Movement came like a blur, but Neon’s senses managed to stay sharp, somehow. Just enough to decipher the chaos unfolding.
It was a streak of dirty silver and shadow that closed in on them, faster than any human should be capable of moving. Whoever they were, they made a clear straight line for Nomine, as if this had been the intent from the very beginning.
Neon had seen assassins before. In games. Witnessing one in the flesh was absolutely nowhere near his bucket list, but there was really no other way he could describe them. The hunter even dressed like a modern-day ninja, their lower face masked in black, sleek snake-like ornaments pinning their ashen-blonde hair into a messy knot.
The motif continued in viper tattoos coiling down their muscular arms, winding from shoulders all the way to wrists already rolling mid-stride. Twin daggers were pulled from the techno-ether, shaped in the dimensions of rudimentary crucifixes that ended in wicked purple-tinted metal, gleaming as their wielder jumped for a killing strike.
Nomine didn’t just stand there and wait to die. Of course he didn’t. He snapped into a lunge of his own, too quick for Neon to process fully.
Steel met steel in a clash that made Neon’s nerves stand on end. The daggers’ momentum slammed into Nomine’s blade, expertly deflecting the aggression even with an immobilized arm.
At the full-stop, something between disbelief and frustration flashed in the eyes of the hunter. And as the assassin retreated to circle them, readying for another assault, Neon’s interface lit up with a fresh batch of information around their head.
[Contestant 28, Soreisan.] <>
[He/Him. Team Carrion Reign. Veteran. Convict.]
Yet another veteran. Probing sounded wise, but not until Neon found his own footing in the rapidly developing conflict. He didn’t need anybody to tell him that Soreisan wasn’t operating alone, and that it was crucial that he quickly identified from where had that gunk been shot. Still, another bubble of data sprang near one of the daggers.
[Skill: Cross-Turned Dagger Lvl 2] <>
You may see no trace of wounds.
Neon’s mind raced. What did that mean? Did those daggers deal delayed damage? Invisible injuries? Or something else entirely? Of course, he could copy the skill to get a clear idea, but was that truly the right choice now?
“Don’t get overwhelmed. Just move on with the rules.” Despite the skirmish, Nomine’s voice was completely devoid of tension. Never an unnecessary emotion. Only the unsettling calm of someone who had already won this fight three times in their head. “I can handle this alone.”
Bile continued its acidic path down his body, refusing to fully wash away, but it only left a slightly reddened skin as it bit through the external layers of his clothing —keeping the black undersuit intact. Was that gunk only a scare tactic? Neon refused to test the theory.
Moreover, beyond whatever reaction Neon could’ve had to Nomine’s detached confidence, it had a way deeper effect on Soreisan.
“You remain the same arrogant prick as always.” His speech came out hissed through clenched teeth, unable to contain something quite angry beneath that face mask. “But I won’t let things end the same way as last time. I’ve got brand new augments for this run.” Soreisan claimed as he feinted left. When he failed to get at least a blink from Nomine, frustration cracked through the assassin’s words as he called up. “Gnaw! What are you waiting for!?”
>> “Keep firing!”
Right. The grime sniper. If Nomine was going to deal with the close-quarters threat, then it was natural that he took care of the gunk artillery. Neon pushed the anxiousness of inexperience aside. Repeated blade clashes faded into the background as he focused on the noises above.
“I- I’m trying, Rei!” A nervous voice wobbled from somewhere amidst the canopy, and this time Neon was prepared to track it down. The sounds held a stuffy quality to them, as if uttered through a full mouth. “This ain’t as easy as it looks!”
And sure enough, there they were.
[Contestant 89, Gnaw.] <>
[He/Him. Team Carrion Reign. Rookie. Convict.]
Perched in the thick branches like a diseased gargoyle was a very… Unfortunate looking fellow, pardon the rudeness. Gnaw’s ragged orange prison uniform hung loose on his slouched frame, greasy hair curtaining a face that looked like it had been left to ferment. Even from this distance, the sickly yellow undertone of his skin was visible through the stringy brown strands.
Of course, the most notable thing about him wasn’t exactly his appearance. It was whatever the hell he was trying to achieve.
Gnaw was haphazardly stripping bark and leaves from the nearby branches, cramming them into his mouth with questionable enthusiasm as they crunched with every monch. The process couldn’t help but reveal a dental nightmare —many blackened teeth, a couple missing, plenty chipped, but all of them crooked.
Though reluctant, Neon forced himself to probe. That said, the gurgling sounds as Gnaw swallowed another mouthful of leaves didn’t make for a particularly pleasant omen.
[Skill: Vengeful Spit Lvl 1] <>
The vile of existence in my mouth.
[Trait: Throatrot]
The stench of dead horses in my breath.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
<>
As expected, he found in Gnaw something that he’d never, ever copy. Not here. Not today. Not under any possible circumstance.
Traits he wasn’t able to mimic. That much was already clear to him. These two augments were likely to work in conjunction, so their individual utility didn’t promise much. Not like that was the deciding factor. Neon wanted absolutely no part in any hypothetical spitting contest.
Which meant he needed to find another way to neutralize hi—
“Rules.” Nomine’s demand sliced through the mess in Neon’s head. His voice retained that same unshakeable calm, even with potentially acidic bile clinging to his frame, even with an assassin hounding him like a feral predator. Not a single tremor. “Third time asking.”
The words stung sharper than Neon wanted to admit. Here he was, trying to contribute somehow, and Nomine kept treating him like some fairy companion. That effortless confidence was like a flame that burnt through teammates and enemies alike —borderline insulting in its absolute control.
