Senior Brother Kurt was finally overcome with terror: "He's planning to beat me to death with this little wooden stick—he'll keep hitting me until I'm dead!"
He genuinely wished the other boy had a knife in his hand, even a dull one would be better than this.
The little stick wasn't powerful, but after all these blows, the swelling on his head and face had turned into bruised, pus-filled lumps. His face was so swollen that his eyes were reduced to narrow slits, and his vision grew blurrier by the moment.
His skin was battered black and blue, several muscles had been pulped into mush, and Quinn focused especially on his joints.
Quinn didn't strike the bones of Kurt's joints, but the ligaments and fascia. Each joint's connective tissue was shattered by the little stick, so even the slightest movement brought searing, tearing pain.
Being beaten to death little by little with a stick was the most terrifying fate imaginable; the agony and fear stretched out endlessly, yet death refused to come quickly.
By now, the herd of beasts overhead had vanished; the two of them had fought their way out of the ruin's gate, and the beasts scattered in every direction.
Quinn's strength was fading. After swinging his 'blade' countless times, he couldn't keep going. Fighting Kurt beneath the bellies of giant beasts, dodging both sword and stampeding hooves or claws, the constant shifting footwork had left his legs aching and swollen.
When he trained with the Butcher, the man was often mad, but he knew how to pace the training and never pushed Quinn past his limits.
Now, he had no strength left to swing the blade; only his willpower kept him going.
He knew that if he stopped now, even if Senior Brother Kurt had a single breath of vital energy left—if he could move at all—he would be dead in an instant!
He could only keep striking, until Kurt was dead!
Thud.
At last, Kurt couldn’t hold out any longer and collapsed to the ground. His treasured sword clanged as it fell.
Quinn tossed aside the stick and grabbed the sword, but he couldn’t lift it—his arms had nothing left.
He raised his foot and nudged the sword hilt, inch by inch, until the tip pointed at Kurt. Kurt could barely see what was happening and tried to wriggle away, but his bones and fascia were all ruined—he couldn’t move a muscle.
He couldn’t move at all, forced to watch Quinn painstakingly adjust the sword’s angle, then slowly nudge the blade until the edge pressed into his throat.
Finally, the sword pierced through his throat. A gurgling sound came from his neck, blood bubbling with little air pockets. Soon, he was dead.
Quinn finally relaxed, collapsing to the ground. He’d never been this exhausted before.
A corpse lay beside him, and the feeling was unbearable. Quinn tried to shift his body, but he couldn’t move at all and had to give up.
This wasn't the first time he'd seen a corpse. The woman who crawled out of the cowhide by the river, and Kurt's two junior disciples, had all become corpses.
Once, Granny Sue took him to a neighboring village to deliver a baby—besides tailoring, Granny Sue was also a midwife who helped women in nearby villages give birth.
When they arrived, every villager was already dead—men, women, old and young, including the expectant mother.
Quinn's mind went blank at the time, feeling as if he was floating weightless above the village, watching the carnage below. Later, Granny Sue called him back, saying his soul had fled in fright and she had to drag it back into his body.
Granny Sue never said who killed the villagers, only told him that such things were common in the Great Ruins, so...
"Never leave your enemies any chance," Granny Sue told him sternly.
Kurt's corpse unsettled him, but that's just how the Great Ruins were—survival of the fittest. Quinn had grown up watching exotic beasts slaughter each other, and Kurt's corpse was no different from theirs.
He was trying to regulate his breathing when footsteps sounded. Quinn forced himself to turn his head and was startled to see Senior Sister Claire limping toward him, sword in hand, her face so swollen it was unrecognizable.
Quinn struggled to rise, every bone and muscle aching and swollen. He had to stop, panting, and silently urged the Overlord Three-Core Art.
His vital energy slowly grew livelier, rising and flowing toward his aching muscles and torn bones. Wherever it went, the swelling eased a bit, but his senses became sharper, and the pain flared even hotter.