The Crack In Heaven [A LitRPG Progression Fantasy] Chapter 32: Chapter 32: Only the First Strike Matters

Read chapter 32 of The Crack In Heaven [A LitRPG Progression Fantasy] by Adamus_Auguste on NovelPedia.

Chapter 32: Only the First Strike Matters Only the flickering lamppost refused to submit to the silence that devoured the street. It sizzled, as if to force out the sound of men and women clutching shirts and pants to stop their limbs from trembling, to stop their clothes from rustling. Kael glared past the twelve corpses. Scarlet pools spread on dirty ground, giving undeniable weight to his words. No one had dared to come out. Even the three he had noticed froze in their spots, hoping stillness would turn them invisible. Good. He had turned attention into fear. A fear that Jake's and Jones' groups once inspired, but darker, a death sentence. Stories would spread—a freak lived in the third beggar street. And he'd lie low with Tonio until non-witnesses doubted them. They don't know about truths, or they would have built their own gangs. Kael shook his head, and the idea with it. This scuffle shouldn't have exposed them. The nail marks could. He twisted his lips at the five lines carved on the chest of a dead beggar. He couldn't hide them. He turned toward Tonio, his brow creasing. The rat-man ran across the street, unbuttoning shirts and digging into pockets. Scavenged knives, scissors, copper coins, and tokens engraved with Kythra's sun, Morvana's thread, or Kraghor's frost. "At least push them to the side." He grabbed a corpse and slid it to the closest wall. Though blood helped, he huffed through the effort. How heavy were bones? Because the bastard was just that: skin on bones. Or was he that weak? Tonio frowned, paused, then flung the plundered corpses in an effortless arc. They crashed beside Kael, and he jumped back. Blood sprayed an inch from his shirt, as if Tonio playfully answered his question. There were the nail marks, gone in a nightmare of bones protruding through broken flesh. His paranoia eased, not his frown. I'll become stronger. At worst, I'll anchor a truth like Brannick's... The more he glared at the mess, the more his chest tightened. He couldn't. Even without reading his ledger, he knew his passive endurance would clash with the active truth. Then? Goodbye, Kael; welcome anchor-ghast. Groaning, he pressed his bare foot against the dead men's shoes. All too big, soaked in blood. He shook his head and walked to his shelter. "Throw the corpses in the burial pit. Take whatever they left in Jones' home as payment." With a shout that echoed louder than it should against the silence, he stepped inside. Tonio skipped behind him, more interested in the token he twirled between his fingers than the slaughter he committed. Yet, his red eyes lingered on the shoes, then on Kael's feet. The moment the cloth fell in the doorway, Els jumped in front of him. Her hands, quivering like her lips, gripped his. "Are you wounded? Do you need to lie down? Water? Ah! We don't have any left." "Tonio did almost everything." Kael wrapped his hand over hers. "My knuckles hurt a little, but that's it. This place is ours now." He winced when Els stroked a thumb on his knuckles. "Who boasted about not planning to get hurt?" She wasn't teasing. Her worry hardened into something else, something that called for action. When he opened his mouth to answer, she had already flung his hand down and was standing in front of Tonio. "You don't look wounded either. You're strong, right, Tonio?" "Strong," Tonio repeated as if the word defined him. She pointed her finger at Kael, her other hand pressed against her hip. "Teach him to be strong as well, then." The token Tonio had been playing with slipped from his fingers, while Kael gasped. "Kael suck. Not even rat. Mouse. Baby mouse?" Tonio's words were knives stabbing Kael's pride. Weaker than a baby mouse... He wanted to protest, to tell them how he dealt with Tovin and ash, or even say he had survived Tonio's nails. But the last battle replayed in his mind, stealing the words before they reached his lips. Survived? Two strikes. Three days bedridden, smoldering from the inside, freezing outside, u