David steadied himself as four gunshots cracked through the wreckage into the clearing. The bullets connected. Blood poured. David could see the entry wounds clearly. The imp jerked back, snarling, its limbs scraping metal as it stumbled. Voices shouted from somewhere above—desperate, human, and briefly confident—telling him to climb back inside the transport. He thought he heard the slap of a rope hitting the ground. Sounded like an initiative. He ignored it. Taking his eyes off the thing for even a second seemed an excellent way to end up ventilated.

  The imp shifted, favoring one leg, a limp barely restraining its bulk. It shrieked once, then dropped into a low stance. David exhaled through his teeth. The plan had now narrowed to one item: stay alive and use his newfound prophetic powers to kill it like some kind of evil Jesus.

  The imp moved unevenly, dragging one leg through the dirt as blood spread across its chest. Several bullets had torn through its side and thigh, yet it kept moving with its focus locked on the transport’s broken fuselage and the gunmen inside. David watched its breathing, shallow and irregular. A punctured lung would help. A torn muscle would be better. Neither felt certain.

  Come on, fall over already, he thought. Spare us both the trouble. The imp did not cooperate. David was in front of the plane with his back to it, whilst the imp had fallen, and apparently tumbled and rolled while he was busy hitting the ground. There was considerable space between them—not enough to climb back up without getting shish-kebabed or dragged back down, but enough for him to catch his breath. It seemed dazed, and so was he, a little. But that wouldn’t last for long.

  He watched the drip of blood, the twitch of its claw. Half an hour, he estimated. If blood loss worked fast enough, that would be it. Though history and National Geographic suggested that creatures like this stayed upright long past when reason gave out. It felt almost personal, the way nature refused to let monsters quit on time.

  Unless I hit something vital, it might stay standing, he thought. Things that ugly never went down easy.

  David’s gaze lifted back to the glowing text above the creature’s head.

  Imp, Lvl 2

  The label felt unnecessary. Anyone with eyes could see it belonged in the “problem” category. Like the bigger, meaner version of the one he had barely managed to even hurt. The imp began limping in his direction, dragging its wounds along with it.

  “Shit.”

  He wore his favourite T-shirt, the one printed with Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, defaced with layered graffiti tags across the torso and background. It looked halfway between museum exhibit and property vandalism—which fit him uncomfortably well—and allowed him to pretend he had taste. It was caked in grime. His shoulder throbbed, his hand throbbed, and he clutched a strip of blood-slick sharpened metal pole in one hand and a blunted metal pipe in the other. His senses flared, ready for battle.

  He was shaking. Scared. Intoxicated. Or something in between. Had the meds really worn off? The pounding in his ears said yes. Each beat thudded through his skull like a bad drumline.

  He looked down at the two metal poles he’d scavenged. One blunt, one sharp. Not much of a plan, but it would have to do. As the imp picked up speed, he set the blunt one on the ground, pressed his heel against its edge, and muttered, “Fuck me.” The metal resisted, then snapped with a harsh crack. He jammed the broken tip into the dirt and checked it once, quick and tense, relieved to see it had splintered to a sharp point.

  He figured if his half-baked theory was right, killing monsters might make him stronger. Level up. Progress through trauma. He knew he was gambling his life, but better that than waiting around for some cosmic bailout that would never come.

  Get skills. Get stats. Survive until the forced return kicks in. Beautifully stupid plan.

  Just like a game. Skyrim. Grand Theft Auto. He sighed. I’m risking death for imaginary numbers. Fuck my life. Literally.

  If the imp died, there probably wasn’t some divine scoreboard where whoever landed the last hit got the prize. That idea was evolutionary trash. Vultures didn’t rule jungles. The system would most likely credit the guy with the handgun. So he needed to land one decent hit and hope the cosmic algorithm was feeling generous.

