Echo denied : sabertooth edition

After a few screams and the wet splashes of blood, Lysander forced himself out of the system interface, gripped by the fear of some terrible, unannounced death.

He looked around, scanning for any familiar faces—more precisely, Jason's—but was immediately forced to move aside. A switchblade now occupied the space where his neck had just been.

The man holding the knife was middle-aged, laughing hysterically. Behind him lay a pile of bodies, their faces frozen in horror and unwillingness. And that's when Lysander understood what the system meant by: "Kills give experience."

Facing this lunatic, Lysander sidestepped quickly, barely dodging the next stab. He summoned his blade in the same breath. The frenzied man, caught off guard by Lysander's sudden movement, stumbled forward and dropped to his knees—but before they even hit the ground, a sharp slice of wind cut the air.

The attacker's head rolled off his shoulders, his expression still seemingly unaware of death.

DING.

The familiar mechanical voice rang out—but Lysander chose to ignore it for now. He cleaned his blade with practiced ease and turned to observe his surroundings, the adrenaline finally giving way to cold understanding: Power in the hands of a child is a terrifying thing.

Shaking his head, he left the bloodstained grasslands, keeping an eye on the other survivors. As for the man he just killed? He didn't care enough to mourn a stranger.

Maybe it seemed cold. Maybe it was. But in this world, hunger and justice tasted similar enough to keep him from playing the hero.

With a speed that would put any human to shame, he crossed the plain and entered the dense forest—intent on becoming strong enough to protect himself. And maybe... Jason.

He steeled his nerves as he stepped beneath the shadowy canopy, unaware of what monsters lurked there. Nimbly, he climbed one of the longer trees—twisted, mutated versions of oak—and hid among its branches.

Only once hidden did he start tending the wounds caused by the blades of grass. Just as he finished, he heard a roar echo through the forest. It was closing in fast.

He looked down—and saw the trail of blood left in its wake.

A bitter smile formed on his face.

Of course.

From the treeline, a sabertooth, nearly ten feet tall, emerged. Its glistening canines bared, its growl laced with a malicious hunger. Hiding wasn't an option now.

Lysander slowly climbed down the oak, mind racing for any strategy to survive. For now, he had a blade, the Observer's Glare, and a shitty bloodline that still hadn't activated—for god knows what reason.

Clicking his tongue in frustration, he activated Observer's Glare.

His eyes strained immediately—but beyond the pain, he felt something shift. His vision turned black and white.

Then he saw it.

Everything about the beast was grayscale—except for a small spot below its neck and just above its tail, glowing with vibrant color.

A weak point.

Relief surged through him. He had a chance.

Lysander darted forward, slipping beneath the sabertooth's legs and slashing at the exposed area beneath its neck. The beast roared in shock, then retaliated with terrifying speed, swiping at him with a massive claw.

Lysander leapt back instinctively—barely.

The claw's wind residue still hit him like a hammer, sending a burst of blood from his mouth. Clutching his injured leg, he stood again, stared the furious beast down, and sighed.

"Fuck it."

He turned and bolted in the opposite direction.

He ran several hundred meters before the air shifted—and he understood. That ominous feeling. That sound.

The beast was playing with him.

He skidded to a stop, rolled into the dirt, and pocketed a fistful of soil. Then he turned. His eyes burned with resolve.

The ten-foot monster watched him approach, golden eyes filled with amusement. It opened its jaws wide.

Lysander moved to dodge—but he was a second too late.

ZAP.

Electricity surged through him.

"Freaking bloodline," he cursed, sizzling.

Now he looked like a half-roasted chicken—battered from head to toe, his charred clothes sticking to skin.

The sabertooth approached leisurely, thinking him half-dead.

Roasted human... must taste pretty good, it probably thought.

But just as it salivated—

Lysander jumped.

No blade this time.

Just soil.

He flung the dirt into its eyes.

Blinded, the sabertooth roared and flailed like a rabid beast. Lysander ducked and wove between its claws, kiting it as he slashed again at the same weak spot beneath its neck.

But the cut was shallow.

Instead of weakening, the beast exploded in rage.

A crackle of dark lightning burst from it, covering a ten-meter radius—frying everything in the vicinity, including Lysander.

He grit his teeth and ran, ignoring the pain, charging toward its tail. No time for defense. He swung with all his might—but the beast sensed death.

It coiled its tail at the last second.

Lysander's blade missed. Momentum betrayed him. He fell face-first into the dirt.

No time to think. He rolled on instinct—but a claw caught him mid-motion.

Slashed. Bleeding.

He looked up at the sneering sabertooth, fury and exhaustion blurring together.

With nothing else left, he activated Observer's Glare—at full throttle.

His eyes nearly popped.

But it was useless.

The world offered no insight now.

The sabertooth stepped forward.

The hunt was over.

It leapt toward him.

Lysander closed his eyes. He didn't want to see it. Not the claws. Not the end.

"Maybe I really am a terrible writer, Jason."

He whispered to no one.

And waited for the claw.

But nothing came.

When he opened his eyes, confused, they were glowing.

The world... glitched.

And the ten-foot behemoth?

It stood still, split in half, eyes locked on him with astonishment—before its body collapsed, lifeless.