88

It was unconscious.

Before I realized it, I had taken a step back.

Was I intimidated?

No—the sudden change had been so grotesque that I instinctively raised my alert level.

But more than that, I felt fear from the face twisted with mad delight.

(He did say “found you.” That means he was searching for a comrade.)

There could be countless reasons, but why would he look at me with those eyes?

If he glared at me as though I were a mortal enemy, I could understand.

Even if we were both Genetically Enhanced Soldiers, hating me as a remnant of the Empire—the one that turned him into a monster—would make sense.

I myself had been nearly tricked into it, and not everyone could accept it as willingly as I did.

No matter how I considered every possibility, I couldn’t understand this situation.

So was this a mismatch of perception caused by my lack of information?

(Maybe something was planted in him before he became a Genetically Enhanced Soldier… or maybe he learned something he shouldn’t have?)

It was entirely possible.

If so, the only choice was to beat it out of him.

I had to first knock him down, then have the proper conversation.

With that conclusion—“hit him until he calms down”—I squared off against my crazed comrade, his bloodshot eyes bulging as though he might spring at me any second.

My reaction wasn’t slow.

But his charge came at a speed unlike before, and I failed to dodge the slash that followed—a painful mistake.

A deeper gash than ever before tore into my left arm, blood dripping red down as I clicked my tongue.

(Just throwing away the shield couldn’t make him this fast… No, that’s it!)

If he was like me, a Genetically Enhanced Soldier, it wouldn’t be strange for him to have a special ability.

And if he hadn’t used it until now, it must have some restriction—or a price.

(Time limit, or penalty afterward… damn, that’s the kind of manga-like power I wish I had too!)

Twice, three times, he swung. I barely dodged, but stalling wasn’t an option.

I needed to go on the offensive somehow, but if I got careless against a saber that could cut my hide, I’d bleed badly.

Even if I looked for an opening, his reaction speed would counter it.

“Damn, I can’t find a way to attack,” I muttered as I dodged slashes, then tried to strike with my tail—only to have its tip sliced off.

It wasn’t even a centimeter, so no pain and no handicap, but it reminded me how impossible his reflexes were to crack.

Focusing completely on evasion, the roles had reversed when I spotted something.

It was the discarded tower shield. That saber was likely forged from the same alloy, but with the shield’s thickness, it wouldn’t cut through.

I grinned wide, leapt back, and as he closed in, I kicked up dirt to blind him.

He guarded his eyes, but a fair bit of dirt got into his mouth, making him stop and spit.

I took the chance to sprint full speed to the shield, grabbed it, and turned back with a smug grin, holding it up.

(Not bad… in fact, I think I’ll keep this.)

After all, equipment my size was always hard to come by.

Taking it as compensation after this “conversation” wouldn’t be unreasonable.

Burying him and taking both shield and saber crossed my mind too, but whether that happened depended on him. In his crazed state, though, I doubted a real dialogue was possible.

Still, I had to try.

“AAAAAAAHHHH!”

He roared at the sight of me bracing behind the shield.

(Too late to regret not tossing it far away. Since I picked it up, I’ll make full use of it.)

He leapt with a strong attack; I stepped back to evade, then blocked the follow-up combo of quick, quick, strong slashes with the shield.

As expected, the tower shield held easily.

I absorbed the blows and watched for a chance to strike back.

(Whatever conditions his ability requires, this furious assault shows he can’t keep it up long!)

As I kept blocking, he changed approach.

He pressed the saber against the shield, trying to brute-force it.

“That’s a mistake,” I thought—but no, boosted as he was, I couldn’t overpower it even with all my strength.

The increase was huge. But the strain on his body had to be as well. If he had started this way, I would have been forced to retreat.

Sensing that brute force wouldn’t decide it, he switched the saber to one hand, reaching with the other for my shield.

He meant to wrench it open and thrust inside—but that was far too hasty.

As expected, he used his enhanced reflexes to knock my shield aside, then thrust straight for my heart.

But I’d anticipated it.

I arched back, falling away as I kicked his arm.

The saber spun up into the air, and as he looked up, I tackled him, driving him down.

He tried to kick me off, but weight was on my side.

We fought bare-fisted for control, both hammering away unguarded.

Then I caught it—his eyes darting away for an instant.

Grabbing both my arms, he pulled me in, planted his feet in my stomach, and threw me with his whole body. He rolled, stood, and ran.

I knew where—toward the saber stuck in the ground.

I was ready.

The moment he bolted, I snatched the shield again and chased.

When he grabbed the sword, I slammed into him with a shield bash aimed at his sword arm, then gripped the shield with both hands and battered him like a bludgeon.

Even with fast reflexes, once his stance was broken, he couldn’t answer cleanly.

That’s why I poured into a storm of shield strikes.

His arm went numb, and at last the saber slipped free. I kicked it away, then hurled the shield at it, sending the weapon spinning even farther out.

(Here we go—the hand-to-hand brawl we’ve been waiting for!)

I stepped in and smashed a heavy punch into his gut.

The leather armor dulled it, but the damage still landed.

With both of us bare-handed, my superior durability made this the surest path to victory.

He knew it too, but I didn’t give him a chance to retrieve a weapon.

Forced into melee, the damage stacked on his body.

And then, even as my fists pounded him, he caught one arm in both hands and sank his teeth into it.

On reflex, I hammered his face and pried him off, but blood ran from the bite marks.

(So you’ll fight dirty? Fine, then…!)

With that bleeding arm, I struck his nose with a light, fast jab.

Catching his flinch, I stomped his foot, then drove my fist deep into his side.

His arm clamped around my neck, but I answered with a body blow.

When he let go, I slammed a straight punch into his face, knocking him stumbling back several steps but not down.

At this point, the difference was clear.

And yet his face flushed red, veins bulging all over his body.

No doubt it was the cost of his boost.

I thought the fight was decided. But he didn’t.

He staggered toward me, arm outstretched.

“HAYAGU, GWAZERO!”

That undefended hand—those unarmored fingers—I seized the chance.

I bit down hard and tore them off.

He stared blankly at his hand, and as I spat the four severed fingers, for some reason, I found myself chewing and swallowing the scraps of flesh clinging to the bone.