  If the imp survived, no one got anything. And if things really spiraled, it would return with friends. Do imps even move in packs? He couldn’t remember. Movies made everything look organized. On Earth, bipedal mammals with tails tended to be social, so odds were bleak. If it has friends, we’re screwed. But let’s save that anxiety for later.

  Wait—I saw something, a notification. Judging by the fact that the others weren’t covered in blood and dying horribly, David assumed they had killed the first level 1 Imp.

  Then that means…

  ”Status” he breathed.

  [Name: David Carter

  Level 1

  Demonic Realm: Floor 1/???

  Difficulty: Impossible

  Time left until forced ejection: 4y 364d 23h 18m 32s.

  Primary Class: Locked

  Sub-class: Locked

  Strength: 9

  Dexterity: 7

  Constitution: 5

  Mana: 4

  Skills: Battle Sense Lvl 2, Calm Mind Lvl 1, Energy Affinity Lvl 1,

  Free points: 5]

  He quickly poked the holographic window. His finger went straight through.

  “Stats-stats-explanation-Status-stats-information-stat-appraisal.” His words rang out at speed.

  Nothing.

  Sunovabitch.

  He didn’t have time for divine UI mysteries. Literally. It was life or death. Maybe 10 minutes ago he would’ve found some nerds on the plane who lived for this kind of masochism. For now, one stat could not go wrong. Theo looked like he would’ve known, but it was too late and David was allergic to dying. So it’d be between Strength and Constitution. He needed to kill this thing and survive those goddam claws.

  The screen was translucent, and while it hindered his vision, David could still see the creature. He spoke quickly.

  “Put one stat point into Strength. Yeah, that. Wait, no—Constitution.”

  A point vanished.

  Huh. It worked.

  He focused again, thinking hard about adding another point. Something in his skull nicely asked for confirmation. That was new. He mentally grunted a “yes,” immediately, and another point blinked out of existence. He dumped all five into constitution, and felt a rush of something indescribable, so quick it was gone before he could categorize it. The number shooting up to ten.

  Useful. Disturbing, but useful.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Good—being alive suited him. The screen vanished, and only the approaching monster remained.

  A mix of shouts and further gunfire filled the wreckage. The imp barely noticed. It was closer now. Every shot new shot landed somewhere that was not it, it's advance on David causing the marshals to aim wide. David's breath rasped, pulse hammering through his skull. For the first time in his life, he felt painfully alive.

  The imp closed the distance fast, dragging its limp but gaining speed anyway. One second and it would be on him. Strangely, his thoughts sharpened. Everything slowed into terrible clarity.

  He stepped into a jog, lowering his stance. The creature shrieked—a pitch too high for anything that large—and lunged. Stay safe. Eyes open. Do not underestimate it. That’s a big mistake.

  It looked weaker than before, when it had jumped ten feet to claw at the barely hanging wires of the shattered hull. Much weaker now, bleeding and staggering, its path swaying off-center. Still, he refused to take the bait. If it had not been shot through the lung and leg—if that even was its lung—he would have stayed behind the guns. But this was no animal that belonged to the earth, and pretending otherwise felt like tempting fate.

  The imp lunged toward him. He stepped to the right, toward its injured side. A quick, steady step. The creature bled from several impact and exit wounds. Blood ran from its mouth. Its breathing came in harsh bursts from what seemed to be a punctured lung, if the bullet hole in its chest was any indication. The limp showed that something in its leg was torn or broken. He had the advantage.

  His senses felt sharp, every sound too clear, every breath too heavy. He could hear his heartbeat and feel each thud through his chest. He didn’t blink as he watched the imp’s legs, tail, chest, and shoulders, waiting for the twitch that gave away its next move. A strange red mist trailed from its mouth and wounds, drifting in loose threads that made the air around it seem warped.

  He kind of ‘sensed’ what it would do next. It wasn’t power. He wasn’t strong. He just felt where he should move, the right place to be, as if the fight followed a rhythm only his nerves could hear. It made him feel like some cosmic battle god stuck in a human body held together by bad decisions.

