The sun barely filtered through the dense canopy, turning the forest floor into a damp, shadowed hell. The air, heavy and saturated with the stench of rot and wet earth, clung to the skin.
Dylan panted, the sword too heavy in his sweaty hand, his muscles burning. In front of him, the beast—a disgusting cross between a boar and a scorpion, with a slobbering snout and a stinger snapping the air with a deadly hiss—scraped the ground with its hooves.
"So, my little bag of bones? Waiting for a written invitation?"
Julius was leaning lazily against a tree a dozen meters away, a twig between his teeth. He didn't look the least bit concerned.
"It's gonna charge!" Dylan shouted, his voice strangled by panic.
"Great. Bigger target. Drop your shoulders, hold your weapon like you want to hit, not like you're giving it a gift."
The beast charged. A massive lump of muscle and rage, straight at him. Dylan wanted to flee, but his feet felt nailed to the ground.
