It was the nerves that were tiring Joel.

Physically, he knew he should’ve been fine. He’d run every day at the Berrygood Lodge. A six second exchange, even in his hurt state, wouldn’t exhaust him. Yet, his labored breaths were so loud that he was worried the others would hear him from the faraway camp.

Boreth, wielding his ivory hilt cutlass, circled around him. Even with his bandaged arm, he didn’t seem bothered. Each step was deceptively relaxed. His heavy-lidded eyes were alive and alert, fixed forward.

Wincing, Joel wiped the blood on his cheek. Not a particularly deep cut, but enough to wet his entire cheek red. He kept his distance from the dwarf, holding the quarterstaff outstretched between them. 

“It’s different than fighting a wild beast, isn’t it?” Boreth said, stoic as ever. 

It was. 

During the Early Access days, Joel never was a truly hardcore PvPer, someone who indulged in combat with other players. He wasn’t sure if this counted as that, considering Boreth wasn’t another player. Despite that, his stomach tightened while his nerves felt like they were on fire. 

Their earlier exchange was swift and enlightening. A lesson taught within five strikes. 

In truth, he had some advantages. The range of his staff was longer than Boreth’s shorter, single-edged sword. Also, though chipped, the heft of its wood protected itself from the sharp slices. 

However, Boreth had come out ahead from the skirmish. Untouched and unworried. Peeking sunlight gleamed on the scarlet that lined his sword’s edge. 

Joel rolled his hurt shoulder back, the bleeding cut making his tunic cling to him. He hated the way it felt like he was stalling for time. 

“You still got a chance to leave,” Boreth said, as if reading his thoughts. The salt dwarf flicked his sword, splattering blood on a nearby tree’s gnarled roots. “Let’s pretend you do get the better of this old sea beard. You think you come out unscathed enough to best the ones back at camp?”

Clenching his jaw, Joel pulled his bag from over his other shoulder and tossed it aside. He lightly hopped on the balls of his feet, side to side, like an outboxer in a ring. If the [Quarterstaff Proficiency] wouldn’t be enough, then he’d have to mix it up. This time he didn’t dash forward. If they both fought with reckless instinct, he’d lose. So he inched toward his opponent, carefully taking measure of the space between them. 

Boreth raised a brow, matching the slow approach. 

Another testing jab was blocked by the sharp blade, thin wood shavings curling off its edge. Staff and sword collided against each other, the weight of the wielder behind them. They pushed against each other like two bulls locking horns, and Joel did everything he could to not slide on the wet grass. An invigorated shove from the dwarf broke space, enough to slip another quick slice from the cutlass. The blade raced for Joel’s neck.

This time he was ready. Ducking the strike, he spun out a low back kick. His heel connected, through the braided beard, straight into the gut of Boreth. He heard the dwarf’s breath hitch. A brief chance.

Moving with the momentum of his spin, he followed through with the swing of his stave. A satisfying crack rang out as he connected a blow across Boreth’s face. The forceful impact staggered the stout dwarf back.

The euphoria of success was instantly dampened by the former sailor’s scoff. 

Boreth spat a bloody tooth into the dirt and massaged his jaw. “Mixing in the fisticuffs. You folks from the Archipelagos make caving a man’s skull so graceful.” He wiped some of the blood off his beard. “But you should’ve aimed higher,” he continued, tapping his temple. “You’d properly crack my skull.”

“I told you I’m not giving you what you want,” Joel replied firmly. “I won’t kill you. I don’t need to.”

Boreth’s eyes narrowed. “Watch yourself, boy. One mistake is all it takes in a duel.”

“Take your own advice,” he shouted, lunging forward. He unleashed a flurry of pistoning jabs, the end of the staff striking out like a serpent’s bite. Each one was expertly deflected — slapped away with sword swipes. 

It was fine. He’d utilize the Monk class’ [Martial Arts] feature to make up the difference in fighting ability. In tandem with his quarterstaff skills, he would press for an upperhand. 