  Here.

  From his position on its right, he stepped behind it, avoiding the tail. Then stepped again as it turned to swing, thrusting with his left hand to stab the imp’s turning eye. The spear missed but cut deep across its forehead. The imp twisted instantly, tail whipping, claws slashing for him, but he was already close, moving forward, swinging his right hand and hitting its nose.

  The creature had unnaturally long arms and legs, and a tail that twitched with too much intent. Thankfully, it wasn’t as coordinated as it looked. The tail’s motor control was somewhere between a dog’s and a monkey’s, but leaned far more toward dog—if it had monkey-like coordination, he’d be dead already. Staying close gave him the best chance. Its reach was absurd, and giving it space would end badly.

  Shorter fighters always closed in. A swordsman beat a spear by getting under it. A knife beat a gun only when it pressed in close. Mike Tyson proved that being smaller worked fine if you treated distance like an insult.

  Same idea, he thought. Get close and stay there until it stops breathing.

  He just had to watch out for its sword-like tail.

  The gash on the imp’s forehead bled heavily, covering the left side of its face and neck with thick, dark blood that blinded its left eye. Strange red mist drifted from its mouth and wounds, hanging in the air like something alive. The imp’s breathing was shallow and wet, and every step looked like it hurt. It looked ready to drop, yet somehow offended by the suggestion.

  It attacked again. He moved right, causing it to spin, then juked left, driving the pipe toward its remaining blood-free eye. The strike connected. The imp let out a shriek—high, jagged, and full of pain—and jumped backward with the metal pole still lodged in its skull.

  He stared at it. It’s still standing. How deep does its skull even go? Does it have a brain? It has to, right? He decided it did, mostly to avoid existential dread.

  The creature swayed, trying to figure out whether to die or keep being a problem, and David bent his knees, shifted slightly left, and with both hands struck the end of the pipe still jammed in the creature’s eye. The pole drove deeper, meeting resistance before sliding further in. The imp screamed again, slashing blindly through the air, but he had already moved to its right—its real blind side, not just the blood-covered one—and hit the pole again as hard as he could. He could still feel that vague sense, the rhythm of its movement, the mist from its wounds. What was it? A skill?

  The imp’s cry cracked into something closer to a roar, and blood sprayed across his arms and face. It staggered back, half collapsing, then tried to jump away. He followed, directly in front, closer to its chest, its elbows behind him, its long outstretched arms unable to reach him, not without spreading wide to swing inwards and telegraphing the move. His body felt sharp, light, and certain. His hands were steady, and all he could see was the imp. Everything else was noise.

  He was supernaturally focused. Everything slowed to a crawl. The imp’s twitching muscles, the tightening in its legs, the skin pulling taut across its chest—all of it telegraphed its next move. Even the claws and tail dug into the ground, anchoring it like it was about to launch a building instead of itself.

  He stabbed at the imp’s remaining eye with the tip of the second pipe and missed, only slicing a fresh cut above it before jumping back and rolling to a stop as it stumbled backward. He was out of its range again.

  His body felt like it was on fire. His heart slammed against his ribs, every beat echoing in his ears. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt carved from sand. He forced in a slow breath anyway. I don’t think I’m going to lose.

  The imp was stronger, taller, faster, meaner, and built like something designed specifically to ruin him. Still don’t think I’ll lose.

  He dashed forward, straight toward its center. The imp lashed out, sweeping low with claws and tail, expecting the same close-quarters dodge to the right he’d used before. Instead, he juked left and jumped—an old college football move he’d only ever watched, never tried, but apparently his body had taken notes.

  A sharp pain tore through his shoulder as he crashed to the ground arm-first. He ignored it, rolled hard, and came up behind the creature while it overextended. In one motion, he leapt onto its back, grabbed the pole buried in its right eye, and pulled, twisting with every ounce of strength he had. The imp roared and bucked, biting at the air, half-blind and furious, while he clung on—probably the dumbest brilliant thing he’d ever done.

