Ashe could feel the blades of grass tearing holes in his clothes, but it did not slow him. He bolted toward the sound, toward the cries, his walking stick clenched in his hand.

  As the grass grew shorter and sparser, a hand grabbed at his leg and yanked.

  “Help me.” Her voice was wet and tired, a soft gurgle, like she’d been drowning in her own tears.

  He dropped to his knees, careful with every movement in case something else was lurking nearby. “Are you hurt?”

  She gulped before answering. “Yes. My leg. I can’t walk.”

  “Can I check?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He let his hands run gently down her leg. Even before his fingers touched skin, he could already smell iron in the air: blood. Halfway down the shin, the bone bent unnaturally outward, jutting beneath his fingertips. Warm, slick blood coated his palm, and Ashe had to choke back the nausea clawing up his throat.

  He could not do anything for her leg now; his father would have to deal with it. He hated lying, but the truth would only push her deeper into shock.

  “You’ll be fine. Put pressure on the wound and try not to move,” he said, letting the words out on a soft breath, doing his best to keep his flimsy bravado from cracking.

  “Is it still around?” he whispered.

  She did not answer, but the way her grip tightened on his sleeve told him enough. He turned his head slowly, setting his ears to catch any sound.

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know. It was fast and small. Looked like a hyena, but its skin was made of crystals.” Her breathing hitched. “It was circling when you… when you crashed through the grass.”

  He hadn’t heard of that before, even in his research.

  But it had to be close. He listened. Silence pressed in on him; all he could hear was her heavy breathing and the pounding of her heartbeat.

  Then a rustle of grass. He turned, readying himself—

  “It’s me. Put that down.” Amalia’s voice.

  She let out a sigh when she reached him. “We really do need to get you a real weapon. Something that doesn’t make you sound so stupid.”

  He frowned. He liked his walking stick. It was the right size, familiar in his hand. But it was not sharp, and it would never do much damage.

  He pushed the thought aside, remembering the woman at his side. “She has a broken leg and needs medical attention.”

  Amalia’s clothes whispered as she crouched. “Yeah. Have you seen anything yet?”

  The words had barely left her mouth before the ground began to tremble and the grass rustled violently. It came from every direction. Ashe bent his knees, ready to react.

  He heard the faintest thread of fear in Amalia’s voice as she spoke. “Just don’t get yourself killed.” Even if she was used to higher-ranked portals, she was here without her team—stuck with a rookie.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Don’t worry.” His words trembled with nervous energy, despite their intent.

  Then the precognition kicked in.

  A dull pain lanced through his right shin, stronger and louder than in training, like someone had driven a nail straight into the bone.

  He moved without thinking. He shifted his weight to his left leg and let his right leg swing back. Claws slashed through the air where his ankle had been an instant earlier. Ashe brought his boot down hard into the creature’s side. He felt the jarring impact up through his knee and heard the rush of air as its lungs emptied, its body tumbling away in the grass.

  Another spike of pain shot from his left calf.

  He jumped, pushing off with both feet. Something snapped at the space under him as he landed. He drove his walking stick down into the creature’s back with all his weight. The stick bent, then snapped in two against the hardened hide. Its skin was too rough, too dense.

  He would be angry about that later. Right now it worked in his favor.

  The broken end was ragged, sharp, metallic where the inner core was exposed. He gripped the shorter piece, let the cold metal edge slide across the creature’s hide until he found a softer seam, then shoved. The point punched through. The beast let out a wet, porcine grunt and skidded to a stop in the grass.

  He could hear Amalia further away now, the air full of the slice of her sword and the choked screams of more creatures going down. The fight was spreading, thinning around him.

  Another warning flared, this time a stab of pain along his ribs. Something fast rushed past his chest, close enough that he felt the air peel his shirt against his skin. He pivoted toward the sound of its claws digging in for another turn, already bringing the jagged half-stick up.

  For the first time since entering the portal, he realised he was not guessing. The pain and the sounds and his own movements were lining up, smooth and sure. In training he had been a half-second behind every strike. Here, in the thick of it, he was already moving by the time the monsters chose their angles.

  As he took another step, his power flared again, a new hot spot of pain. He turned toward it and it split in two, stabbing into both his left and right legs.

  This was what he had been preparing for.

  He held still for a heartbeat, breathing, feeling for which spike burned stronger. Then he moved, driving his weight into that side. His knee slammed into the creature’s face; something cracked softly, and a spray of hot blood dotted his skin.

  The warmth of the portal heal washed over him like a hot bath on a cold night. The aches in his hands, feet, and knee eased, pain washing away until only a faint twinge remained. He felt lighter than before—lighter than after any day of sparring with Amalia. But the inputs were all foreign, and his mind was paying for it. A headache bloomed as the fight went on, his ability taxing every nerve—yet a smile crept across his face. The rush of it flooded him.

  As he reached Amalia, the sounds of battle had faded, then vanished. He homed in on her ragged breathing and closed the distance with careful steps, moving slowly now without his walking stick across a battlefield littered with bodies. He did not want to trip. That would kill whatever credibility he had managed to build, ruin his hard-won “aura.”

  The world lurched. The cold, chemical smell of a supermarket freezer aisle rushed into his nose.

  100 Points gained.

  He almost laughed, it had been an E-rank portal. She had lied to them. But he ignored it. For once, he did not care. They had made it.

  Amalia spoke before he got all the way to her. “We need to move. I can’t get through to her. I think she’s fully gone into shock.”

  Ashe had expected as much. He nodded. “Then let’s get going.”

  He heard Amalia groan with the effort and the woman make a low, broken sound as Amalia lifted her. Their steps were slow and careful as they made their way out of the supermarket.

  The doors slid open and sound hit him all at once. A crowd. Of course. Dammit, he thought.

  Then someone pushed through the noise and wrapped their arms around him—his father.

  Axel let go almost immediately, footsteps shifting as he focused on the woman in Amalia’s arms. “Get her to the car. Now. She needs a hospital. I can try to stabilise her on the way.”

  No one argued. Amalia barked at the crowd to clear out, and they did. Ashe suspected it was more fear than any sudden burst of community spirit.

  As soon as he climbed into the car, fatigue slammed into him. His head throbbed with a second heartbeat, and his stomach lurched; every small burp felt one step away from throwing up.

  But he had made it. Not just survived—he felt better, stronger, than after his last portal.