Chapter Thirty-Five: What Is Missing

Thump! Thump! Thump!

I never expected that my simultaneous strike would actually land. It slammed directly into his chest, forcing him to stumble back repeatedly. Seeing the brief flicker of surprise in his eyes, followed by an even more frenzied expression, I realized my mistake. Since my left hand lacked leverage, I had only managed a glancing blow to his upper body. While it pushed him back, it caused no real damage—it was like tickling him.

A wave of frustration washed over me. I’m not a naturally ruthless person; after entering adulthood and adapting to society, I’ve never had to fight for my life. I simply didn't know how to strike with true malice. Even as I felt a pang of regret for my hesitant approach, I had no choice but to face the consequences.

As expected, my ineffective strike only stalled him for a heartbeat before he lunged forward again. This time, he charged straight at me. He was still wielding his shiv, but when he was about two paces away, he leaped into the air.

He descended with terrifying momentum, his shiv poised to plunge into me from above, while his left fist hammered toward my face. Lacking formal combat training, I knew that even the slightest lapse in judgment would be fatal. I relied on the street-fighting instincts of my youth, keeping my eyes locked on him, my mind racing. I was struck with amazement at how such a small, agile figure could move with such tactical precision.

I swung my own shiv to parry his, all while trying to dodge his fist. Yet, I seemed to have forgotten that my conscious thoughts couldn't keep pace with the speed of my reactions. Lacking professional experience or a history of regular brawling, I felt a sinking dread as I watched his agile movements. I knew I was in trouble.

I had to react to his assault, but I was clearly being too optimistic. Although I managed to parry his shiv at the last moment, it was too late to evade his fist. It had been a long time since I’d been in a fight; even though my mind was racing, my body could only respond helplessly, observing the aftermath of my own sluggish movements.

I didn't want this outcome, but I was trapped by my own limitations. Unlike him, I had no such luck. I felt the rush of wind as his fist slammed into the right side of my face, near my nose and cheekbone.

A sharp, stinging pain erupted, and hot blood gushed instantly from my nose. The numbing, throbbing sensation was so intense that it felt as if the gum line near my nose had been shattered. Stars danced in my vision, and the world spun violently, leaving me dizzy. I barely had time to think.

I knew I had suffered a ruthless blow, yet I felt no despair or regret. Instead, I suddenly realized that with the pain and the sight of my own blood, something had shifted. My hands, previously slick with weak, cold sweat, now seemed to possess a newfound strength. Whether it was the physical trauma or the sheer intensity of the life-or-death crisis, I felt a surge of power as my fingers gripped the weapon.

I don’t know if others have felt this same tragic desperation when being abused, but after that impact, the pain and fear seemed to awaken a dormant instinct for survival buried deep within me. I don’t know if it was bloodlust, but as the reality of death loomed, I found my mind and body beginning to synchronize.

The force of the blow nearly sent me to the ground, but after stumbling back a few steps, I managed to steady myself. Before I could even process the thought, I felt him charging again, clearly intent on giving me no chance to recover. In the darkness, the proximity of death felt suffocatingly urgent.

But my mind grew remarkably clear. I knew I couldn't die here. If I were any slower, he would surely pin me to the ground with his blade. I refused to let that happen; I would not be snuffed out by him.

Relying on raw instinct, I staggered to the side. This time, the movement was fluid. I dodged swiftly, swinging my shiv to keep him at bay before I had even fully processed the maneuver. He didn't know my capabilities yet, and though I had started out clumsy and slow, I forced myself to adapt. I had to buy time to bring my mind and body into perfect harmony.

If I couldn't remain calm, I knew he would finish me off quickly. Despite the agony in my nose and jaw, and the tears and blood streaming down my face, I knew this wasn't a matter of pride. I shook my head sharply to maintain a sliver of clarity and narrowly avoided a lethal strike. In the darkness, our weapons clashed twice.

The brief delay, a slight buffer in my thinking, finally allowed my vision to clear. I knew he was determined to kill me; at this point, words and thoughts were useless. My only option was to counterattack with maximum speed. After taking two more blows—including another to the face—I felt my head spinning, and I was on the verge of collapsing.

I gritted my teeth against the pain. Even if I couldn't react in time, I recalled an old saying: "Hands are like two gates; victory depends on the legs." Real combat isn't just about the hands. I watched his movements and the direction of his dodges.

Following two more hits, I finally managed a kick. To my surprise, that single, seemingly weak kick forced him to retreat. In that moment of hesitation, I realized he had an instinctive fear of being struck himself.

Fueled by a sudden surge of courage, I planted my feet firmly, pushed off the ground, and lunged at him. This was my first true attack. With a powerful swing, I brought my shiv down hard, using it not for stabbing, but as a club.

"Ya! Ah!"