Mutant awakening: My evolution knows no bounds

[A poisonous infection has been detected]

[Infection has been nullified]

[Passive skill: Super Fast Healing will now kick in]

[-10 Soul Points]

Silas's breath came in sharp bursts as he leaped several meters back, the soles of his boots grinding against the dusty terrain. He needed space—just a moment to recover fully.

His muscles tightened, the fiery sting of poison fading, replaced by the familiar, soothing burn of rapid healing. His fingers twitched around his empty palms, waiting, calculating.

But Vic gave him no room to breathe. The creature's predatory instincts were razor-sharp, honed by countless battles. His jagged claws glinted under the afternoon sun, shooting forward like venom-tipped daggers. The wind carried the faint scent of decay.

Silas pushed off the ground, his body arching into a graceful backflip just in time. Vic's claws hissed through the air, slicing nothing but dust. Silas's boots landed solidly, but he didn't stop moving. He spun into another backflip, then another—each one creating precious distance, a lifeline wrapped in desperate grace.

Finally, he skidded to a halt, panting, sweat dripping down his brow. The gap between them yawned wide. Silas's eyes, a stormy mix of calculation and defiance, locked onto Vic.

"He's going all out," Silas thought, the thrum of his heartbeat syncing with his determination. "I don't see a reason why I shouldn't."

A surge of power crackled around his right hand, the air alive with bright blue energy. The energy condensed, solidified, and dissipated in a flash, revealing his Grade 5 scythe. Its obsidian blade gleamed under the sun's glare, edges sharp enough to carve through reality itself. Silas clenched the weapon, its familiar weight grounding him, tethering his resolve.

Vic's eyes narrowed, the crimson glow intensifying. He stood poised, shoulders hunched, a predator waiting for his prey to falter.

Silas raised his scythe, its blade reflecting the gleaming fury in his eyes. His voice was a whisper of steel.

"Time to end this."

[Active Skill: Lightning Dash has been activated]

The world bled into a standstill. Dust motes hung motionless in the sunbeam's path. The whispering breeze ceased, frozen mid-gust. Silas's muscles coiled like springs, and he launched forward, a streak of electric brilliance.

But something was wrong.

Vic moved—his figure blurred but unrelenting. His speed remained untouched, a defiance of physics and reason. His claws extended, each tip a promise of death.

"What the hell?" Silas's mind screamed, his momentum faltering as confusion took root. This wasn't how it was supposed to work. Against high-grade mutants, opponents slowed, dragged through molasses while he danced ahead of them. But Vic…

Vic defied it all.

[Active Skill: Lightning Dash has been deactivated]

The burst of speed ended abruptly, reality snapping back into place. Silas barely had time to register the change before Vic was upon him, a blur of flesh, claws, and menace.

A clawed hand streaked toward Silas, aiming for his throat.

Time slowed in Silas's perception—not because of any skill, but through sheer adrenaline. He could see the individual ridges of Vic's claws, the glistening of toxic residue along their jagged edges. He could smell the rot, the decay, the overwhelming aura of death.

Silas's scythe rose instinctively.

CLANG!

The impact jarred his arms, vibrations rattling his bones. Sparks flared where metal met claw. Silas gritted his teeth, every muscle straining to hold the block. He shoved off, leaping back, his boots scraping across the dirt.

Before Vic could retract his arm, Silas's scythe swung down in a wide, ruthless arc. The blade carved the air, an extension of his fury.

SLASH!n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

The scythe met flesh and sliced cleanly through. Vic's arm severed at the elbow, the limb spiraling to the ground in a grotesque dance. Black blood gushed in a sluggish stream, pooling around the fallen appendage.

For a heartbeat, Silas felt a pang of guilt, a flicker of empathy. But he crushed it, steeled his resolve. This was a fight for survival.

His brief satisfaction turned to dread as he watched Vic's severed arm dissolve. The black blood dried to dust, the breeze scattering it like ashes. Within seconds, nothing remained.

A sickening crackle filled the air, like bones knitting themselves from pure agony. Vic's stump shimmered, bubbled, and—impossibly—his arm regrew. Flesh, sinew, and claw reformed in a grotesque ballet, perfect as before.

Silas's jaw clenched, his knuckles white around his scythe.

"You have got to be kidding me."

Vic smiled, his teeth jagged and cruel. The glint in his eyes was victorious, confident.

"He can regenerate in a second? This just got tough. Tougher than I expected." Silas's thoughts spiraled, but he locked them down, buried them beneath a cold determination. He tightened his grip, every fiber of his being primed for the next move.

---

In the academy's portal room, a suffocating tension filled the air. The staff stood in a rigid line, eyes flicking nervously between the center of the room and the grand entrance.

The double doors swung open with a resounding THUD. Sir Dominic entered, his face pale, his shoulders set in grim resignation. Beside him, Kara's gaze burned with wary intensity.

"Still no sign of him?" Dominic's voice trembled beneath the surface. The staff shook their heads, a collective wave of dread.

A heartbeat passed. Then two.

A spark of crimson ignited at the center of the room—a pinprick of malevolent energy. It expanded, swirling into a vortex of red light. The air crackled with oppressive heat as the portal solidified into a perfect, shimmering circle.

Sir Dominic's pulse thundered.

"He's here."

The words dripped like poison, spreading fear through the room. The staff shuffled back, their eyes wide, breaths shallow.

Two figures emerged first—hulking men clad in crimson-scaled armor, shoulders bristling with golden spikes. Their muscles strained beneath the armor, veins like steel cables. Each gripped a massive battle-axe, the blades etched with ancient, cruel symbols.

They scanned the room, eyes cold and predatory.

Then came the man himself.

Caspian Cobrafang.

He stepped through the portal with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator who knew he was at the top of the food chain. His crimson suit was immaculate, tailored to perfection. Small, round glasses perched on his nose, the lenses gleaming. Strands of silver threaded through his slicked-back hair.

His presence sucked the warmth from the room.

His bodyguards bowed, heads lowered in deference.

Caspian's eyes found Sir Dominic. A smile curled his lips—a smile devoid of joy, filled only with sharp edges.

"Dominic, Dominic," Caspian purred, his voice a velvet-wrapped dagger. He closed the distance, placing a deceptively gentle hand on Dominic's shoulder. The smile lingered, false and glinting.

"Good to see you too, Mr. Cobrafang," Dominic managed, bowing his head slightly.

The grip on his shoulder tightened. Pain ignited—a burning, twisting agony that clawed into his bones. Dominic's teeth ground together, sweat beading on his brow.

"You know why I'm here, don't you?" Caspian's voice darkened, the shadows gathering.

"Yes," Dominic gasped, voice strained. "Your son—"

Caspian's eyes blazed.

"You delivered the news like he was an animal." His words were acid, his fingers a vice.

"I came here angry, Dominic," Caspian whispered. "And you know what happens when I'm angry."