Ch 193.
Matt had barely managed to recover a single percent of his missing HP when an armless false Vassilis materialized, aiming a vicious kick at his head. For a fleeting moment, Matt considered employing the same skill that had once saved him from the A-ranked owl-man that had claimed his life. However, a gnawing instinct warned him that he lacked the essence required to execute such a move. With a quick decision, he rolled to the side, feeling the rush of air as a foot narrowly swept past his head. He sprang back to his feet just in time to evade a follow-up strike.
This frantic dance of dodging continued for the next few minutes, each second stretching like an eternity as Matt observed the false Vassilis’s limbs gradually regenerating. A singular thought echoed in his mind: he couldn't keep this up. When the next attack came, he opted to block instead of evade, a risky choice that cost him dearly. His left leg was severed in the clash, but he used the momentum to hop back as far as he could, sending the pain of his injury right back to the entity that inflicted it.
“What a reckless way to fight,” spat the false Vassilis, balancing precariously on its remaining limb. “I shouldn’t be surprised; it isn’t the first time you’ve resorted to such desperation when faced with a power beyond your own. Still, you have only a few thousand HP left out of over three and a half million?”
The false Vassilis was correct; though even as he spoke, Matt’s health points surged upward as each second yielded over 50,000 HP in recovery. This phenomenon illuminated for Matt why those wielding greater powers and higher levels were nearly invincible against those beneath them. Despite being somewhat of an anomaly himself, he understood that he could take down only one foe before needing to recuperate. Moreover, he harbored a genuine fear of those who could eliminate him through indirect means, fully aware that his HP would be rendered meaningless in perilous environments, like submerged at the bottom of a lake of molten lava. Additionally, he knew that any opponent at his level could unleash a flurry of attacks, striking several times within a single second, with each hit capable of inflicting well over 10,000 damage if it landed cleanly.
Losing his leg had cost him over 600,000 HP, even with him hastily aiding the process by weakening his own hip. Although the leg had almost instantly regenerated, the toll had been steep. He could feel the depletion of his essences, a creeping awareness that he was nearing empty, despite the absence of any visible gauge to measure them. His stamina might last only a few more minutes, but that was a far cry from his usual capacity to sprint at roughly 25 miles per hour for hours without breaking a sweat. No, he had gambled everything on that last desperate move, and now he had to brace himself for the inevitable counterattack when he attempted to finish it. The false Vassilis remained more or less intact, save for its missing limbs, and Matt knew it would leap at him the moment it sensed an opening. Yet, rather than taking the time to recover, he chose to respond to its taunts, diving back into the fray.
“If you knew what I was going to do, then why did you let me do it?” Matt demanded, his voice edged with frustration.
“You assume that I am free to use what I know against you,” the false Vassilis replied, its tone dripping with condescension. “I am here to be a lesson for you; now, ask what lesson you need to learn.”
“Who cares? The next move will determine the winner,” Matt shot back, his muscles coiling like a spring as he prepared to charge forward.
The false Vassilis’s body tensed, each limb poised to intercept Matt’s impending attack. Yet, amid the tension, Matt’s mind raced, searching for a way to turn the tide of battle. Ranged attacks flashed through his thoughts, but doubt crept in—he wasn't sure he had enough essence left to conjure any puppets. Just as despair threatened to overwhelm him, an idea sparked in his mind. In an instant, he felt his hand morphing, reshaping into something akin to a crossbow, its structure firm and ready.
Taking a deep breath, he concentrated on crafting a bolt from his other arm, the sensation of energy flowing through him as he loaded it into the makeshift weapon. With his heart pounding in rhythm with the urgency of the moment, he raised the crossbow and fired, the motion driven by the twitch of a muscle, releasing his desperation into the air like a bolt of lightning.
The sensation of this entire process felt strange, as crafting the bolt compelled him to regenerate part of his body while simultaneously costing him over 1,000 HP. The movement had been sluggish, giving the false Vassilis ample opportunity to nimbly leap aside and evade the projectile. Nevertheless, a grin crept across Matt's face at this new development; his mind buzzed with ideas on how to refine the design further. With that spark of inspiration, he shifted his arm once more. This time, he sealed the top where the bolt would be loaded, leaving gaps for the string to be pulled and released. Consequently, the top and bottom sections were only connected at the front and back, allowing Matt to extend his arm and accommodate larger bolts while increasing tension to the limits of his endurance. He envisioned his body in the loaded state and meticulously reshaped the string, making it shorter and tighter until a sharp pain shot through him from the immense pressure. He pressed on, pushing the tension to the edge of what he could tolerate. Finally, he aimed carefully and propelled a bolt out of his arm, sending it straight into the enclosed chamber of the crossbow before releasing it. With a quick flexing of his muscles, he reset the mechanism, having another bolt primed and ready to fire in just under two seconds.
A grin spread across Matt's face as he watched the entire process unfold using just one arm. Without hesitation, he transformed his second arm into the same crossbow shape, launching bolt after bolt at the false Vassilis. Each shot came at a cost of 5,000 HP, but the thrill of each successful hit fueled his determination. Every fourth bolt found its target, embedding itself into the false Vassilis and turning it into a veritable pin cushion, while Matt’s passive health regeneration steadily outpaced the damage he was inflicting on himself. Yet, amid the exhilaration, a nagging thought emerged—he needed to find a way to ramp up his firing speed by at least tenfold. Anything less would render these attacks too sluggish to be effective in most of his battles. At best, they served as a tactical shift in the fight or a means to disrupt an opponent who was otherwise shielded by allies.
