I Became the Simp Character I Roasted Online-Chapter 48: Away out

Even though he managed to block the strike, it didn’t change much.

Technically, not dying was an improvement.

But the collision sent a violent shockwave through the blade that rattled every bone in Revan’s arms. His feet hadn’t even touched the ground yet — he was still mid-air from the swing — and the raw force behind the impact launched him forward.

’Shit, this is so heavy.’

His hands shot upward, the sword nearly ripped from his grip, his body folding around the momentum as the fog blurred past him.

He flew far. Three meters, maybe four. With the thick fog making it hard to gauge visually, the only way to estimate the distance was by counting the fractions of a second he remained airborne.

It was just enough time in the air for his brain to scream one command at his body before impact.

His left arm was out of the question — the ribs on that side were the worst of his injuries, and he’d been forcing internal Aura into the left arm for hours just to keep it functional. If he pushed any harder, the overloaded channels would burn out completely. A dead arm in the middle of a fight wasn’t an inconvenience. It was a death sentence.

So he did the only thing that made sense in the fraction of a second he had left.

He spiked the sword straight down. A sharp flick of his wrist sent Volkar’s blade plunging point-first into the waterlogged mud, the black steel sinking deep with the hilt jutting upward."

With his right hand free, Revan threw his forearm down. He hit the mud right-arm-first — and the ground, softened to slurry by rain, gave under him.

It wasn’t comfortable. But it was better than solid earth.

The impact slammed through his elbow and shoulder, but the mud swallowed the worst of it, and the roll that followed was clean — shoulder to back, momentum bleeding off across soft earth instead of shattering against hard ground.

He skidded to a stop two meters from where the sword stood waiting for him.

Fifteen years of being Sylvia von Vespera’s personal punching bag had taught him many things. One of those things was how to fall. Another was how to get back up before the next hit came.

Revan lunged forward, ripped the blade out of the mud, and got to his feet.

’That’s crazy, dude. Can you give me a minute?’

Revan clicked his tongue in pure annoyance, the sharp sound cutting through the fog just as his blurred vision finally snapped back into focus.

He didn’t get a second to breathe.

Two pressure waves surged toward him simultaneously — one from the right, one from the left.

He felt them in the air before he heard them, two massive displacements curving inward, arcing wide before converging on the exact spot where he was standing.

Revan threw himself flat. The two pressures collided where his chest had been a heartbeat ago — the air cracked, mud erupted upward, and the shockwave kicked him sideways across the wet ground.

He scrambled up. Got the sword in front of him.

Something struck from the left. He parried — steel hit something solid, sparks flying in the fog — and the force spun him ninety degrees. Before his feet had finished turning, something else came from the right. He ducked. Wind screamed past the top of his skull.

Then from behind. He twisted his torso and caught it on the flat of his blade.

Then from the front. He sidestepped. Something sliced the air where his neck had been.

Left. Right.

’this is so bad’

Behind. Above.

’fuckk’

Front. Left again.

’FUCKKKK!’

Revan stopped thinking.

His body compressed into a tight circle, feet shuffling on a patch of mud no wider than his own shoulders.

His sword arm whipped from guard to guard in short, brutal arcs while the rest of him twisted and ducked and pivoted — a man spinning in place, rotating his body back and forth, sometimes just his arms, sometimes his whole torso, reacting to each strike as it came without any plan beyond the next half-second.

It was the frantic, ugly survival instinct of someone who had been beaten so many times in his life that his body had learned to absorb punishment the way other people learned to breathe.

The attacks kept coming. Faster. Two at once, then three, the creature testing every angle, probing every gap. Sometimes the strikes were solid — something hard crashing against his blade hard enough to numb his fingers. Sometimes they were just wind, empty feints that made him flinch and twist while the real attack came from the opposite side.

He blocked. Dodged. Blocked again. Missed.

A slash opened his right forearm through the coat sleeve. He grunted, kept moving.

Another miss. Something caught his left calf — not deep, but enough to tear the fabric and leave a hot, wet line on his skin. His foot slipped. He caught himself, pivoted, swung blind behind him.

Swuss!

Hit nothing.

Something grazed his cheek — the same cheek that was already bleeding from earlier. The cut widened. Blood ran into the corner of his mouth.

Block. Spin. Duck. Block. Miss — his left bicep split open through the coat, a shallow cut that bled immediately. Block. Pivot. Dodge — too slow. A strike caught the back of his thigh and ripped his trousers from knee to hip.

He was being shredded.

Cut by cut, his coat and pants were turning into hanging strips of wet fabric. New lines of blood opened across his arms, his legs, his face. None of them fatal. None of them deep enough to cripple.

