Damon ran at his full speed, or rather at the speed he wanted his stalker to think was his full speed. Even though he was brimming with excitement inwardly, none of it could be seen on his face. He looked genuinely terrified as he tried to scramble the hell out of this place.
The poisonous mist whipped past him in blurred streaks as Damon darted between shattered boulders and warped tree husks, his legs splashing through puddles of blackened sludge. His every movement was calculated, just enough stumble here, just enough ragged breath there, to sell the image of prey fleeing for its life. The perfect bait.
A VIP was watching him. It was only polite to put on a good show for the big boss!
Behind him, the cacophony of the advancing horde was deafening. The sickly thud of clawed feet striking corrupted earth, the guttural howls of beasts too far gone for reason, the wet gurgles of bloated monstrosities bursting as they trampled over each other. The miasma itself seemed to pulse with their bloodlust, curling into long tendrils that chased him like spectral hands.
Naturally, Damon’s plan was never to outrun these tasty meals. In due time, he allowed himself to be swallowed by the charging horde, exactly what was supposed to happen to anyone foolish enough to fight in this terrain.
Damon found himself hemmed in on all sides by the corrupted monstrosities, his gaze darting in pure, desperate terror. Blood spheres appeared around him, shooting outward in all directions.
A plain and simple blood lance flashed in his hands, which he used to skewer the first creature that lunged at him, its skull popping like an overripe fruit under the crimson spear’s force. The impact sent a spray of steaming ichor across the blackened ground, sizzling where it landed.
Another beast barreled in from his flank, and Damon’s lance blurred in a horizontal arc, carving through three torsos at once before dissolving into mist that reformed in his other hand.
The blood spheres spun faster, weaving between bodies with unerring precision, piercing eyes, throats, and joints. Each kill sent a fresh rush of corrupted vitality into him, his vampiric hunger greedily siphoning strength from the fallen.
Yet on his face, the mask of panic never faltered, eyes wide, breaths ragged, movements seemingly frantic to any observer. Even though notifications were popping up like crazy, pouring in skills and stats continuously, there was only desperation on his face. It was as if he were fighting for his life on the verge of collapse.
Damon had a feeling that his rock-solid information was probably not as rock-solid as he wanted it to be. He couldn’t ignore the evidence in front of him, staring at his face, even though he had his past life knowledge. He would be a fool to do so.
His chance of winning this fight was also probably low, if anything at all. He needed as many aces up his sleeve as possible. Deliberately leading his observer to think he was failing and weakened was probably the best card he could play right now.
If the stalker thought he was burning through his stamina, bleeding resources just to keep the swarm at bay, then when it finally moved in for the kill, it would do so carelessly. This could potentially be his best shot at winning this whole damn thing or getting out of here alive.
Meanwhile, he did not forget to message Kaelthorn even though he was amidst the ’fight of his life’.
"Go around and start collecting the gold coins. You’d better have a billion gold coins when we are ready to leave this place!"
He knew he was asking for the impossible from the man, but he wanted to see just how far Kaelthorn was willing to go to obey his order.
Besides, all the miasma in the area was gathering in his location, lighting up his passive boosts like Christmas lights. The corrupted beings were also here. The complete attention of the big boss was here. The guy would essentially be walking around and opening treasure chests.
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