The Grave-Goliath hissed, a sound like steam escaping a pressurized boiler.

  Steam escaped the stitched seams of its chest, smelling of formaldehyde, old blood, and the wet earth of a fresh grave. It stood nine feet tall, a patchwork of grave-mold and iron plates. It dragged a meat-hook on a rusted chain, the links clinking like a funeral bell against the stones of the clearing. It didn't have eyes; it had sensors that picked up the heat of living mana. And right now, Andy was the brightest spark in the woods.

  "Form up!" Amito yelled, his voice cracking with the strain of leadership. "Shields to the front! We have to hold the line!"

  "No," Andy spat, his eyes never leaving the Goliath's midsection. "Scatter. Now. If you bunch up, it’ll harvest the lot of you in one swing of that chain. Move to the wagons. Use the terrain!"

  The Goliath lunged. It didn't walk; it burst forward with the unnatural speed of a falling mountain, propelled by the necrotic mana-bursts in its calves. The meat-hook swung in a wide, whistling arc that promised to bisect anyone in its path.

  Amito raised his gladius, a hero’s instinct meeting a suicide mission. He was going to try and parry a three-hundred-pound iron hook with a ten-pound sword. It was the kind of mistake that filled mass graves in the early days of the Collapse.

  Andy moved. He didn't intercept the hook; he intercepted Amito. He drove his shoulder into the boy’s chest, tackling him into the mud just as the iron hook shattered the wagon behind them. Wood exploded into a cloud of shrapnel, peppering the area with splinters that bit into the skin of the nearby recruits.

  "It’s Level 15," Andy hissed, pulling Amito up by his collar and shoving him toward the treeline. "Your sword won't bite through that armor. Your 'will' won't save you from a chain sweep. Get the others to the ridge. Now. That is your only job."

  Across the clearing, Andy's mother crouched behind a broken axle. Her breath hitched as she watched the monster tower over her son. She looked at the safety of the ridge, where the other recruits were already fleeing, then back at Andy’s small, defiant frame. Her hands tightened on the rusted iron hilt, the terror in her eyes hardening into a desperate, silent resolve to stay. She didn't move toward the ridge. She moved toward the flank, keeping the wagon between her and the beast, waiting for the one opening she could exploit.

  "What about you?" Amito’s eyes were blown wide with shock. "You're only Level 3!"

  "I’m going to break its rhythm."

  Andy turned. The Goliath was reeling the chain back, the metal grinding against the mud with a sound that made Andy's teeth ache. Andy’s vision flickered. Black spots danced at the edges of his sight. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a drumbeat of acute fatigue that his unconditioned lungs couldn't match.

  He was a 17th-floor mind operating a Level 3 body, and the margin for error was exactly zero. Every movement had to be perfect; there was no margin for a Level 3 to make a mistake against a Level 15. One misstep, one breath held too long, and he would be nothing more than a smear on the frozen dirt. He had to lead the beast into a trap of its own momentum, using the world as his weapon since his arms were no longer sufficient.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  As the Goliath's shadow fell over him, Andy realized the air around the beast was colder than the Grave-Goliaths of his memory. Back on the 10th floor of the first life, they radiated the heat of decay, but this one felt like the unnatural chill of the Void. It was a signal that the System Correction was drawing from deeper, more ancient reservoirs of mana to erase him. The mud under his feet began to frost, the grass turning brittle and white.

  The Goliath roared, a sound of pure mechanical malice, raising a massive, stitched fist. It brought the blow down with the weight of a falling anvil.

  Andy didn't dodge. He couldn't. His left leg was cramped, the muscle locking in a physical failure that mocked his 17th-floor mind. He planted his feet and gripped the spear he’d scavenged, angling the shaft not at the fist, but at the cobblestone beneath the monster's strike.

  He felt the cold metal against his palm, the rust like grit.

  Steel hit stone. Leverage shifted. Andy used the spear as a fulcrum, letting the flat of the wood take the vibration as he diverted the Goliath’s momentum into the earth. It was a feat of pure physics over brute force.

  Steel rang. Wood snapped.

  The spear shattered, the vibration fracturing the fine bones in Andy’s forearm. He felt the snap more than he heard it—a dull, sickening crack that promised weeks of healing he didn't have. But the Goliath’s fist slipped, the force missing Andy by an inch and burying itself deep in the mud.

  Zero-mana parry. Pure geometry.

  The Goliath stumbled, its center of gravity overextended by the very power it had used to try and crush him. The beast let out a confused grunt, its stitched brain unable to process why the Level 3 human was still standing, or why its own blow had failed to connect.

  "Now!" Andy barked, the word tasting of copper and bile.

  He didn't wait for his arm to stop shaking. He lunged, driving the splintered wood of the spear-shaft into the Goliath’s knee, finding the one seam where the iron plating had rusted loose from the moisture of the clearing. He twisted the wood, widening the gap, exposing the pulsing, necrotic tendons beneath.

  Iron tore. Dead flesh sprayed, a black, viscous fluid that smelled of the pit.

  The Goliath buckled. It hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud that sent a spray of mud over the first line of recruits. It was down, but it wasn't defeated. The monster’s core, pulsing deep in its chest, began to glow with a sickly green light. It was preparing a self-destruct—a final 'Correction' to clear the map and take the anomaly with it.

  "Andy!" His mother was there. She hadn't run. She held her gladius with two hands, her face a mask of primal terror and maternal fury. She lunged, not at the head, but at the exposed tendons Andy had weakened. Her blade bit deep, severing the connection between the leg and the torso.

  The Goliath swung the chain blindly in a low sweep, a desperate attempt to clear its personal space. Andy tried to jump, but his calf muscle gave out—a literal tear that felt like wet Velcro snapping. He fell, his vision spinning as he hit the frozen mud.

  The chain whistled toward his head, a heavy blur of rusted iron that would have crushed his skull like an eggshell.

  *Clang.*

  Amito was there. The boy’s blade was glowing with a faint, desperate gold—the first flicker of his true Class manifesting under the pressure of death. He blocked the chain, his arms trembling under the weight, the golden sparks flying into the dark air. The System's chosen one had finally stepped into his role, forced by Andy's survival to adapt or perish.

  "I've got you," Amito panted, his golden light reflecting in the mud.

  Andy saw the truth. The System was feeding Amito energy, trying to shove its chosen protagonist back into the spotlight to maintain the narrative and fix the broken power balance. Andy didn't care about the narrative. He cared about the results.

  "Don't get cocky," Andy grunted, forcing himself up on one leg, using the broken wagon for support. The green glow in the Goliath's chest was reaching a crescendo. "The core is exposed. Aim for the neck-bolts. It’s the only way to drop the core. If we don't end it now, the next wave will catch us in the open, and there won't be enough left of us to bury."

  Andy stood, leaning against a wagon wheel, his broken arm tucked against his chest. His heart felt like it was going to explode, and his lungs were on fire. But as he looked at Amito, he saw the tool he needed. The boy had the power; Andy had the sight.

  "I’ll open the gap," Andy said, his voice flat and heavy with the weight of a decade of war. "You finish it. Do not miss."

  The sky turned a darker shade of violet, the countdown screaming toward zero. Fifty minutes left. And the Goliath began to push itself back up, the green glow in its chest reaching a blinding, lethal intensity.