Reborn to Devour: A Demonic LitRPG

I felt as though I were in a martial arts montage in an old grainy Chinese VHS translated to English. Grendel acted out each individual move as slowly as possible and I followed it dutifully. I meticulously memorized each twitch of my muscles and each place of my foot. Only in this perfect combination would I be able to infuse my mana.

Grendel would show me the action, stop, and watch me repeat it. Most of the time, it was not good enough. Slight deviations in form would make it impossible to repeat. A location a quarter of an inch off its intended course, a timing miscue of less than a second. This was a complex spell where the summoning circle was born from my muscles striking in the perfect way for the Grand Master to permit me to use his strike to devastating effect.

But, in that pursuit towards perfection, there was an exploit that rose in my mind. Something that great boxers and MMA fighters talk about after they handily defeat a skilled opponent.

Intimate knowledge of their abilities. The more regimented, the more devastating the reaction when it is used perfectly against them.

“Does that mean that everyone in the school will attack in the same exact way every time?” I asked after being slightly off on the timing for the tenth time. “Every punch will be thrown exactly the same? Every kick will be identical to everyone else’s?”

“If they are using the Master’s style, then all attacks will be perfectly identical if they wish to imbue it with mana,” Grendel answered. “Otherwise, it is a normal punch. Of course, students will mix in their own abilities into the moves in order to create their own style to better suit our unique transformations. What works best for me would not work best for Gunagala.”

I thought of the troll and the kangaroo trying to fight in identical ways. A bouncy drunk and an old truck engine that takes minutes to actually start.

“What of Senior Brother himself? Does he have a style that he mixes in as well?”

“No, it is almost a blasphemous question to ask. The Master is, in simple terms, a purist when it comes to the Grand Master’s style,” Grendel replied. “It is said that he sold all abilities that would not help his master’s fighting style. It is his true unwavering devotion to the Grand Master that drives him. Every punch he throws is tuned to be stronger than anything the rest of us could ever manage at our level, all for the purpose of impressing the Grand Master and earning a seat next to him at the next rung.”

“He hasn’t been invited yet?”

“No. The Master says he is yet to be worthy. Once he is allowed to go up, then so are the rest of us. Some are beginning to question whether the Master will ever receive that invitation. But, that doesn’t matter to you until you can throw a punch correctly.”

I mimicked Grendel’s form again. These new punches slowly began to feel more natural as I repeated them over and over again. I needed to make it so that my body knew instinctively how to conduct itself when a fight started. There was no time to think of those extraneous thoughts of choreography.

“I know why you ask about the Master’s style,” Grendel continued, his stony eyes staring at me without emotion, analyzing every one of my moves. “Knowing the ins and outs of our style will take you a long way to defeat the school. But, it won’t be enough to defeat the Master. He has knowledge of moves that he refuses to teach to anyone else. He calls them his ‘Master’s most precious martial arts.’ According to him, we are not worthy of such beauty. That is why there are some who wish him dead. But, maybe you, one who has been given the Grand Master’s ability, will force him to teach you.”

This was how I was going to get back at my Senior Brother for the way that he treated me. No matter how strong something was, if they were inflexible, there was a way to force a fracture. A large enough fracture, and he will shatter.

“I must tell you to think less about the Grand Master’s teachings and more about getting these basics correct,” Grendel advised as though he were reading my intentions perfectly.

“How long does it normally take?”

“Decades,” Grendel asked with eyes glassy with nostalgia.

“Decades?” I hissed. There was no way that Charles would tolerate a job that took me decades to complete. He was not a patient man.

“Yes, decades,” Grendel confirmed. “Perhaps even centuries. According to some that I met in town, I have been dead over one thousand years. At least half of it has been on this mountain, learning how to throw the perfect punch. And I’m not even someone who has been on the mountain longest. Who can say how long the Master has been atop the peak?”

I kicked at some loose dirt and cursed under my breath.

“Shit.”

“But, you are loved by the Grand Master. You crawled your way out of the Cave of Starvation. Maybe you possess the natural talent to go faster,” Grendel said with a conciliatory tone. “Maybe it will only be a few years.”

I went back to punching. I would not be here for years; fuck that.

My eyes clenched with concentration as I threw my fists over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. This time, I would get it perfectly. This time, I would enter the flow state where everything was natural, where my body knew the moves more intimately than my brain did.

“You’re getting sloppy,” Grendel said with a sigh after I failed for who knows how many times. “It doesn’t matter how long it takes. You need to get this right.”