Soreisan’s laugh split the humid air. A sound so transparently forced it might as well have been performance art.
“Hah! Didn’t take you for some loser bitch begging for a handbook. Aren’t you such a well-trained dog? I don’t need rules to cut you down!”
Wait. So did that mean that the ultimate ninja warrior —and by default his bark-monching buddy— were equally flying blind as he and Nomine were? Had this psycho actually rushed them without at least understanding what this whole VileHound Hunt even was?
Ah well. Neon supposed his partner was entitled to a toxic ex or two.
“And you’re a rabid one.” Nomine replied, his tone suggesting he’d much rather be discussing the weather. “I’m sorry but… Who are you? And why do you seem to think I owe you any words?”
“Why you—”
Provoked, Soreisan charged again with a relentless viciousness, daggers carving complementary arcs with a renewed fury that should have overwhelmed any guard. Should have. Instead, the katana fluidly deflected and weaved through the assault with a fearsome ease.
Yet, it somehow felt like Nomine was consciously holding back, limiting himself to defense and evasion only, and ignoring openings that even a non-combatant like Neon managed to spot.
Another sound of a drain unclogging preceded a new trajectory of yellow-green bile, this one gunning dangerously for Nomine’s face.
Without missing a beat of this deadly dance, the sword wielder spun off a final deflecting strike and used the momentum to make a high, acrobatic whirl —a motion so precise it let both Soreisan’s lunge and Gnaw’s projectile whistle past him, as if he had choreographed their failure. The gunk splattered beneath the two duelists with a hiss, eating through the outer forest floor.
Nomine wasn’t done. In a fluid continuation, he broke his fall by stepping into Soreisan’s back, forcing him to fall head-first into his partner’s attack while leaping to a new secure distance.
“Goddamit!” Soreisan’s curse tore through his mask as he rapidly rolled back into a crawling position, though not fast enough to prevent a nasty amount of the acidic fluid from clinging to his face. “Gnaw, you fucking moron! Not when I’m mid strike!”
His complaint died as something in Soreisan’s pose shifted. Even while reduced, his movements gained an edge that hadn’t been there before. Subtle but unmistakable, and confirmed by Neon’s interface.
[Copied Skill: Serpents Unleashed Lvl 1] <>
Passion is poison-laced.
Neon’s instincts screamed that the battlefield would change. The way Soreisan’s muscles rippled beneath his tattooed skin, and the way his silhouette seemed to… Elongate. It whispered of danger. Was this the skill he had been boasting about before? And just how many augments was this critter hiding?
It warranted a proper search. He needed the intel, and yet…
<>
What!? This was the first he’d heard anything about probing being timed! He didn’t have that amount of time to spare in a fight like this!
Gritting his teeth kept Neon from spiraling into anxiety. There was no point in lamenting what couldn’t be helped. If he couldn’t probe, he had to adapt, and a skill that could copy others but went unused was worthless. If this was Soreisan’s trump card being unveiled, it was also mighty time he stopped being a sitting duck.
So fuck it. Since it sounded cool enough, it was bound to be something good.
On impulse, he commanded Ours to Steal to activate on Serpents Unleashed. A foreign jolt ran through his spine as a flux of code integrated into his neural pathways, interface updating with the borrowed capabilities.
<>
That was it!?
With a name and description like that, Neon had expected it to amount to some grand reveal —like summoning vipers from thin air, to deliver venomous strikes that could paralyze enemies with a touch, or maybe even transforming into some mythological beast even if it was partially. Not some stupid magic hand to reach the upper part of a shelf. He was now stuck with a glorified party trick.
Neon’s betrayed scowl sought Soreisan, whose renewed charge had barely even changed anything from the ones that came before it. No, that wasn’t fully right either. If anything, the way he attacked looked somehow more clumsy and awkward. The elongated strikes were slower, less precise, gimmick helping him virtually nothing against Nomine’s sharp reflexes.
And no wonder at that. This thing was pretty much useless!
“You’re stalling, 517.” Nomine observed, his katana deflecting Soreisan like it was just a warm-up exercise. The bile on his shoulder had already ceased its steaming, leaving only a sticky residue that barely seemed to inconvenience him. “I already told you, you don’t have to fight.”
>> “Or are you hoping they defeat me? Because that won’t happen.”
Gosh… Maybe Nomine was right. Maybe he was overthinking this whole thing. Maybe it wasn’t required of him to do any thinking at all. The veteran could clearly handle himself —and that probably was still underselling his prowess— so who was he to come and defy someone operating on that level?
Stay back, read the rules, and let him do his thing. It was logically sound, bulletproof even, and yet… He hated it.
Beyond dislike, it was a bone-deep, gut-level rejection. Nomine was free to call it pride, call it stubbornness, call it whatever the hell he wanted. But Neon wouldn’t just accept any arrangement that left him sidelined. Too gamer for that kind of noise. And that, frankly, was reason enough to him.
“Bleh. I got it already.” The words burst out, brimming with all his accumulated annoyance. “But I’m going to make you bite back that patronizing tone of yours.”
>> “Reading your rules? Clowning these two losers?” Neon rolled a shoulder, feeling the alien flexibility of the newly copied skill settling into his bones. “I can do both with just this one arm.”
Serpents Unleashed hummed through his muscles like a coiled current waiting for a target. It wasn’t exactly an apotheosic power-up, but Neon still felt a surge of confidence surging inside his chest thanks to it.
Because he wouldn’t let failure define him in this place too.