The baton flew through the air with surprising speed, spinning rapidly.

  It came in straight for a heartbeat, just long enough for Ray to commit to the dodge, then snapped sideways in mid-air with a sharp kink that made his instincts feel a step behind. He twisted anyway, but the rod clipped his shoulder on the turn and the impact punched deep, blunt and concentrated, the thud causing him to flinch. His arm went hot, then numb, fingers loosening for a fraction before he forced them back into a grip. The baton flew free on its own and whipped past his ear with a whoosh, then circled back toward the mound in a smooth, ugly curve, still spinning. Ray watched it hover for a heartbeat in front of the King’s crown, tip angled down, waiting for more cues.

  The lobster rasped, a buzzing hiss that vibrated through the chamber, and the thrum under the floor rose with it. Ray felt it in his teeth. A heavy pressure strained against his ears. The baton dipped a fraction as the thrum pulsed, and Ray’s stomach sank with realisation. The King had complete control of the stick. It was feeding it mana with steady and deliberate motion, pouring it into the rod with pure intent. Every time the thrum spiked, the baton responded a half-beat later, more stable, more certain, the air around it tightening as if the baton was locking onto him. Ray swallowed, eyes darting between claw, rod, and grooves, and the humour that had carried him through the crab court went thin at the edges.

  He tried to treat it like a thrown weapon, his body wasn’t used to weapons changing trajectory mid flight. He shifted left to create space, and the baton punished the step immediately, striking the place his foot was about to land with a thud… like it was coordinating Ray to dance. Ray yanked his leg back mid-stride, boot scraping stone, and nearly ate the floor when his heel kissed a groove line. The King advanced with a slow, dominant forward approach, multiple legs driving it forward with patient certainty, and Ray realised almost too late that the baton was just a trap to lure him to particular locations. The baton was the part that made the rest of the room feel smaller. It forced hesitation. Hesitation allowed the lobster to close the gap. Closing the gap fed things into the lobsters claws. The claws fed the end.

  Ray backed up a pace to reset and the baton snapped low at his thigh. He barely got a dagger down in time, steel meeting metal with a jarring crack that rattled up his wrist. The rod rebounded with a heavy twang and turned mid air to come right back at a tighter angle to cut Ray off from his next dodging line. Ray’s heart kicked hard. He could feel the pattern forming even through the chaos: the baton didn’t follow and attack randomly, it hunted where he would be if he moved in normal patterns. It punished habits. It punished clean footwork. It punished the first answer his body wanted to give. Ray gritted his teeth and shifted his stance smaller, more compact, trying to shorten his tells, trying to give it less “future” to aim at.

  Ray had no time to stop and rest. The rod snapped back through the air with that same wrong angle, cutting off paths and lines, ripping towards him at every opportunity. It wasn’t a blade. It didn’t slice or pierce. It hit like a compact hammer, the force sank deep into his bones, every parry made his hands reverberate. He staggered, pulled his shoulder back into place by sheer will, and kept his daggers up because the moment his hands dropped, the lobster would take advantage of he opening. The King rasped again, that buzzing hiss vibrating through the chamber, and the thrum under the floor rose.

  The Southern Rocklobster King “rose” higher on its many legs, spreading its body to look larger, to claim the room, to remind Ray that the mound was its shelter and this was a defence. The crown wobbled stupidly on its head, but the claws were no joke. One was heavier and blunt, built for crushing. The other held tighter angles, made to clamp and control. The baton floated just off its right side, hovering at the edge of Ray’s vision like a spiteful thought that wouldn’t leave, and the remaining crabs along the walls clicked in an uneven rhythm as if they were still trying to keep time with a conductor who’d decided murder was the new tempo.

  Ray tried to shift left, hunting for open stone between grooves, and the baton punished the move immediately. It snapped low at his shin. Ray yanked his leg back mid-step and felt the air sting where the rod passed, then the King advanced with a slow, direct approach that ate distance without rushing. It did not charge. It occupied. Every step stole options from him. The baton forced him to move poorly, and the claws waited to capitalise on the bad footwork. Ray could feel how the room wanted him in the grooves, where a single slip became a pinned knee and a crushed ribcage. “Alright,” he hissed, jaw tight, “you’re not funny anymore.”

  The baton dipped again, and Ray caught it on the flat of a dagger by instinct. The impact rang through his wrist and up his forearm, turning his fingers stiff for a heartbeat. He barely had time to reset before the King’s pincher claw angled for his weapon hand, trying to repeat the same disarm play the elites had used earlier. Ray twisted his wrist inward, tucked his elbow tighter, and let the clamp catch less purchase, but the pressure still wrenched at his tendons and made his ribs flare as he compensated. The crusher claw followed with a heavy shove meant to push him into a groove line, and Ray scraped his boot on stone as he fought to keep balance. The baton hovered, poised at his centre line, as if it didn’t even need to commit until his footing broke.