I took a deep breath and tried to continue my lesson as calmly as possible. The boiling anger in my mind slowly turned down to a simmer; an ever-present heat that could ignite in seconds. But, for now, it remained dormant. There was no point in trying to take it out on Grendel. If I wasn’t doing it right, then I wasn’t doing it right.

However, as Grendel explained and re-explained, my thoughts began to drift away from the moves and towards the Grand Master himself. It was clear that this was an art from his lifetime; but it was a mystery as to how he used these moves. What was each punch intended for? How did he feel when he threw those punches? Was he filled with hatred towards the enemies that dared challenge him? Was it concern towards those he was trying to protect? Or was it the exhilaration of being able to fight to the death with someone else?

“Why did you choose me?” I murmured to myself, realizing that I was no less insane than my Senior Brother. “Unlike everyone else who has shown interest in me, you have yet to talk to me at all. Is this the path that you wished for me to follow? Is this how you wanted me to learn your ways?”

My voice hardly carried at all. Soft enough that Grendel did not seem to notice, soft enough for the world to be undisturbed by my question. I took a deep breath and prepared myself to continue my repetitive training.

“Kill.”

I heard it, barely. It was just the slightest tickle of words. A whisper that traveled through the breeze to reach my ears alone. The air changed itself as though a new presence had turned the temperate calm to the air pressure that swept over the fields before the thunder came.

I twisted my head, but Grendel had not reacted to the sound. He was still swinging his body the same way over and over again, stubborn and tireless for me to perfectly replicate his actions.

“What are you doing?” He asked in a voice that bordered ever so slightly on frustration; like a parent who did a math problem only to find their kid was on their phone the entire time. “This is going to take as long as you make it take.”

“You didn’t hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“Kill.”

The voice returned for my ears alone. More forceful and far closer like the brass section of an orchestra nearing a crescendo. It was a threatening note that sliced through the trees like invisible knives. Silence fell upon the forest, suffocating any other noise than the mandate of the voice itself.

“What’s happening?” Grendel demanded me, sensing the rapid change in the environment. “What are you hearing? What’s causing this?”

“You don’t hear the voice?” I replied with a grin before looking to the sky. “Don’t worry, I understand you. I hear your desire as it is my own.”

It appeared that the words were not my possession alone. The monsters in the Dungeon began to stir. I felt all the golems rise from their resting position. They shook of the stilt and muck that sealed them against the earth before rumbling across the ground. The smaller creatures also took to action. Horned rabbits the size of go-karts hopped through the woods, their powerful legs creating rhythmic thumps that were punctuated by the powerful stomping of the golems. Large hawks, forest cats, and even centaurs all seemed to start coalescing in one place.

Where we stood.

“Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit,” Grendel said in panic, his eyes flickered with a rapid scan of menus and his inventory. “We need to establish an escape route.”

“There is no more time for that,” I said, my tongue running over my teeth in anticipation. “They are closing in from all directions.

Finally, the greatest of the monsters stirred from their dormant place. A sizable hill broke apart and spewed magma and hot rocks. Stony fingers shot from the earth and dug into the soft soil, ripping it up in large steaming rows like it was about to sow an infernal harvest. A hulking form made of hardened black magma pulled itself from the ground and stood tall like an apartment block. A guttural groan left its mouth as it staggered in the same direction as the rest of them.

“The Boss,” Grendel murmured in shock, taking a few steps away and looking over his shoulder. Despair crossed his visage as he finally saw what waited behind him.

The monsters now fully formed a ring to keep us trapped in our position. Their silhouettes choked out the tree line, daring us to approach them. The skies were choked in innumerable winged silhouettes that dared us to fly into their space.

And they got closer. Each step they took made our circle smaller and smaller; made fighting more and more a certainty. Grendel ran out of time to think, whatever solution he tried to conjure broke apart as the light left his eyes. His large hands clenched and a look of frustration plastered itself to his face.

“Shit, what are we going to do?” Grendel asked himself, still focused on trying to find a path for us to escape this encirclement.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” I asked in return, earning Grendel’s attention. “There is only one thing that is being asked of us. You can do it, won’t you?”

“What? What does it want?”

My laughter echoed out towards the sky. I could not help it. I found too much joy deep within me at the development, at the test laid out to me by my true martial master. Forces external conspired with the Dungeon itself to create this horrific situation. But, unlike Grendel, I could only grin in joy that I could call the Great Master a kindred spirit. I asked the sky what it wished of me and it answered as clear as God’s voice to Moses atop that mountain. Loud enough, this time, that even Grendel could hear it.

“Kill!”