The door groaned again.
Patch pushed himself upright, sore but steady. He wiped sweat from his brow and flexed his fingers—still working, still aching.
"Round two," he muttered, cracking his knuckles. "Let's dance."
From the dark split in the wall, another figure emerged—leaner than the last. Human-shaped, but… wrong.
It slithered when it walked. Skin like dull green leather. Long limbs, hunched shoulders, narrow frame. It had clawed weapons extending from its hands like natural extensions—bone or metal, it was hard to tell.
Its eyes were slitted and yellow, scanning the room with lazy precision.
"Great," Patch sighed. "Snake guy."
The door sealed behind it, leaving them in silence.
Then it moved.
Fast.
Patch barely dodged the first strike. A blur of claws zipped past his face, nicking his cheek. Blood dripped immediately—just a shallow cut, but sharp. The second blow came fast behind, a slash aimed at his ribs.
He twisted sideways, blocking it with his elbow and staggering back.
"Okay, okay," he breathed, repositioning. "This one's speed. Light. Probably not durable."
The lizard-thing struck again, closing the gap in a heartbeat. It weaved through the air like it had no bones, snapping in and out of reach with swipes and jabs.
Patch parried one claw, ducked under another, then took a hit across the arm. A shallow line opened on his bicep.
Still bleeding.
Still fast.
But not invincible.
He faked a retreat, baiting it closer. When it lunged again, he tested its reflexes—three quick punches in a zigzag pattern.
The first connected. The second, it dodged. The third missed entirely.
"Hm. Quick reflexes, but only in one direction."
He tried it again, this time swinging wide then immediately switching to a low jab at the ribs.
It blocked the first, but flinched too late to dodge the second. His gauntlet scraped its side, tearing shallow skin. The lizard hissed, retreating.
"It can feel pain," Patch noted. "And it's reacting slower now."
They circled each other. The lizard crouched low, swaying like a coiled spring.
Patch shifted his stance too, watching.
He darted forward suddenly—then stopped, just short.
The enemy snapped forward with both claws, preemptively.
"Too aggressive," Patch realized. "Predictable when provoked."
That was the edge.
He lunged again, this time letting the claws rake across his forearm—pain sharp, but tolerable—so he could slam his fist into its chest.
The lizard stumbled back, wheezing.
Patch followed up with a tight right hook to the jaw. It hissed, then darted back out of reach.
Not out for long.
Another blur—this time coming low.
Patch sidestepped, caught it with an elbow, and spun into a shoulder check.
But the creature didn't fall.
Instead, it grinned.
It ducked and slashed upward—scoring a brutal line across Patch's stomach. Not deep. But deep enough.
Patch gasped, stepping back, blood soaking through his shirt.
"Alright," he growled. "That's how we're playing it."
He wiped his lip, where another claw had split it, then surged forward.
He absorbed the first hit. Dodged the second. Tanked the third.
And then started swinging.
A right cross hit the ribs.
A left jab hit the jaw.
A brutal uppercut to the gut sent the creature stumbling back.
He didn't let up.
Every time it tried to escape, he cut it off.
Every time it ducked, he followed.
He used his weight, his positioning, his instincts. He remembered everything Braga taught him—never let up once you take control.
"Don't wait for the perfect hit," Patch snarled through his teeth. "Hit fast. Hit twice. Break everything."
His fist slammed into the lizard's temple. It reeled.
He followed with a knee to the gut. It dropped.
One last hammerfist to the head.
Crack.
The lizard stopped moving.
[SYSTEM]
Round Two – COMPLETE.
Rest Period: 30 minutes.
Patch collapsed to his knees, chest heaving.
His shirt was torn and bloodied, his arms lined with cuts. His stomach stung. His lip dripped red.
A pouch of water materialized in front of him. He snatched it without hesitation, rinsing the metallic taste out of his mouth, pouring some on his wound before finishing the rest.
Then he lay back, staring at the ceiling again.
He ached. His skin burned. His muscles screamed. But he was alive.
He'd traded damage for victory this time. Not ideal. Not sustainable.
He closed his eyes and whispered, "Better learn faster."
He woke up with a start—if he'd even fallen asleep.
The room was quiet again. But not still.
Another rumble.
The door opened for a third time.
Patch dragged himself to his feet.
As the light spilled in, his third opponent stepped forward.
This one was different.
Taller than him. Broader. Four arms.
Three eyes stared down at him. Cold. Calculating.
Each hand held a weapon. A dagger. A chain. A short sword. And a club.
Patch's heart sank.
"Great," he muttered, rolling his neck. "Mini-boss."
