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Chapter 108 Jungle Hunter
Chapter 108 Jungle Hunter
Anderson never imagined he would face the most dangerous battle of his professional career in this way.
Jungle hunter.
This class, which originated from the Ranger branch, does not pursue the devastating power burst of the Berserker, nor does it excel in defense like the Shield Guardian.
The jungle hunter's creed is precision, speed, and a single, decisive strike.
Like the wind sweeping through the treetops, like the venomous snake's swift kiss, the deathly silence just before the prey's carotid artery gushed forth.
They excel at moving at high speeds through complex terrain, traversing dense forests with ease. With a deep understanding of the anatomy of jungle creatures, their blades are always aimed at vulnerable spots such as the throat and eye sockets.
Anderson put in four years of hard work for this.
In four years, he went from an unknown adventurer to a professional who leads teams to conquer one tough challenge after another.
He thought he was fast enough.
until today.
The cold iron scimitar clashed with the sharp claws, sending out a trail of dazzling sparks.
Anderson's wrist jerked violently, his body staggering backward. He used the light touch of his toes on the moss-covered tree roots to flip sideways, narrowly avoiding the horizontal tear that was about to rip open his abdomen.
The wolf-like beast did not give chase.
It simply stood there, slowly retracting its blood-stained claws and tilting its head. Its eyes, still bearing fragments of human remains, calmly gazed at him, as if watching prey repeatedly testing the edge of a trap.
Oh shit!
Anderson's chest heaved violently. Three parallel slits were torn in the leather armor on his left rib, and blood seeped out along the edges of the armor plates, soaking the lining. He had lost count of how many times he had narrowly escaped death.
His knife was very fast.
Drawing the sword, slashing, and retreating—the entire sequence of movements was compressed into a timeframe that an ordinary professional couldn't even complete in the blink of an eye. Over the past three months, he had used this sword technique to take down three goblins, a mutated ogre, and a sizable goblin tribe.
But this thing in front of me is even faster.
"Clang!"
It's not the kind of overwhelming, storm-like suppression that's easier to predict. The beastmen's speed comes from their quick grasp of timing.
It always strikes Anderson at a moment of weakness, precisely delivering a claw strike that is enough to end everything, just when his breathing becomes disordered due to his wounds.
Then, it retracts just before actually touching the skin.
It's playing tricks on me.
Anderson clenched his teeth, a sweet, metallic taste rising in his throat.
He remembered the day he first registered as an adventurer's apprentice a few years ago, clutching that secondhand short sword, his palms sweaty. The first time he faced goblins, his legs trembled, relying entirely on his teammates to shield him. The first time he was injured, blood flowed everywhere, and he thought he was going to die, crying like a child.
Later, he saved enough money to buy better equipment, learned combat skills, and passed the professional advancement assessment.
Later, he formed his own team, and some people called him "Captain," while others entrusted their lives to him.
Later—
It's today.
In the distance, the dull thud of Timmy being pinned to the ground by another beastman echoed. The young man's suppressed cry of pain was like a rusty nail, driven deep into Anderson's chest.
capture.
He finally realized it.
This thing's goal isn't to kill; it's to drag them one by one into the depths of the forest.
As for what would happen after being dragged in—Anderson glanced at the tattered armor on the beastman's body, belonging to a missing adventure team, and at the strange scales growing intertwined with the fur, faintly visible through the cracks in the leather armor.
He doesn't want to become like that.
no way!
Anderson loosened his grip on the knife.
He didn't shout, he didn't roar, and he didn't even look in the direction where his teammate had fallen.
He simply adjusted his breathing, just as he had practiced hundreds of times before, pressing fear and anger into his throbbing heart, melting them into the blade.
Then, he rushed forward.
It's not a hit-and-run tactic, not a probing attack, and it's no longer some kind of "correct tactic" that any jungle hunter has agreed upon.
It's the purest form of all-or-nothing gamble, a risky bet where you're putting your life on the line.
The scimitar transformed into an arc of light that almost tore through the air, and then he crashed into the beastman's wide-open arms, the tip of the blade aimed straight for his left eye!
The beastman finally seemed to show a hint of surprise.
It turned its head to avoid the blade, and its sharp claws lashed out at Anderson's still-bleeding rib wound.
Anderson did not dodge.
He let the claws, powerful enough to tear open his lungs, strike his torso. In the instant the scimitar missed its mark, he twisted the hilt of the scimitar at an angle that defied human biomechanics, changing the blade from a thrust to a horizontal slash, viciously slicing towards the exposed side of the beastman's neck!
Trading injury for death!
The beastman let out a short sigh.
It retracted its claws, retreated, and gave up the opportunity to kill.
Anderson's knife missed its mark, and he stumbled forward, the violent movement tearing his rib wound deeper, causing blood to gush out.
But he laughed, his mouth full of blood, as if he had won something great.
Even you have moments of fear!
The beastman looked down at the side of his neck, where the blade had grazed it, leaving a wisp of grayish-brown fur and a shallow bloodstain underneath.
It raised its head again, and the last trace of complex emotion in its eyes, where humanity still lingered, receded like the tide.
It got impatient.
The claws rose, this time aimed at Anderson's throat.
"laugh--!"
A cold silver light shot out from the depths of the dense forest on the flank, precisely piercing the beastman's raised arm!
It is not an arrow, but it is sharper than an arrow.
It was a silver rapier.
The beastman had no choice but to retract its claws and turn to the side to avoid the sudden attack that was powerful enough to pierce its wrist bone.
Anderson looked in the direction from which the sword light was coming.
A four-person team emerged from the shadows of the forest.
The leader was a half-orc, with a towering body, a double-bladed giant axe on his shoulder, fangs protruding, and a pair of beastly eyes fixed on the beastman.
Beside him stood a dragon-blooded woman, the rapier that had just saved his life now sheathed at her side, her golden vertical pupils calmly assessing every corner of the battlefield.
Her scaly tail swayed slowly behind her, as if she were calculating her moves before a hunt.
Next to her was a human female priest, with slightly disheveled chestnut hair and a youthful face showing the weariness of a long journey.
She was looking at Anderson, the only injured player on the field.
As for the young adventurer on the far right—
Anderson's gaze swept across his face.
Leather armor, a standard shield, a dark longsword, and a black crow perched on his shoulder.
Nothing special.
His judgment flashed through his mind like instinct: the orcs were the main fighting force, the dragonborn who had just rescued him were elite wanderers, and the female priest was the core healer. As for that young man—
He's probably a tour guide.
Xia Lin stood still, clearly feeling the subtle sensation of two gazes "sliding" over her.
The feeling wasn't hostility, nor even scrutiny.
It's more like ignoring it.
Like a hunter sweeping through a forest and glancing over a harmless shrub.
Xia Lin instantly felt discriminated against.
Am I really that insignificant?