  He found himself in the world’s most awkward position, surrounded by potential death from every direction. He took a deep breath.

  Calm down.

  He inhaled and squeezed.

  Sense everything.

  He exhaled and pulled.

  Be everywhere.

  His awareness expanded.

  As he breathed, the red mist leaking from the imp’s wounds drifted toward him. The red mist curled under his nose. He inhaled. A surge of strength hit like a current;

  [Battle Sense Lv. 2 → Battle Sense Lv. 3]

  [Energy Affinity Lv. 1 →Energy Affinity Lv. 2]

  He drew in another long, measured breath, forcing rhythm into his chest, and he squeezed with everything he had, newfound strength included. His heart hammered. His muscles burned. His skin stung. The air tasted of blood and rust. He felt lightheaded, though strangely clear. The imp jerked and flailed, its errant swing carving a shallow line across his back. He barely registered it.

  He glanced at the wound along his shoulder, mildly surprised. It didn’t seem as deep as he'd expected.

  Good enough.

  They hit the ground together. He rolled left, and the pole buried in the imp’s eye drove through under the force of their combined weight. It tore straight through the creature’s skull and out the other side.

  He stared for a moment, chest heaving, blood dripping from his chin.

  That works.

  The imp jerked, jolted, and convulsed, its usefulness to evil expired. It still clung to existence through sheer stubbornness. David stood over it, feet firm, pipe raised high, the picture of raw intent. He brought the pipe down toward its temple with the precision of someone fixing a problem.

  The creature twisted at the last second, and David hopped back, both feet landing solidly. The imp thrashed, growled, bit the air, clawed, tail whipping through the chaos.

  “You know what? Fuck this. I think I’ve done enough. I hope you die of a stroke,” he said.

  It should have died three minutes ago. Something kept it going. Maybe monsters had skills—some cursed instinct that refused to quit.

  David stepped backward toward the wrecked plane compartment and the lowered ropes, eyes locked on the monster. He waited, seeing what it would do next. Would it attack? Or retreat? Retreat could mean it was dying.

  The imp sniffed the air, then limped toward the forest and staggered deeper in—pipe still sticking through its head.

  David slowly followed.

  He stayed low, keeping distance as the thing shambled, barely making it ten feet past the treeline, then collapsed, disappearing beneath a bush that looked like bound curtains beside a redwood.

  David circled the bush and noticed the imp sprawled unconscious within it, unmoving and careless.

  He knew it was dangerous, but he didn’t want this thing to recover and bring friends, he kept his eyes peeled, and was ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble or if a leaf shifted wrong. A small part of him was aware that someone among the twenty-nine passengers probably watched him from above. But he was here finishing the creature himself, both to make sure it stayed dead and to see exactly how this world awarded confirmation for a kill. He had missed it last time on account of falling to his death.

  David stabbed down with everything he had. Three times.

  [You have defeated a Imp Level 2]

  [Lvl 1 ? Lvl 2]

  A message appeared and announced the imp’s death. David stared at it, both impressed and faintly pleased that bureaucracy thrived in hell. The tough bastard had taken its time, but he had finished the job himself. Either way, he gained a level. Real progress.

  He could still feel the passengers’ gaze on him as he bolted, racing back to safety—people making sure the hero made it back alive. From their view, he probably looked responsible, the one making sure the thing stayed dead.

  He doubted they’d question him.

  He reached the ground beneath the plane, and both creatures were finally dead—and David was safe—the world resumed its usual order. The blood trail glistened under a dull sky. Voices shouted from the plane, reminding David he hadn’t saved himself yet.

  Pain arrived in waves—muscles burning, wounds raw. His head throbbed, punishing him for surviving. His legs weakened, but his will held.

  His pulse slowed. The chaos thinned. The world felt ordinary again.

  “I’m never touching a football again.”