10 - Needs a shower.]