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After a relentless minute and a half of fluctuating HP, Matt finally ceased his barrage of bolts, each shot becoming swifter as he adapted to the rhythm of battle. He surveyed the scene, a sense of triumph washing over him as he noted the false Vassilis sprawled on the ground, its body riddled with approximately twenty bolts. Each bolt, crafted out of his body, lodged firmly into its form, their sturdy shafts resisting any attempt at breakage. The fallen creature struggled, its limbs contorted at awkward angles, making it nearly impossible to roll over and find a stable position to rise on its single leg. Even as it gradually began to recover its arms, Matt could see that it was still at least five minutes away from regaining functional stumps. Unwilling to gamble on the creature's recovery, he steadied both arm crossbows, taking a deep breath to center himself before unleashing another volley of bolts toward the helpless target.
“Will you just cut off my head already?” groaned the false Vassilis, its voice strained and laced with irritation. “All of these bolts are hardly doing anything to me besides rendering my body incapable of functioning.”
“Can you just die on your own?” Matt shot back, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not convinced that you won’t explode or something when I try to finish you off.”
“If I could do such a thing, I would have done it the moment I lost my arms,” the creature replied, its tone dripping with exasperation.
“Then have I at least learned whatever lesson you think I needed to?” Matt pressed, his brows furrowing in determination.
“No, but it matters not, as I can’t teach it to you now even if I were allowed to fully recover,” the false Vassilis retorted, more bolts embedding themselves into its flesh. “Rather, I would say that you are unable to learn, simply adapting in a way that allows you to remain blissfully ignorant.”
“Then how about you just tell me?” Matt demanded, his frown deepening as frustration bubbled beneath the surface. “At least then I can think about it.”
The only response Matt received was a frown, and after the fiftieth arrow had impaled the false Vassilis, he realized it was time to take a risk and end things once and for all. Taking a deep breath, he advanced cautiously, positioning himself at an angle where the false Vassilis would have difficulty spotting him. He concentrated, shifting one of his arms into a sharp blade, its edge gleaming with determination. With one final thought about the best way to strike, he abandoned caution and swung down with every ounce of strength he could muster. Instead of severing the false Vassilis’s head, however, the blade rebounded off with a jarring thud, and in an instant, Matt found himself sprawled on the ground, staring up at the ceiling. Above him loomed the fully intact false Vassilis, its form unscathed despite the multitude of bolts protruding from its body, and it stood on just one leg. To make matters worse, he could feel the unsettling reality that his regeneration was failing; his HP was not recovering.
“It’s called ‘full reversal,’ and the only drawback is that I can’t be the one to finish you off,” the false Vassilis remarked, a hint of satisfaction in its tone. “For now, you’re left to lie there helplessly for the next hour, unable to recover from your current state. So, if you’ve reached the point where you would succumb to your injuries, it’s game over.” It leaned closer, a mocking glint in its eyes. “Fortunately for you, even though your regeneration is locked, it managed to halt all bleeding and stabilize you just before the skill fully immobilized you.”
A part of Matt felt the weight of despair pressing down on him, yet he clung to the belief that a solution existed within his grasp. His mind raced as he zeroed in on one crucial detail: the false Vassilis couldn’t finish him off. This revelation stirred a whirlwind of questions in his thoughts; such an ability seemed illogical, almost as if it mirrored his own powers. After all, transferring wounds to his adversary was a skill he had mastered with relative ease. No, Matt refused to accept the current predicament as genuine. It struck him as a cunning ruse designed to convince him of his defeat while he remained poised above the vulnerable false Vassilis, which was still in the process of recovering. The mention of needing to wait an hour felt like a deliberate tactic, a mere ploy to buy time as the creature sought to regain its strength and flip the situation in its favor.
As Matt grew increasingly convinced that everything he was experiencing was an elaborate illusion, he began to ponder how to escape this deceptive reality. Squirming in place, every movement sent jolts of pain through him, yet it accomplished nothing; mere belief alone didn’t seem to yield results either. Still, he refused to abandon that thread of hope. He understood that doubt lingered within him, and if true freedom required unwavering belief, he needed to discover a way to solidify that conviction. Then it struck him: even if his regeneration was stifled, it didn’t necessarily mean his power to reshape his body was also hindered. With a focused determination, he concentrated on transforming his tongue into a sharp spike. But when he attempted the change, nothing happened. Undeterred, he flashed a confident smile and proclaimed, “None of this is real!” In an instant, the scene fractured like glass, and Matt found himself poised to swing down with his blade-like arm as the false Vassilis looked up at him in resignation.
Moments later, the false Vassilis disintegrated into a swirling cloud of dust, leaving behind only remnants of its existence. Matt's gaze shifted to the doors, now miraculously restored, and he prepared to step through them. Just as he was about to move, a soft clatter echoed in the silence, drawing his attention back to the spot where the false Vassilis had stood. There, on the ground, lay a small hand mirror, its surface glinting faintly in the dim light. Curiosity piqued, Matt picked it up, uncertain of its purpose but sensing it held some value. He carefully tucked the mirror into his spatial storage, feeling a flicker of anticipation. With a renewed sense of purpose, he turned back to the doors, a smile spreading across his face as he started to receive notifications.