Revan’s arms burned. His lungs burned. His ribs were a single continuous scream of compressed agony that he had stopped registering because his brain simply didn’t have the bandwidth for pain anymore. His entire world had compressed into a tiny circle of mud and rain and steel, his body rotating and jerking and slashing while invisible blades carved him from every direction.

’I need to get out of here.’

The thought punched through the noise in his skull.

After four full minutes of being relentlessly battered, the sheer brutality of it finally jolted his brain back into focus.

He was trapped.

Stuck in the center of something that pressed in from every direction — an invisible cage of force that kept him spinning in place like a rat in a jar.

’If I keep standing here like a ruined temple pillar, I am going to die. Oh, not from some dramatic strike worthy of the history books—that would be far too honorable. I will die from a hundred ridiculous scratches from these insects’

Blood started trickling from his nose.

’I need a way out.’

His body kept moving on autopilot while his brain tore through every possible escape route he could think of. Charging forward was suicide — the pressure from the front was the heaviest, and committing to a straight-line sprint meant dropping his guard for a full second. Jumping was out too.

An explosive upward jump would drain what little he had left, and landing with empty reserves in the middle of this thing’s kill zone was just dying with extra steps. Fighting back harder wouldn’t work either.

That left the mud.

The same mud that had been betraying him all night — making his feet slip, pulling at his boots, turning every step into a gamble. But slippery ground worked both ways. If he stopped trying to grip and started trying to slide, one short burst of Aura through his legs would turn the waterlogged slurry into a skating rink. Enough momentum to carry him out of the ring before the creature could adjust.

It was a stupid plan. But the smart plans had already been eliminated.

He just needed the right moment.

"Perfect. Now I just have to wait for an opening."

He waited. His body kept doing its ugly little dance while his eyes — burning, bloodshot, barely functional — scanned the rhythm of the barrage for any hiccup. Any stutter.

The creature obliged him with none. It was relentless and precise, each strike arriving with clockwork regularity. Whatever this thing was, it didn’t get tired.

Revan was getting very tired.

His sword arm was slowing down.

He could feel it — the parries arriving a fraction later with each cycle, the dodges losing their edge, his footwork degrading from controlled shuffles to clumsy lurches. He had maybe thirty seconds before his body started giving ground it couldn’t afford to lose.

A strike slammed into the mud next to his left boot. Close. Too close. The impact threw up a spray of wet slurry that hit him full in the face — both eyes, mouth, nose. His vision went from white fog to brown nothing in an instant.

’—!’

The grit ground into his corneas. His eyelids clamped shut on reflex, tears flooding out from both sides. Every nerve in his face screamed at him to keep them closed, to turn away, to protect what was left of his sight.

Revan forced them open.

Wide. The whites already red from the earlier mud, now turning a deep, angry crimson as the grit scraped against raw tissue. His vision was a watercolor mess of gray and brown and vague shapes.

But it was enough.

Because through that blurry, stinging hell, he felt it — a strike coming from his right. Heavy. Committed. The kind of attack the creature had been avoiding all fight. Not a probe or a feint, but a real swing with real weight behind it, aimed at his exposed flank.

This was his opening. Not a gap in the barrage — a mistake in it. The creature had overcommitted.

Revan didn’t dodge.

He leaned INTO the strike.

The impact caught him across the shoulder and ribs — a brutal, crushing force that should have caved in his chest. But Revan had already been moving with it, channeling the monster’s own power into rotational momentum. His body spun like a top, the blow’s energy adding to the Aura he simultaneously detonated through his calves.

The mud did the rest.

His boots left the ground, launching him into a low, spinning slide across the waterlogged earth, carried by the combined force of the creature’s strike, his own Aura burst, and a surface slick enough to hydroplane across.

And as he spun, his sword came with him.

The blade extended outward, riding the centrifugal force of the rotation. It swept through the air in a wide, continuous arc, forming a natural shield around him.

A spinning wall of black steel that carved a circle of protection around his sliding body. Anything that came within reach of that arc would meet the edge of Volkar’s blade at full rotational speed.

Something did.

Halfway through the slide, the spinning sword slammed into something solid. The blade hitched, biting deep and threatening to rip the hilt from his grip, before his momentum tore it free.

A shriek split the fog. Not the layered, multi-voiced wail from before. This one was raw. Singular. The sound of something that had just been cut in a place it didn’t expect to be cut.

Revan’s slide carried him another two meters before friction and mud brought him to a stop. He was on his back, covered head to toe in gray slurry.

But he was out.

The cage of pressure was gone. The attacks had stopped. The air around him felt open and empty for the first time in five minutes.

And on his blade — visible even through his ruined, half-blind eyes — a streak of something dark and thick that wasn’t mud.

He’d hurt it. Not with a desperate lunge or a lucky guess. He’d used the creature’s own force, redirected it, turned its aggression into his escape route and his counterattack in a single motion.

’Not bad for a dying man,’ he thought.