CHAPTER 254: THREE OPTIONS, ALL TERRIBLE

Julius motioned for Dylan to follow, and the latter stepped over the debris on the ground to catch up with him. The colossus was heading in the opposite direction of their shack, while the sun was already bleeding purple and orange across the horizon. The thought of leaving their territory, stomach still hollow, clenched Dylan with a palpable anxiety.

"We hunted enough beasts last night, what are you planning by going this far out of our zone?" he asked, his voice still a little hoarse.

Julius turned his head as he walked, an enigmatic smile pulling at his lips.

"They say the best way to learn is through experience. So I intend to carve into your flesh what we’ve been learning so far."

Dylan frowned, confused and wary.

"I’m training with you to fight a war—how do you plan on pulling that off in a forest crawling with monsters?"

The smile on Julius’s face darkened into something sinister, almost menacing, a shadow flickering in his eyes.

"Precisely, boy. We’re going to war."

They walked for another fifteen minutes, pushing deeper into a part of the forest Dylan didn’t recognize. The trees here were older, closer, their trunks twisted by time and territorial strife between creatures. The air, already cold, grew glacial, and the scent of musk and rot drifted in and out like a warning.

Suddenly, Julius halted. He pointed a finger toward a ravine slope, where at the bottom yawned the mouth of a cave, dark and unwelcoming. A low, rhythmic growl pulsed from within, making the ground itself tremble.

"In there," Julius murmured, his voice so low it was nearly drowned by the sound, "is a group of orcs. Natural-born warriors, stupidly bound to their honor."

A chill ran down Dylan’s spine. He’d faced these beasts before. But they hadn’t been at full strength then—unlike now.

"Tonight’s lesson is simple," Julius went on, handing him the only blade they’d brought. "You’re going down there. You’re going to provoke them. And you’re going to survive."

Dylan’s eyes went wide, incredulous.

"You’re insane! That’s suicide! Look at me—look at the state I’m in!"

"I see it perfectly," Julius cut him off, his gaze turning to ice. "And that’s exactly why. You lean on your regeneration as if it’s a certainty. You think pain is the worst that can happen to you. The orcs will prove otherwise. They won’t kill you outright. They’ll crush you, grind you down. Your regeneration will have to wrestle with pure obliteration. And in the middle of that horror, you’ll need to find a way to act. Not run—act. A distraction, a feint, a crack in their armor, a scream that throws them off... Find three ways to be more than just a sack of meat. I told you before: three. Show me you can think, even as your bones are breaking."

Terror clotted in Dylan’s veins. This wasn’t training anymore. This was a death sentence.

"I... I can’t," he whispered, taking a step back.

Julius’s arm shot out, seizing Dylan’s forearm in an iron grip. He yanked him close, their faces only inches apart.

"Boy. Battle will never ask if you can. It will demand that you must. Now choose: go down there with this blade and some semblance of a plan... or stay here with me, and face something far worse than orcs."

Julius’s face was so close Dylan could count the scars slashed across it. Each word came like a white-hot blade, cutting through what little air was left. That grip on his arm wasn’t just physical—it was a vice forging something beyond fear: raw will.

Dylan inhaled. The air tore through his lungs, cold and sharp as a shard of ice. The choice stood before him, brutal and clear: retreat and cling to life, or step forward and learn in pieces. He thought of Maggie, of Elisa, of everything life had ripped away from him. He thought of the child he once was, who had survived horror simply because dying hadn’t been an option.

"Fine," he spat, his voice wrecked but steady. "I’ll go."

Julius released his arm. A smile without an ounce of mercy split his stone-carved face.

"Good. Remember: three options. Not one, not two. Three."

Instead of handing him the sword, Julius shoved into his hand a throwing knife—short blade, blunted tip, barely more than a tool. Dylan gripped it as if it were a relic. Without another word, he stepped down the slope toward the cave’s gaping maw. Night was swallowing the last of the light; each step carried him deeper into damp silence, broken only by the primal rhythm of growls echoing from within.

The inside stank of rotting meat and beast-sweat. The floor was strewn with gnawed bones, rusted shards of metal, scraps of banners speaking of lost battles. Dylan picked up a jagged-edged stone—option one. He spotted a cracked rock pillar—option two. He sketched the plan in his head: distraction, leverage, lure. Three exits. Three lies to hand the Reaper.

He moved forward, blade low, a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. A hot, fetid breath licked his face. Then a shape heaved out of the dark—broad, low, all shoulders and fury wrapped in crude leather. An orc. Bloodshot eyes, jutting jaw. Behind him, two more emerged. Then a fourth. The shadows seemed to give birth to them.

Dylan stepped into plain view. The bait. He struck his blade against the rock wall—clang—and let the sound ricochet leftward.

One orc turned its head. Two more surged forward, weapons bristling. The first raised a rusted axe. Dylan didn’t move. He took the hit.

The impact split him like lightning—white-hot pain, air ripped from his chest. A rib snapped with a sickening crack. Rage flared, sharp and immediate. He remembered the stone in his palm. With a quick flick, he hurled it—not at the orc, but at the cracked pillar.

The rock struck. A sharp crack, a rumble—then the pillar collapsed, blocking the path behind the orcs and burying one of them beneath a cascade of rubble.

Strike one: distraction.

The two others rushed him—one aiming for his ribs, the other to grapple. Dylan didn’t stab; he used the knife as a lever, jamming it between stones at his feet. Pivoting on it, he twisted their momentum against them. The orcs crashed into each other with a snarl of confusion. Dylan snatched a femur from the ground—option two, his improvised lever—and smashed it into an orc’s knee. The satisfying crack made the beast howl and buckle.

Strike two: disadvantage turned into leverage.

One left. The largest. The ancient stench of death clung to it. Dylan’s regeneration clawed against his crushed ribs, itching beneath his skin. He sucked in a savage breath of foul air and roared—not in terror, but in defiance—before feinting a desperate charge to the right.

The orc took the bait. It barreled forward, sure of its strength. Dylan lured it into a narrow choke of rock. Then, feigning total collapse, he dropped to one knee. The orc grabbed him, lifting him to smash him against the wall. Dylan let the pain bloom, let his regeneration show raw and writhing, then in one sudden move, jammed the femur into its throat—not to kill, but to jolt.

The beast stumbled backward and plunged into a pit hidden under brush—a natural trap he’d spotted earlier. The thorny rift swallowed it, its roar breaking into a startled yelp.

Strike three: wound turned into opportunity.

When silence settled, heavy and blood-slick, Dylan stood gasping, blood trickling from his side but already thickening with regeneration. The orcs lay defeated. The air reeked of sweat and bitter victory.

At the cave’s threshold, Julius appeared, a massive silhouette cut from shadow. His face bore no pride, no warmth—only the cold recognition one grants a tool that has proven it can bite.

"Three ways," he said, voice like a tombstone. "You chose. You bent war to your will."

Dylan let the femur drop. He didn’t smile. But something inside him had burned away and regrown, harder, sharper. Regeneration was no longer a curse or a crutch—it was a weapon to be wielded. Sometimes a broken body was worth it, if the mind stayed intact.

A crow croaked somewhere in the night. Deeper still, something darker growled, as if the forest itself wasn’t finished with them. Julius joined Dylan with heavy steps. Wordless, they turned back toward the shack. Dylan limped, each breath a jagged reminder, but in his eyes burned a new light: he had been broken—and he had learned how to use his fragments.