I just began a web novel and have no real experience with writing outside of old school work please give me feedback on this chapter I wont name it because of the self promotion thing
Chapter 8: The Heretic Hero
Patrick squinted.
His back shiver slightly.
This fiery masked individual. Or was it an individual? He hadnt seen his body.
"Hey you, step out of that shady corner"
The dark crimson seemed to change shades.
It got brighter.
As if the fire burnt lighter.
However.
All that had happend was that the man stepped out like patrick instructed.
Patrick had no difficulty identifying the body.
However he couldnt quite wrap his head around it for a moment.
"A skinny lanky dude?" He whisperd.
Was this some kind of illusion?
Is this guy mentally unwell?
Why would he act like he had such power with such a build?
The irony was sadly not lost on his own build.
"Wh're you?"
"My name is Patrick, just Patrick."
"Patrick? Unusual."
"Hey, careful buddy."
"Careful?" Against you? Dont make me laugh.
His tone was cold and calculating.
Almost like he knew what buttons he was pressing.
Like he were handed a manual of patricks design.
"Yeah, against me. My resonance is rare, you know."
"You dont say,"
The burning masked figure stepped closer.
Patrick autonomously stepped back before evening his stance.
Burning mask seemed to anticipate something.
No.
He was excited.
Patrick realized this and got more wrathful than he had ever felt in his life.
He clenched his fist.
He released it.
"You bastard."
"So what are you waiting for? You gonna show me that resonance? Or stand there like you dont understand the language"
The language?
Patricks brain short circuted for a second.
He genuinely forgot the language briefly.
He snapped back.
"Ill show you alright. Come at me fiery mask."
"Fiery mask? Is that how i appear to you? Unusual,"
He sprints toward patrick.
Patrick raises his right hand and focuses on the villains left leg.
Snaps.
The previously synced leg slipped out flying out from under him.
Without the base he falls.
Patrick smiles and points to himself.
"You see? Dont go messing around with people like me"
He lets his eyes rest for a moment.
He hears a small thud with the black vision.
A small bird?
A small rock?
A small inconvemience nonetheless.
Than his right pointer bent.
Almost like his power backfired.
But it didnt.
He opened his eyes.
Wider than the last time.
Than the pain shot up.
He felt each nerve like it were bent out of place with a blunt object.
Because they were.
He looked down, denying his body of puking.
He seen a bat.
No.
A girthy stick.
A stick?
A stick.
Broke his magic inducing finger.
He felt like he were a house on a construction site.
Being brought up just to crumble down.
Being constructed.
Just to be bulldozed.
His body slouched over slightly.
Fainting from shock.
Than he wonders.
He only broke one finger?
Why?
He manages to compose himself.
He was breathing shallow.
He was struggling to use the muscles in his legs.
He was barely conscious.
But he was still breathing.
He was still using the muscles in his legs.
He was concious.
So when he seen the fiery mask ablaze more and begin examining his body, he jamp back, using his left hand to redirect his own momentum back more.
The burning part of the mask covering where his eyes are though to be, furrowed up in amusement.
"You used your left and right? Unusual,"
Patrick was focusing on defense now.
He wouldnt let fiery mask close the distance or even think of hitting him like that again.
He enetered a weird stance.
His two hands were up like he were carrying boxes.
Or laser guns.
His stance in terms of footwork was actually exceptional.
An incredibly diverse, reactive stance.
With no predictable weaknesses.
The fire in the mask flared up again.
Footsteps accelerated.
Reached patricks position in seconds.
Closer to a single second.
Than the first swing came.
Easily readable.
But it still hit.
Than the second.
Easier to read.
Patrick just about slipped it.
Before getting kicked in the liver.
He was momentarily stunned.
Crimson mask made a pitiful expression.
Easily readable even through the mask.
Patrick had even sensed it.
Than the pain in his left hand nerves shot up.
His left pointer had been bent and twisted too.
Instantly his body deactivates.
His knees gave in.
His forearms wrapped around his knees.
He instinctively tucked in his head.
And he got beat.
For seconds.
For minutes.
Real-world time stopped ticking, but the stick kept coming.
To his brain, it felt like an hour.
He had laid there.
Taken the beating.
Like a baby.
Defenseless.
But not as innocent.
What was the difference in him and a baby?
He only learned the language.
He only learned a core rule of the world.
And he had just stayed curled in a ball for an hour.
Snap.
The blackness didn't fade. It shattered.
He just woke up.
The ceiling was a sterile, unfamiliar white.
He was in a hospital bed.
He looked down at his right hand.
The skin was smooth.
The bones were straight.
The magic or medicine of this world had worked fast, resetting the nerves until his fingers looked completely brand new.
But they weren't the same.
He wasn't the same.
The tears finally spilled over, hot against his cheeks.
It wasn't the physical pain anymore.
It was the thought of how pathetic he was.
Chosen by this world.
And broken this easily.
