System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 252: Severed Flesh and Broken Vows
Roy collapsed onto the ground and drew a rough breath. The black veins on his face writhed like earthworms. He bared his teeth. Pain coursed through his whole body as if he had been taken apart joint by joint, most of all in the place where Fergus’s fist had struck his liver.
Reality was cruel.
That one furious punch from Demon Fergus had driven his HP straight down to twenty percent, and under his status bar there now stood the glaring words: Severely Injured. Had it not been for that burst of “Activation,” he likely would not have been able to stand again.
“Fergus might have been a retired demon boxer.”
The Witcher spat out another mouthful of bloody froth. His condition had turned dire, as though every cell and every bone in his body were howling in agony. Most of all the right side of his chest and abdomen, near the liver, where broken ribs had caved inward. Waves of stabbing pain spread from there toward the tips of his fingers and toes, and the sensation dragged his thoughts back to the bitter days of the Trial of the Grasses.
Wrapped in pain, Roy curled over like a boiled river shrimp, twitching without pause. In the blink of an eye, cold sweat poured off him.
Perhaps the pain had reached its limit. Very soon, beneath the dazzling sunlight, the Witcher, barely holding himself upright, grew dazed. His pupils began to dilate. His body swayed. And from the bottom of his heart rose a seductive voice.
“Sleep ... sleep...”
“So tired ... so sleepy...” A dull buzzing filled the Witcher’s ears. Everything in the narrow slit of his vision doubled, and if he let his guard slip, he would fall straight into deep sleep.
He shook his head and muttered thickly, “No ... can’t sleep ... Letho, Orin ... need help...”
Roy steeled himself and bit the tip of his tongue. As salty blood flooded his mouth, he suddenly opened his bloodshot eyes wide and forced his mind back into focus. Then, all at once, a familiar brown head pushed into view.
“Vyrt ... didn’t I tell you to run? Why did you come back?”
The brown horse’s warm, sticky tongue licked the Witcher’s cheek. Then it lowered its neck and knelt to the ground.
“Brave, thoughtful little darling...” Roy laboriously wrapped an arm around its neck and hauled himself onto its back.
The boy Karl was already there on the saddle. Behind him sat Griffin in the form of a black cat. Both were staring at Roy with deep concern.
“Roy, what ... what’s wrong with you?”
“Relax ... I won’t die...” Roy said weakly, sprawled over the horse’s back. The next moment Griffin, still a black cat, sprang over and began licking Roy’s burned right hand.
Threads of cool saliva eased the Witcher’s pain a little. He at once drew out a Celandine Potion and a Virility Potion from storage.
He swallowed both in one go, and only then felt somewhat better.
At a time like this, what he truly needed was another Swallow to speed the healing. Unfortunately, he had already taken Thunderbolt and Petri’s Philter earlier. With his present physique, he could not withstand a third potion in such a short span. The harm would outweigh the benefit.
“Vyrt, go that way...” The Witcher patted the horse’s neck and glanced toward the distant crossing figures. “Find some cover, and don’t get too close. Don’t let the old hags notice you.”
On the other side, the battle between the four Witchers and the Ladies of the Wood had reached a fever pitch.
Freed from the anti-magic state, Brewess now held an enormous black metal stirring spoon. She wielded it like a two-handed hammer or a battle axe.
Both hands clenched on the handle, with her right foot planted as a pivot, she spun her huge bloated body like a discus thrower.
Driven by monstrous momentum and strength, the metal spoon, more than two yards long, swept through the air like lightning, tracing a perfect oval arc.
The air wailed. Grass clippings and dust flew. Everything within that oval became a dead zone of destruction.
Even watching from afar, Roy could feel the terrible destructive force packed into Brewess’s chain of blows. No one could take them head on.
Not flesh, not even steel.
Facing her were the Orin brothers, elite fighters of the Viper School, veteran hunters who had slain wyverns, griffins, and countless other large monsters over decades of Witcher life.
Their teamwork was seamless, their experience rich, and they circled with Brewess without falling behind.
Their superhuman sharpness let them dance along the edge of Brewess’s “Death Whirl,” slipping and weaving with elegant precision.
Most of the time, they waited patiently at the flanks, never greedy, never rash.
Even the fiercest assault had to ebb.
Swinging that huge metal spoon consumed an enormous amount of stamina. Every time Brewess completed two or three full spins, she had to stop and suck in air.
And the Orin brothers attacked in those moments.
They moved lightly and swiftly. Their wrists flicked, and the blades, coated with blade oil and poison, danced with serpentine agility.
Like two vipers coiling around prey, still one instant and then, the next, striking Brewess’s body with startling speed, injecting poison, then immediately releasing and withdrawing, slipping past Brewess’s sluggish counterattacks, circling to a new angle, and striking again.
They were neither rushed nor lax, advancing and withdrawing by rule, simply waiting for the poison within Brewess to build to the critical point.
Brewess was already covered in wounds, her strength fading. The close-fitted cloth on her body had been cut to tatters, exposing her disgusting folds of fat. Even the fish-basket helmet on her head had been broken open, revealing a single black tumor-like eye beneath.
“Huff ... huff...” Brewess panted twice, then swung the giant spoon again to drive the Witchers back. In the next instant, a reddish-brown glass jar appeared in her hand.
She bit out the stopper and was just about to drain the potion within.
Then, without warning, a crossbow bolt came from afar, punched through the jar, and splashed its contents across the ground, along with a pale swollen eyeball steeped inside.
“Who dares ruin my work?” Brewess roared with rage, but the Orin brothers had already swarmed back over her like leeches, silver swords of the Viper School flashing again.
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