The circle tightened. Artur stood at the center of a machine of death whose teeth were claws and fangs. To fight there, in the middle of the street, would be suicide. Ten, twenty creatures striking from every direction at once… not even the strength behind his axe could hold back the inevitable. He would be overwhelmed by sheer numbers, torn apart before he could land a third blow.
His mind, ignoring the exhaustion already seeping into his limbs, worked with the cold clarity of necessity. It was a matter of terrain. A lesson the forest teaches: never fight a bear in open ground, where its strength and speed reign. Find dense trees. Steep slopes. A place where its power becomes a burden. Find a choke point.
His gaze snapped down the street, analyzing the architecture not for its purpose, but for its tactical geometry. Doors were traps. Storefronts were fragile. And then he saw it. Across the street, a little farther down—the same alley where he had hidden at the beginning. A dark fissure between the brick wall of a laundromat and the concrete flank of an electronics store. No more than six feet wide.
Perfect. His only chance.
The decision was made in the span of a heartbeat. The problem was the distance: twenty meters of open asphalt. Twenty meters of hell to cross.
Hesitation ended when one of the hounds—faster and more reckless than the rest—lost its patience. It broke from the circle, a low black blur against the pavement, head down, claws digging for traction.
The attack forced Artur's hand. He didn't wait for it to reach him. He turned and ran—not away, but at an angle, toward the mouth of the alley. The run was not panic. It was calculated movement. Each step was heavy, his body already protesting, but he ignored it.
Other creatures, seeing the first charge, joined the pursuit. The tactical encirclement collapsed into chaotic chase. The sound of dozens of claws scraping against asphalt behind him swelled into thunder.
An arachnid monster, faster than the rest, gained on his right, one scythe-like limb slicing through the air where his head had been a second earlier. Artur didn't stop to fight. He simply swung the axe in a low defensive arc without even looking. The blade met the creature's leg with a dry crack. The monster stumbled, and Artur kept running. There was no time to confirm kills. Only to create space.
Five meters to the alley. Three. One.
He hurled himself into the narrow darkness like a man diving into water to smother flames. The shift from open street to confined corridor was immediate. The noise of pursuit seemed to condense behind him, funneled by the walls.
He didn't run to the end. Only ten meters in—just enough to establish the arena. Then he turned, chest heaving, axe ready. His heels touched the brick wall behind him. No more retreat. This was where he would make his stand.
The first hound—the one that had started the chase—entered the alley without hesitation. Its red eyes burned in the dark, fixed on Artur. Behind it, the alley mouth clogged with other shapes, shoving and jostling to get in. His plan had worked. They could come only one at a time.
The hound leapt.
In the confined space, its speed became its weakness. The jump was linear. Predictable. Artur didn't need to move. He shifted his weight and let the axe do the work. The strike was short and brutal—not a cut, but a crushing blow. The steel head met the creature's skull midair.
The sound was like a sledgehammer smashing a watermelon.
CRUMP.
The armored skull gave instantly. The monster hit the ground at Artur's feet, a slack sack of meat, its body still twitching in spasms.
Before it stopped trembling, the second came. Another hound, slightly larger, vaulted over its fallen comrade. Artur didn't have time to ready another swing. Instead, he used the simplest tool at his disposal: his boot. With a grunt, he kicked the corpse at his feet with all his strength.
The heavy, dead body slammed into the second attacker mid-leap. The tangle of limbs and chitin threw the creature off balance. It crashed sideways into the concrete wall, claws scraping uselessly for purchase. For a second, its flank was exposed.
More than enough time.
Artur's axe came down in a cruel vertical strike. The blade sank deep into the creature's ribcage, between the plates of its armor. There was a tearing sound and a muffled shriek. He ripped the blade free, and the monster collapsed atop the first, forming a grotesque barricade of bodies.
The assault halted.
At the mouth of the alley, the creatures pressing forward recoiled. Blind fury gave way to reptilian caution. They could see the two corpses. They could smell the purple blood thickening the confined air. They were learning. That tunnel was a meat grinder.
Artur stood still, chest rising and falling violently as he tried to drag the toxic air into his burning lungs. Sweat streamed down his face, mixing with the purple blood spattered there. His arms trembled—not from fear, but from pure muscular exhaustion. Every swing of the heavy axe demanded a price, and he had already paid dearly.
He looked at the barricade he had built. It was horrific—but effective. It served two purposes: it slowed their advance, and it confirmed a truth both terrifying and vital.
They could be killed.
They were not gods. Not ghosts. They were flesh and bone, however alien. And if they could be killed, he had a chance. A small one, wrapped in pain and exhaustion—but a chance.
He leaned back against the brick wall, letting it bear his weight for a moment. He could hear the creatures outside the alley—a chorus of low growls, clicks, and claws scraping asphalt. They weren't leaving. They were regrouping. They were thinking.
The battle of motion was over. The siege was about to begin.
And Artur, in his improvised stronghold, behind his wall of the dead, waited for the enemy's next move.