  A hot throb bloomed along his upper arm as the rod clipped him again, and a flicker of text appeared without ceremony.

  [Debuff Applied: Bruised Arm (Minor)]

  Ray didn’t look away from the claws. He shoved his shoulder into the King’s shell to deny the angle, ribs protesting as the armoured mass pressed back, then slipped sideways on the smallest gap the legs allowed. The lobster tried to clasp with its front walking legs, reaching and bracing to stabilise, and Ray felt the strength of those limbs as they scraped at stone and hooked for traction. It was ugly, close fighting, and the baton made it worse by forcing him to keep half his attention on a weapon that wasn’t being held in the normal way. Ray still couldn’t get a grasp on the changing directions.

  He backed two steps to reset and immediately regretted it when his heel dropped into a groove. The pincher claw snapped forward, caught the edge of a dagger handle, and yanked hard enough that pain flashed through his wrist. His grip locked down with a cramp, stubborn and furious, and the baton lunged for his throat in the same beat. Ray triggered Speed Burst and felt mana tear out of him cleanly, heavy and immediate, and his body snapped into sharp clarity. He moved fast enough that the rod stabbed through empty space, fast enough he rotated with it, sliding inside the claws before the King could correct. With just eleven seconds of speed, he needed to make the most of it. Ray used the time to change things up, to break the clamp line, to stab tight and quick under seams where he could, and to get out of the groove trap before the room could take his leg.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  The burst faded and the weight hit his legs like sand poured into his boots. His lungs tightened, ribs pulling with every inhale, and his shoulder throbbed with dull lead pain where the baton had been striking. He forced his breathing steady anyway, because if he let fatigue turn into clumsiness, he’d be done. The King lifted its claws again, body still high, antennae flicking forward with small, precise movements that seemed to read the space between them. Every time Ray shifted his weight, the lobster adjusted, and the baton followed a half-beat later as if it had been given the cue. That was the part that made Ray’s stomach twist. It wasn’t clever in a human way. It was feedback. It was control.

  Ray took a risk he didn’t like. He pushed forward instead of sideways, baiting the lobster into a shove-and-clasp, and when the King rose higher and planted its legs to brace, Ray drove Crimson Crescent into a single dagger and kept the activation compact. The edge lit dull red. He swung in a tight arc at a weight-bearing leg hinge as it locked, aiming for overlap points where armour met joint and movement mattered. The cut landed with a wet crack that ran through chitin and into something deeper. The leg buckled a fraction. The King dipped. Its body dropped just enough to throw its rhythm off, and the baton wobbled in the air like it had been yanked by a distracted hand.

  Ray’s chest tightened. One leg helped, but it wasn’t going to save him. The lobster still had too many legs. It still had claws. It still had that rod waiting to ruin his day. The antennae flicked again, and Ray saw what he’d been ignoring. They weren’t just decoration. They were timing and spacing, the little movements that made the baton’s angles feel unfair. Ray swallowed hard and shifted his stance, choosing the worst line on purpose. “Alright,” he rasped, voice rough, “no more free reads.”

  The baton twitched and started to lift again, shakier than before, as if the King had to work harder now. Ray didn’t give it time to settle. He pushed forward, closing distance with grim, deliberate calm that didn’t match the pain in his ribs. The King rose again in response, extending its legs, trying to regain dominance with height, and one antenna whipped across the space like a warning strike. Ray triggered Speed Burst again as soon as the cooldown allowed, felt the mana rip out of him, and drove into the danger instead of skirting it. The whip cut air beside his cheek. Ray ducked, felt the sting of displaced air, and kept going because this was the only angle that changed the fight.

  He fed intent into Crimson Crescent and shaped it differently this time, not just an edge glow, not just a cut meant to bite through thick plating, but a compact crescent that pushed past the dagger’s physical reach. Red flared along the blade and spilled outward in a short, tight arc that snapped forward like a thrown curve. It was not a wave. It was a knife’s distance stretched into something meaner. The arc clipped the first antenna near its base. Chitin split. The antenna jerked, then dropped limp. The King rasped loud enough to make Ray’s skin prickle as every leg shoved down at once to brace. Its eyes stayed locked on him, still watching, still seeing, but the way it held itself went wrong for a beat, as if it had to re-measure the space by force instead of instinct. The baton stalled mid-air, trembled, then whipped wide and missed the angle it wanted.

  Ray didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He shifted half a step, lined up the second antenna, and forced Crimson Crescent again. The mana hit was heavier this time, dull weight settling into his forearms, but the arc snapped out all the same. A headache washed over him. The second antenna tore free. For a heartbeat the King held its claws wider, not for intimidation, but for correction, trying to stabilise the room with posture while the crown wobbled stupidly. The court crabs along the walls went quiet, the clicking cutting off as if they’d forgotten their role in the performance.

