"Take this!" Rein yelled.
The rusty pitchfork sliced through the air, aimed at the mad dog's face.
The dog Titan, playful now, dodged quick and pranced around, mocking him.
"Try this!"
Rein spotted an opening and flung the hoop at its head—missed again.
They traded blows for thirty rounds, evenly matched.
The mad dog's eyes sparkled at the hoop, its taunting grin jabbing at Rein's frayed nerves.
Today wasn't like before. Rein's strength had surged, but he still couldn't match the dog. After ten thousand fights, it knew his every move.
After swinging and missing too many times, he stopped.
"This won't work!" Panic crept in. "Gotta risk it!"
His wild cards? The hoop and fork—stuff the dog hadn't seen.
A plan clicked. He flipped the fork in his right hand, stabbing low-right at an odd angle.
He knew the dog—it'd leap left-up, about fifty degrees.
It'd jump fast, so Rein had to throw the hoop the second he stabbed.
A prediction attack.
Built on thousands of tries.
"Here goes!"
Right on cue—fork stabbed, hoop flew. The dog leaped, heading straight for the hoop's path.
It happened in a flash. The dog didn't see it coming—the hoop sailed toward its head.
Rein's grin started to bloom.
But it froze.
"???"
"Ruff!"
The hoop lagged—just missed the head, landing near its mouth.
The dog snapped it up, landing light, barking once.
This bark wasn't angry. Rein caught a whiff of… puppy vibes?
"What the—?" He blinked, yanking the hoop back.
One miss, and the dog would wise up. Harder next time.
But the mood shifted. The dog didn't attack—it stared at the hoop, eyes bright.
"Hm?" Rein moved the hoop. The dog's gaze followed.
"No way… really?" His heart skipped. A crazy idea hit.
"Let's test it~" He tossed the hoop aside. It spun off—and the dog rocketed after it, snagging it mid-air.
Landing steady, it trotted back, friendly, dropping the hoop at Rein's feet, wagging its head.
"What the—?" Rein gasped. "This is real?!"
Titan or dog? Some weird mix?
He tried again. Same deal—rocket speed, clean catch, back to him like a trained pet.
It was hooked.
So…
Rein's heart raced, but a cold glint flashed in his eyes. A nasty plan brewed.
This fight was over!
He turned toward the cave mouth.
Outside, the white waterfall roared like stampeding horses.
"Watch this!" He waved the hoop.
The dog locked on, ready for the throw.
"Go!"
Rein hurled it hard toward the falls. The dog bolted, smoke trailing, leaping without a pause.
It cleared the cave, bit the hoop—but momentum carried it on. Too late to stop.
The waterfall's crushing weight swallowed it whole.
Whoosh~ The cave went quiet.
Then Rein's chest twitched.
After three years of kill-or-be-killed, he felt… attached?
Stockholm syndrome or something?
Whatever it was, seeing the dog vanish left him hollow, not triumphant.
He shook it off, pushing deeper into the cave.
The tunnel stretched long. Soon, he reached the wood-filled chamber. The falls' roar faded, softened by echoes.
Across the room, a dark tunnel loomed. No guard dog now—felt odd.
Something was hidden here. Why else would that dog block him so hard?
Rein took a deep breath and stepped into the next tunnel.
This one was like the first, but different.
Quieter—his breathing stood out.
Darker—far from the entrance, light dropped sharp, nearly pitch-black.
Without years in dimness, he'd be asleep by now.
Even so, dizziness hit, limbs heavy.
"Where's this dump lead?" he muttered. "Should've brought a torch."
He crept slow—total darkness meant eternal sleep.
Five minutes in, things changed.
"What's this?" He hurried forward. Stone boxes lined the walls—small, fancy, one every twenty or thirty meters, perfectly paired.
"Streetlights?"
People lived here?
He gulped, pressing on down the only path.