The game screen had regularly noted being knocked off your feet as ‘prone’, which in turn applied degrees of ‘tilt’. Though the math wasn’t totally clear to him, it was apparent that ‘tilt’ negatively impacted your offensive and defensive capabilities. Not too dissimilar to the ‘disadvantage’ system of the early access days. He’d knock Boreth onto the ground then.

Once both of their weapons clanked off of each other, Joel aimed a heavy low kick at the Boreth’s outer thigh. Drilled with as much possible force, his shin exploded with pain on impact. It felt like kicking a steel pole. Gritting his teeth, he tried to keep his best poker face. However, as he tried to walk off the numbing pain, his slight hobble gave it all away. So much for that.

“Going to take more than that to kick my sea legs from under me,” Boreth said, slapping the side of his leg. This time, the salt dwarf didn’t wait for any response. It was his turn for a low attack. He dipped, a swift swing at the limping leg.

Joel intercepted the strike with the end of his quarterstaff, digging the tip into the dirt in front of his leg. Like pushing a lever, he shoved the other end downward, aiming it squarely at his opponent’s face. 

Only to miss by a hair. 

As the strike went wide, he let go of the staff’s end, letting his other hand catch it. With his free hand, he fired a snappy backhand. The punch landed squarely on Boreth’s bulbous nose, knocking into it with a crunch.

Even reeling, Boreth swung his counterstrike. It was a seemingly lazy attack, a simple flick that nicked the forearm. The third cut he’d landed. The former sailor steadied his feet, wiping the blood that gushed from his nostrils. As if surfacing from water for air, he took a deep gulp and snapped his nose back in place. More notably, the bleeding instantly stopped.

[Second Wind], the class skill was easy to recognize. One of the more subtle abilities of the old Warrior class, it rejuvenated the user, a minor boost of HP. 

Ignoring the pain, Joel swung another set of thudding blows. They were blocked by the cutlass’ high guard. He felt his hands become slick with blood, his grip becoming slippery. 

These small exchanges weren’t going in his favor. While he landed solid punches and kicks, it was clear Boreth was fine with trading strikes for slices. But he continued to press forward. He needed a knockout blow.

A cacophony of whiffed swings and clattering deflections filled the grove, a discordant rhythm of clashes. Each strike was thrown at full force, trying to break through the shell of the other’s parries. 

For a passing moment, a bead of sweat dripped down the dwarf’s face, lost in the mess of his sprawling beard. The tiniest sign that his stamina was not as limitless as it appeared. With a grunted shove, the dwarf broke the exchange again, leaping away.

Something in the dwarf’s eyes changed. A fixed expression came across his face, warping into a hard stare. Chilling, the look seemed to quiet the glade around them. 

Joel had seen the dwarf take this stance before, against the black bear during the midnight ambush. He was preparing his [Battle Surge], a common Fighter ability. It was a sudden, adrenaline-laden rush of concentrated attacks, just like the ones he’d landed on the bear. 

He braced himself as the dwarf charged towards him, barely reacting to the first lunge. Even ready, he felt himself getting driven back. 

It felt like fighting an optical illusion. Whenever he blocked one attack, he immediately felt another cut elsewhere, as if the sword occupied two places at the same time. The tide of strikes seemed endless, extending seconds into eternities.  

Moving back further, step by step, the fight took them out of the glade and into the crowded trees. The weight of the stave, though expertly handled, was beginning to get heavy. After fending off another pair of sword swipes, Joel’s chipped quarterstaff caught on a low-hanging branch. 

Ruthlessly, Boreth lunged with another thrust of his cutlass, not letting the opportunity pass him by. The sword’s point was aimed straight at the torso, an attempted skewer. 

Joel’s panic spiked. He released the stuck quarterstaff and threw himself back. The blade caught him on his side, just under the rib cage. His back hit the ground hard, enough to knock the wind out of himself, while roots dug into his side. 

Lying there meant death, so he forced himself to roll backward over his shoulder. His vision blurred, a mixture of pain and exhaustion threatened to overcome him. He winced as the moment’s pause let him fully feel the ache of his several cuts. 

“Lad, I think this is over,” Boreth said, chopping at some of the thin, low branches in his way. He kicked the dropped quarterstaff to the side, away from Joel. “You’ve been bested, don’t force me to gut you.”

