Level-Up Apocalypse: Surviving With The Assimilation System

Chapter 43: Predator and Prey

"Is that your real name?" Finn asked.

"Of course," Crow answered with a smile. "If you don't believe me, you can use Sleuth."

Finn ignored the remark, still keeping roughly three meters of distance between himself and the odd man, "Well, it was good meeting you. Good luck, if you're really set on surviving out here alone."

"What about you? All alone?" Crow asked, continuing the conversation.

Finn had begun to turn the other way to leave before being asked that question, stopping as it seemed the stranger wanted to keep speaking.

There was only one answer he felt comfortable giving to the stranger, "Yeah. It's easier for me to stay alone."

"The type that thinks other people will only slow them down? Oh, I'm not judging you—I feel the same way," Crow remarked. "Sometimes conflicting views make things difficult."

"Sure. Whatever you say," Finn said, not up for much conversation.

"You're not much of a talker, are you? It's a big, lonely world now—casual chit-chat is a premium," Crow pointed out with a playful shrug of his shoulders.

It certainly didn't feel like the time for idle conversation, as Finn felt something off about the white-haired, mid-twenties man. A lot of it, however, was what he reasonably expected; the entire world being flipped on its head, now driven by violence and madness was more than enough to change people fundamentally.

"Is there really that much value to talking?" Finn tiredly asked.

"Isn't there?" Crow reversed the question with a shrug of his shoulders. "What's the point of all this fighting-and-surviving if we're just going to be boring, wordless shits. Least you can do with your life is socialize a bit, with what little time we have left here, anyway."

A rise of hostility came from the annoyed tone coming from the strange figure, though Finn only brushed it off as he wanted nothing less than to keep standing there in that room with the amputated orc corpse.

"Sorry, just ranting. Anyway, I'm done here anyway, so I'll head out," Crow said, raising his hands as if to show he was harmless as he walked right past the tense assassin.

Finn didn't let the strange figure leave his sight, turning to watch as the white-haired person left the room. It felt as though he couldn't let his back be turned to the stranger for even a moment, no matter how unassuming they tried to appear.

He watched as the white-haired man left through the lobby of the building, only stopping right before the entrance to wave towards him with a smile that hardly seemed kind. Finn didn't bother waving back, only watching the figure until they left through the door before relaxing his tensed shoulders.

There was a sense of relief that manifested directly through an exhale, feeling as though he somehow avoided conflict that didn't seem to be there on the surface.

He turned back, looking at the grotesque display of the slain orc in the storage room, still not sure of what would call for such overkill.

'What was that guy doing in here? Those noises I heard before I came here…' Finn questioned, stepping over to the mutilated body of the monster.

He knelt down to look at what had been done to the corpse. There was a small part of him that found it odd how unmoved he was by such a horrific sight now, not so much as covering his nose as the repugnant smell of blood and guts.

A closer look brought him to realize something concerning the state of the dismantled orc. It wasn't just cuts that layered its body, but marks left by that of teeth; rough, deep imprints on its flesh.

"What…?" Finn mumbled.

There wasn't much thinking that had to be done to place it together; the noises he heard, those marks–it led him to one conclusion.

'He was…eating it?' Finn realized.

It was something that made his stomach spin, thinking he had seen it all by now. Though it was a time where perhaps supplies had become more scarce, there was certainly still enough that such a thing wasn't necessary.

Remembering those sounds and what they meant, the sight of that cleaver and the hand that wielded it drenched in blood–it made him feel sick. It was finding the vile tendencies of the stranger that he recalled those tattoos on his hands; the feathers, but most of all, the name given to him–

"...Crow…" Finn repeated that name in a quiet breath.

It felt like a reach, likening it to the cruel person he had to put down with his own two hands before. Yet, he couldn't get that coincidence out of his mind. For some reason as he found himself discerning the evidence in his mind, a chill trickled down his spine, causing the hairs on his arm to rise.

He began to stand himself back up while turning, raising his dagger-wielding arm as if expecting something right behind him–

A pressure embedded itself into his wrist, accompanied by a harrowing warmth as he found himself turning to find his instincts confirmed. He found himself staring at a large, flat blade stuck in his wrist, arriving with a squelch as his blood splashed onto his own face.

It stopped halfway, not completely amputating his hand as he was left speechless at the sudden act of violence against him, having to use that split-second to adjust.

Only after noticing the state of his hand, he saw the one who held the cleaver; the snowy-haired, peculiar stranger whose pale-blue eyes held an apathy within them.

"I was going for your skull, but you have good reflexes. Usually, my cleaver would just chop right through you, but I guess your muscle and bone density are beyond human standards now. You're a higher level than me, after all, it's only understandable that I couldn't cleanly cut it off."

The casual observations were spoken by the cold-blooded stranger, who yanked the bloodied cleaver away from the perplexed assassin's wrist.

"You–you know Raven, don't you–?" Finn asked with broken breaths, holding his wrist as it gushed out with an abundance of his life essence.

"You want to talk now that your hand is hanging on by a thread? Sure," Crow coldly remarked before brushing his hair back as his cleaver dripped with the man's blood.

"Answer while you can draw breath," Finn threatened even as he was hunched over, holding his gashed wrist as it spewed crimson fluid.

"Scary," Crow playfully said with a shrug. "Raven was special to me. I'm glad you didn't forget him."

"Special?" Finn repeated, feeling himself becoming light-headed from the blood loss.

["Dark Threads"] [Mana: -100] [2000/2100]

He quickly used the sturdy string to wrap tightly around his forearm, cutting off the bleeding while also keeping his hand connected.

Crow didn't seem in a rush to stop him from stabilizing, continuing to speak as he flipped his cleaver between his fingers, "Special, yes. A kindred spirit; one of the few people in this world I cared about. I can see now how he died, though; you're a killer, like us—birds of a feather."

"I'm nothing like you," Finn tiredly retorted, not caring much for conversing with the one he saw as a freak. "You get some sort of kick out of this kind of thing. I only do it when I have to. That's all there is to it."

"Do you pride yourself on that small, pointless difference? The truth is, killing is killing. Doing it with a meek heart isn't any better," Crow said.

"I just can't understand nutcases like you. If we're going to do this, then just shut your mouth and hurry on with it," Finn tiredly responded.

Crow released a perturbed sigh, "If that's how you want it to be. No trouble; I'll make you talk soon enough."

There was no avoiding a fight at this point, even if Finn felt himself at a severe disadvantage; his right hand was completely disabled, leaving him one-handed in a small, enclosed room. To make it worse, it was his dominant hand that was left unable to be used, yet–he had no other choice than to ready himself, switching his dagger to his left.

["Sleuth Status"]

[...Assessing information about [???]...]

[Name: Crow]

[Age: 26]

[Designated Class: Hunter]

[Level: 24]

Confirming the class of the one before him, there was a greater sense of annoyance from the injured man.

'Shit. Just my luck–the worst matchup for an assassin,' Finn thought.

As if sensing his unease now, it was the white-haired, cleaver-wielder that made the first move after patiently waiting. It was an action that completely caught Finn off-guard: he found himself looking at the cleaver rapidly approaching his face, spinning in mid-air without anybody handling it.

The weapon had been thrown; a completely off maneuver.

Finn slid his feet to the right, side-stepping it just as the cleaver collided with the wall behind him, lodging itself into the concrete. As he looked towards where the hunter was once standing, he already found that the man had moved across the room, grabbing hold of the cleaver and plucking it from the wall in a mere moment.

'He's so aggressive–I need to gain some space to make my move,' Finn thought.