  The King reacted in the simplest, most territorial way possible. The crusher claw swung sideways in a full displacement bat, thrashing at the air where Ray was standing. It caught him mid-step with brutal, sweeping force. Ray felt like he was being hit by a giant piece of furniture, like being smashed with a chair at a wrestling match. His ribs detonated with pain. The world tipped hard. Ray slammed into the chamber wall, stone cracking into his back, and his breath vanished so completely he couldn’t even swear. He slid down for half a second with both daggers still in his hands because he refused to let go, and the baton snapped past his face on a wild line that would have taken his throat if it hadn’t been forced off rhythm.

  A flicker appeared as Ray tried to inhale and only managed a broken, shallow pull.

  [Debuff Applied: Bruised Ribs (Severe)]

  [Debuff Applied: Arm Trauma (Moderate)]

  Ray blinked hard, swallowing panic and iron taste, and forced his eyes up. The Southern Rocklobster King was still there, legs spread, claws lifted, antennae gone, still watching him with those stupid eyes while its body language shifted into something heavier and less precise. Its eyes couldn’t lock onto him properly. It looked less like a regal conductor now and more like a shoreline monster thrown into a bad mood, forced to rely on brute certainty instead of perfect timing. The baton hovered beside it, jittering in the air, barely staying afloat and Ray hated that the rod still moved even when the King’s rhythm had been disrupted.

  The King advanced, multi-leg drive steady even with the damaged joint, claws opening with slow certainty that made Ray’s stomach tighten. Ray tried to stand and pain exploded across his ribs hard enough that his vision greyed. He forced himself upright anyway, legs trembling, shoulder hanging heavy and wrong, and brought his daggers up with a shake that he refused to let become weakness. The baton snapped in again and hit his upper arm with a blunt crack that turned his fingers numb for a fraction, and the King used the moment to shove forward and bring its crusher claw down, aiming to pin him against the scored stone.

  Ray twisted, boot caught a groove, and everything went wrong at once. The claw clipped him across the torso and slammed him sideways with a crack that stole what little breath he’d regained. The baton whipped in on a second line, angled for the same centre mass, and Ray felt the rod’s impact sink deep into muscle and bone. He hit the floor hard, vision sparkling, ribs screaming, and the court’s clicking rose again at the edges as if the room could smell him weakening. Ray tried to push up, tried to find his feet, and the baton hovered in front of his throat for a heartbeat as if it was deciding whether it could end this cleanly.

  The King’s claw lifted for the crush. Ray’s world narrowed to pain and pressure and the horrible certainty that his body was about to give out. He could feel mana sitting low and thin. He could feel the limits of his muscles as they shook. He could feel the moment approaching where stubbornness stopped being enough.

  Something inside him clicked, hard and mechanical, like a latch releasing.

  [LIFELINE ACTIVATED — 49 HEALTH RESTORED.]

  [Skill: Lifeline has reached Level 4.]

  The world lurched. Ray’s body jerked forward, out of the lobsters claws. One heartbeat he was crushed and breathless. The next he was several metres away, sprawled on the floor, air tearing back into his lungs in a ragged gasp that hurt so bad it made his eyes water. His ribs still screamed. His shoulder still burned. His thigh still throbbed. He was alive anyway, and for a terrifying second that was the only thing he could hold onto.

  Ray lay there shaking, eyes wide, chest heaving as he dragged air in like it was the only currency worth anything in this dungeon. The King froze for a fraction, antennae gone so it held its claws wider as if it had to re-check distance by force, then it rasped again and the room answered with a rising click from the crabs at the edges. The baton lifted, jittering in the air, still hunting. Ray forced himself onto one elbow, knuckles white around his daggers, and stared at the lobster through the haze of pain.

  “One,” he rasped, voice raw. “That was my one.”

  The Southern Rocklobster King advanced again, multi-leg drive steady, claws opening with slow certainty, and the baton angled towards Ray’s throat with the kind of patient malice that made him want to laugh and vomit at the same time. Ray pushed himself up, legs trembling, ribs screaming, and raised his daggers anyway. He didn’t feel heroic. He felt stubborn, and he could live with stubborn.

  The King rasped louder, crown wobbling, and the baton snapped forward again.

  Ray set his feet between the grooves and braced. Both the Lobster and Ray could tell the fight was coming to a crescendo.

  If you’re enjoying System Outcast, please consider taking a moment to Follow, Favorite, and Leave a Review!

  It helps the story grow more than you can imagine and puts it in front of new readers who might love stories like this just as much as you do.

  Thank you for reading!