Autumn Whitman felt like he couldn't hold on any longer. The opponent used to be human, but had mutated; its fingernails were extremely sharp and had scratched him in multiple places, now burning with pain. After exchanging dozens of blows, he had no idea how much the other was suffering, but he himself felt terrible—his mouth was full of the taste of blood, his side ached badly, and he suspected a rib might be fractured.

He really couldn't hold on much longer. The fierce battle was draining his stamina, and the pain made it hard to concentrate. His breathing grew rapid, his strength and speed were both dropping, and finally, his movements slowed for a moment. His block was too late, and the monster landed a heavy kick to his side, sending him flying.

That kick, combined with the hard landing, made all his strength scatter. Blood streamed from his nose, and he couldn't get up quickly. The monster was already in pursuit, raising its foot to stomp down on him like a war machine.

If it landed, the fight would be over. This move was banned even in no-holds-barred fighting tournaments—the force of the stomp, gravity's acceleration, and the shift of body weight made it far more powerful than it looked. It could easily be considered a guaranteed critical hit, a stomp that would leave someone seriously injured as a matter of course.

Autumn Whitman quickly rolled aside, dodging the stomp. The forest floor was tangled with roots, making it easy to trip. In the early stages of fighting the tree spirit, the move he practiced most was the lazy donkey roll, and now it came in handy.

But though he dodged, before he could get up, the monster caught up and aimed another kick at his head, forcing him to keep rolling backward.

For a while, he was completely on the defensive, chased by the monster, being stomped and kicked, rolling nearly half the length of the train car, not even getting a chance to brace himself and take a hit head-on. The situation was extremely dire.

So much regret!

If only he had tried harder in the past two years!

If only he had trained himself more harshly, gotten stronger, gotten faster, he wouldn't be in such a predicament.

The hardest thing to buy in this world is regret medicine. His “if only” here did nothing to change his crisis. Just as the monster was about to stomp down again, a slender figure suddenly leapt out from behind the advertising board by the train door, slashing a utility knife across the back of the monster’s supporting knee—the popliteal fossa, where the posterior cruciate ligament is located.

That slender figure was Charlotte Sutton. After sending off the two elementary school students, she had hidden back here, determined to help this brave boy as much as possible, and finally seized her chance—it was truly sudden. She knew the opportunity would vanish in a flash, there was no time to observe, so she had to predict the monster’s position and posture in advance.

If her prediction was wrong, the monster could have killed her with a single kick, but she believed in herself.

Besides, this was all she could do. She wanted to help this brave boy win.

She threw herself at the ground with all her might, holding nothing back. After landing the blow, she crashed hard into the seats at the other end, her head spinning. But the monster was caught completely off guard. The sharp utility knife sliced open its skin, successfully damaging its posterior cruciate ligament. Even though the monster had mutated and the utility knife was too thin to cut it completely, it still lost its support for a moment, its body tilting to the side.

A chance!

Autumn Whitman seized the moment when the monster was off balance and its attack went wide, mustered his remaining strength, sprang up, and launched a fierce knife kick at the side and back of the monster’s neck—this is where the two vertebral arteries meet, commonly called the carotid sinus. For people in poor health, even lightly pressing here for five or six seconds can cause “carotid sinus syncope.” It’s one of the body’s vital points, and no one would expose it easily in a fight.

A kick here, even if not fatal, could render the monster unable to resist.

With a dull thud, the off-balance monster couldn’t dodge or gather strength to block. Autumn Whitman’s kick landed squarely, sending the monster flying in a new direction, crashing hard into the train car wall. But it didn’t lose consciousness; it struggled to get up, but its left leg was useless, the ligament damage leaving the knee joint basically disabled and unable to support its weight. As soon as it tried to stand, it collapsed again.

Autumn Whitman took the opportunity to launch another powerful front kick, landing squarely on the monster’s chest and diaphragm, sending it crashing into the train car wall again. Then again, and again, and again—just like kicking a bundle of grass or a wooden stake in a mountain valley, relentless and unending. This wasn’t human—what if the monster could transform a second time?

So don’t worry about anything else. Strike while it’s down, finish it off while it’s weak—kick it to pieces!

Two or three kicks per second, Autumn Whitman kicked with all his might, nonstop. The monster’s resistance grew weaker and weaker; its arm was broken by a kick, and black blood gushed from its mouth and nose. Finally, it stopped moving, only twitching slightly from time to time.

Autumn Whitman still wasn’t reassured, afraid it was playing dead. In so many horror movies, the protagonist thinks they’ve won and lets their guard down, starts making out with the heroine, and then gets killed in an instant. He had to learn from that—he just took a breath, then kicked it another dozen times with all his strength, making absolutely sure the monster could never get up again before stopping.

It was finally over...

Autumn Whitman hurt everywhere, spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva that didn’t go far, and leaned on his knees, gasping for breath. Only then did he have time to think: What the hell was that thing?