1,000,000 Karma: My Reward Is a Quiet Life-Chapter 33: The Blessed and Those Without

From the depths of darkness in the isolated mines, laughter echoed from the mouth of the hairy warrior, "Hah! Y’know me, d’you?!"

With heavy, yet agile steps, the bestial man approached with violent haste. There was no hesitation from the archer, releasing another orange-tipped arrow right for the incoming hostile.

Only a laugh escaped from Thros as the massive blade swiped in front of him, dismissing the projectile. It exploded into bright sparks behind the man, who continued on his bloody march.

’He swatted it away–?’ Otto witnessed.

The bowman reached behind his back, though the motion was too slow; the berserker reached him quicker than anticipated. He looked up, locking his eyes onto that harrowing cleaver as it was brought down–

"Hrgghh!"

Once more, he was intercepted as the wall of scarlet muscle arrived between them. Right down the middle, the enormous edge cut through the orc’s torso, leaving a splash of red to paint the ground.

"Redrum!--" Otto watched in shock.

The orc keeled over with the fatal gash spewing out far too much blood to be shrugged off. While he faced concern, the archer felt a distinct change in the air, ducking down as a heavy force passed over.

It took a moment to process that he was still in one piece, watching the brutal weapon swing past, yet its momentum was easily controlled in the maddened man’s grip. While nothing but meager scraps were left of the warrior’s reason, it was clear enough to see the years of experience carved into Thros’ body.

Forearms thick and solid like steel, catered to swinging the unwieldy sword; broad shoulders like boulders, and legs like a steed.

["The real deal–this is a full-fledged adventurer; one who has slain dragons and conquered giants. Everything I aspired to be."]

From the heroic images in his mind, the elf was turned back to reality as the expression devoid of reason confronted him. He slipped back as the enormous blade crashed into the stone in front of him, splitting into it.

The impact caused the ground to rumble, throwing the nimble off balance for just a moment as he failed to ready his arrow. In that small frame of time, the berserker rushed him relentlessly.

"C’mon! C’mon!" Thros excitedly egged on, chasing after.

Trusting his footing, Otto paced backwards, leaning back as another swing came from the terrifying sword. Inches from his face, he watched the ridged edge pass by, feeling the sharpened air brushing over his nose.

’One touch, one touch by that thing...and I’m a goner. I have to keep my distance, somehow–I have to create distance and find the perfect shot,’ he planned.

"O’ Wind, Guide Me!" Otto hurriedly invoked, releasing his calmest breath amidst the madness.

There wasn’t a second free from the pursuit of the mad warrior. As the blade was swung for his neck this time, an ethereal gale encircled his body. It was faint, but not silent; a quiet whisper crawled through the wind as it guided his feet without moving, turning him out of the path of being beheaded.

It was an unnatural position, leaned back to the point the top of his head was where his hip should be. He used the missed swing to draw his bow from his peculiar pose, aiming it from no more than a meter of distance from the target.

Between his fingers, the arrow flew forth with true aim, sailing for the jugular of the wanted criminal. Every cell in the elf’s body prayed it would strike, to avoid any further gambles against that frightening sword.

"Hrhngh!"

Crunch.

Like a rabid beast, the unshaven man snapped his jaws, catching the arrow between his teeth. The sight of the animalistic dismissal of his shot was disheartening to say the least, though he moved before he met his demise.

Across the chain-filled cavern, the maddened stomps came as the archer slid himself to the right with the guidance of wind. Just as he moved, he watched the gargantuan blade fly by, sticking into the wall of stone behind him.

It impaled the rocks with such force that the cave rumbled, splitting along the old minerals with cracks. The tremor shook the elf down to the marrow of his bone, having to imagine if he was impaled, and what little would be left of him.

’Against someone like Thros, a living legend–I couldn’t possibly...’ He doubted.

Amidst his faltering mind, the blessed wind pushed him aside once more as the figure closed the distance, though it wasn’t enough. Thros’ hand grabbed the blade stuck in the rocks while delivering his right fist into the archer’s gut.

Every particle of oxygen flew out of his mouth, along with a heaping of blood and saliva. Before he knew it, his back was slammed against the wall, though the collision was blunted by the pain his organs felt.

’Can’t breathe...I can’t...’ The panicked thoughts bounced in his mind.

No part of his body listened to him, even his knees buckling as he started to slide down against the wall. In front of him, the ruthless madman pulled the handle of his stuck blade, unearthing it as rubble followed, with a few pebbles falling on his head, to add insult to injury.

"Pathetic," Thros remarked with an unimpressed exhale. "The world’s going to shit, if this is what adventurers are made of these days."

There was nothing the young elf could say for himself, only wheezing as he tried to convince his lungs to do their job. He saw his reflection in the old, rusty blade; despite its worn age, its silver still shined through its degradation.

["I’m not special. Maybe at one point in my life, but that time’s long since passed."]

With certain death, accepted in its inevitability, the young man’s mind brought him to a fonder time. To peaceful days in the land he knew as "home"--a tranquil village safeguarded by eternal trees.

A place where strife was rarer than a five-leaf clover; the forest blessed the small village with abundant produce. At a young age, the boy sat on a rock by the quiet stream running through the soil. In his hands, he caressed the wind as though it were a curious animal.

With a mistaken step, the clumsy child tumbled towards the running river, only saved from being washed away as the kind wind turned him away.

When climbing a tree, the branch he grabbed onto snapped, though as he fell, at his back, the breath of the world softened his landing.

["...That’s right. At one point, I was favored."]

Gasping for breath in the stench-ridden, dark cave, he felt further from being blessed than ever. A bit of air was forced into his lungs, giving him the strength to squeeze his bow, but the blade was already being swung downward–certain death.

"Hrgh!"

Before the giant blade could come down, four arms wrapped around the mad warrior’s body, squeezing firmly and hoisting the figure up. It was a shocking sight to say the least, leaving the bruised archer watching in awe as the unstoppable lunatic was thrown back.

Otto looked on, finding the orc standing there catching his breath after the tremendous save.

"Are you still able to fight?" Redrum asked through a huff.

While just taking a breath made his lungs feel like spikes rolled across them, he nodded, "...Yeah, I can. And you? Thought you found your grave there."

"I recovered," Redrum assured with a triumphant flex. "With meat."

"Right, with meat," Otto mumbled.