Joel considered it, risking a glance at his status screen. He’d been ignoring the damage notifications. No, that wasn’t true. Boreth had been forcing him to. His HP sat at 53%. He touched his side and saw blood stain his palm. 

With his quarterstaff, he was barely managing to fend off the dwarf. Each exchange had been whittling him down; each slash proved it, evidence of his impending failure. 

He felt the fear spread from the gashes on his body, trying to overwhelm him. Who did he think he was? A hero? He felt more like a fool. And no one begrudged a fool from running away, did they? 

The loam elf, begging for their brother’s life, flashed before his eyes. The desperation in their hopeful eyes and the quiver in their young voice. The memory was a gentle rebuke, a chide and a plea together. 

As ridiculous as it felt, he lifted his arms in a boxer’s guard. 

Boreth shook his head in disbelief, decorative sea shells rattling. “What’d I say? You’re a good lad. So don’t make me do this.”

“You keep talking like this is done and dusted.” Joel ground his teeth together as he balled his fists. His eyes darted around, scanning the choices on his screen. He could hear his heart pounding. Why was his heartbeat such a loud distraction?

Then he found it. 

“[Confirm].” He watched his available EXP drop from 200 to 100. 

Suddenly, a blinding fury washed over Joel’s senses, a righteous rage that erupted. The pain was still there, but dulled by the overwhelming emotion, a deep-seated anger. With a bestial roar and arms raised, Joel charged.

Boreth unleashed a storm of strikes and slashes, each one cutting deep. It was enough to keep any sane unarmed person at bay. 

But not Joel. Not in this state. Not now.

He didn’t care about the cuts, all that mattered was ripping the dwarf apart with his bare hands. He used his arms like they were a shield, ignoring the cuts that the cutlass inflicted. Every spatter of his own blood only pissed him off further. One step after another, he forced himself past the slices, closer to his opponent. A cascade of alerts warned him of his dropping HP, only a hazy noise to him.

Preparing a heavier attack, Boreth hefted his bandaged arm back, tensing. He let out a deep, guttural battlecry, a shout to match Joel’s roar. He swung his sword in a wide curve, aiming for the torso. 

Joel rushed into the strike, letting the blade catch him closer to its hilt. He felt the cut dig deep into his side, but its strength was mitigated, no longer a death blow. The pain hardly registered, only anger swelled. 

Clamping down with his arm, he pinned the blade under his armpit. With a sudden chopping motion, he brought his other elbow straight down upon the dwarf’s thick wrist, breaking his grip on the cutlass. 

Slicing himself in taking the disarmed cutlass, Joel spun while swinging the sword vertically overhead. The blade flashed down with the weight of his unbridled rage. It cleaved through the sinew and bone of the shorter dwarf’s shoulders. Blood erupted from the gash, a crimson abyss between the shoulder and torso. He let out a furious shout and drove the blade further, dropping Boreth onto his knees.

The bloodied ivory hilt slipped from his grasp as he stepped away. The fog of dreadful rage faded away, the abrupt pain of the endured cuts felling him to his hands and knees. Slow and heavy breaths, his vision steadied and his mind cleared.

Boreth coughed blood, beads of it dripping down his sea-shell braided beard. “I-I… d-didn’t think you had it in you.”

Joel’s eyes went wide, grabbing Boreth’s shoulders. “W-wait, I have a healing potion. Gorum gave me one, it’ll save you.”

Another sputter of red. “N-no, I’m done for. You’ll need it for what you’re still up against.”

The sailor grabbed the sword’s hilt, blade still lodged halfway through his chest. He yanked, more blood pouring out.

“Boreth, stop!” Joel yelled, grabbing at the dwarf’s arms. 

Raising a hand, Boreth shoved him away. “Do this old one a final favor, lad. I-I’ve shamed this sword for so long. Wield it… with some semblance of honor.”

With a pained grunt, he pulled the rest of the cutlass out, stabbing its tip into the earth. A final smile flashed across Boreth’s face as his head dropped. 

One peaceful exhale, and the dwarf went still.