Nameless let the thought go and started moving, boots pressing into soil that yielded with a dull weight. The dusk thickened. Far off, the village smoke faded into grey, swallowed by the ridges. He chose not to walk toward it — not yet. Villages meant people, and people meant noise.
The silence broke first by movement. Grass parted — low, cautious. A shape flickered in the dim light, four legs, lean frame, eyes reflecting like shards. Not a beast of myth, not yet, but the world's first teeth.
He stilled, not out of fear but calculation. The system was waiting to test him.
The moving continued, steps crunching against the dark soil. The ridges folded and twisted, each hollow carrying its own shadow. He kept to the higher ground, watching the valley breathe below.
Then the stillness cracked. Grass parted, a low rustle. Two eyes caught the dusk, glinting cold. The frame of a wolf — lean, hungry, its ribs drawn sharp beneath the fur.
The first test.
Nameless stilled, letting the silence thicken. He'd written this spawn table himself. Wolves hunted in pairs, never alone. If one showed itself, the second was already circling.
He didn't draw steel. He waited. Counted. Three breaths — and there it was, the second flash of eyes in the brush.
He smiled, thin and humourless.
Obvious. Too obvious.
The first lunged. He stepped aside, not with speed, but with certainty, as though the world had been scripted for this one motion. Soil broke under its paws, momentum carrying it past.
The wolf skidded, wheeled, but did not strike. It lingered, pacing low, hackles bristling. A second shadow shifted in the brush — the pair, as expected, circling, testing.
Nameless's gaze flickered, and the overlay lit faint against the dusk.
Direwolf — Level 7.
Direwolf — Level 8.
He let the numbers settle, calm, almost expectant. For anyone else, the wolves would be nothing but shadow and teeth. For him, the truth of things was never hidden. That was his inherited talent — Perfect Sight. The world did not lie to him.
For others, the wolves were only shadow and hunger. For him, their truth was written plain, numbers etched into dusk itself.
His own marker pulsed back at him.
Emperor — Level 1.
He smirked, muttering under his breath.
That's the thing about knowledge… he murmured, voice pitched low, almost as if confessing to the dusk. Hunger announces itself. Thirst gnaws. Pain screams. But ignorance— he let the word linger, sharp and dry, — ignorance doesn't make a sound. You can starve for knowledge and never notice… until the price is already paid.
The wolves prowled closer, but not yet striking, their yellow eyes glinting with patience.
In Devir, though… ignorance bleeds where everyone can see it. Every lack, every weakness, plain as day. Even absence has consequences.
His eyes narrowed, measuring the weight behind the numbers.
If I rushed both now, I'd be dead before my second step.
He exhaled once, steady, almost amused.
And that's the mercy of sight like this: it doesn't lie about your odds.
Creator or not, that doesn't change. I never farmed the tutorials. Never bothered grinding the training dummies. Left all the stat-padding to the testers.
The wolves prowled, eyes gleaming, their muscles coiled in patience. They could close the gap any moment, but they didn't. Not yet. Predators always measured first.
He tilted his head, half amused.
So here I am. One man, one day before the flood, standing in the field as a level one. Naked, save for what I know.
The grin thinned, turning inward.
And knowledge doesn't show up on the screen.
He adjusted his stance, watching the pair circle wider.
That's the real difference. Numbers climb for anyone with enough time to bleed. But knowing the script before it runs… that's mine. That's the only stat that matters.
The wolves tensed. Dust lifted in the twilight. The crucible was waiting.
Nameless shifted his weight back, reading the wolves' pacing. Their circling narrowed, jaws parting, breath white against the dusk. He let them measure him, then drew his own line.
Not tonight.
He broke to the side, boots tearing through grass, the ridges falling away beneath his stride. The wolves lunged, but he had already moved. Their snarls snapped at his heels, claws raking earth where his legs had been. The chase lit for a heartbeat, then faltered — the pair breaking off when the gap widened, unwilling to bleed for prey that didn't falter.
Nameless slowed only a fraction, mind ticking, eyes searching the slope. He remembered. This spawn point. This ridge. He'd mapped it himself years ago, down to the weeds. And there — the mound. A hump of earth swollen above the rest, half-buried in brush, the kind of terrain quirk no player would notice until it killed them.
He stooped, fingers closing over two stones slick with soil. One he kept in hand, the other he let fly. It clattered against rock, a sharp crack that split the dusk. The wolves whipped around, ears twitching, hackles lifting. Another throw, sharper this time, skittering through brush. Their heads snapped toward it, their focus broken, their bodies lowering into the hunt again.
He gave them his back, deliberately reckless. His stride lengthened, carrying him straight for the mound. From their angle, through the weave of shrubs, it looked like any other rise. He didn't slow. He vaulted the brush in a single leap, vanishing from sight.
The wolves gave chase, their bodies surging forward, their vision blinded by the green. They followed instinct, not pattern. Prey runs, predator follows.
But Nameless didn't fall blind. He slid. His boots found the slope's edge, the earth slanting steep beneath him. For a heartbeat he rode it, leaning back, skidding along soil that crumbled under his weight. The mound was hollowed at its crown, a small pit carved by runoff, no wider than a body, no deeper than a crouch. Invisible from above, invisible from the sides. He ducked into it, shoulders pressed tight, body vanishing into the earth itself.
The first wolf cleared the brush, expecting prey in open ground. It landed heavy, paws striking loose stone — and found nothing. Its momentum carried it over the lip. For an instant its claws scrabbled, catching earth. Nameless drove the rock in his hand down onto a foreleg, sharp and brutal. The grip failed.
The wolf tumbled, its body thrown down the far slope. The incline steepened into a ravine, rocks jagged, the fall long. Its body broke against stone, a snap that carried even through the hush.
The second followed, blind to the trap, jaws snapping at air where prey should have been. Its paws struck loose soil, slid, and the weight of its frame carried it over. Two snarls broke into silence — then bone against rock.
Nameless stayed crouched in the pit, breath held, until the dusk swallowed the echoes. He rose slowly, brushing dirt from his sleeve, the faintest curl of a smile cutting his face.
A chime cut the air, crystalline. The overlay flickered.
[Level Up]
Emperor — Level 2.
He exhaled, sharp, amused.
Not bad… for level one bait.
He slowed only when the dusk settled again, his breath even, his steps deliberate. He smiled faintly, glancing from above to the shadowed ridge where the eyes had vanished.
The silence drew close again, and he let it. Then he spoke low, half to himself, half to the world.
That's the law of Devir. Kill something once, and its truth is yours forever. From then on, every wolf, every beast of its kind — you'll see it for what it is. Level, strength, power, knowledge. One fight, one victory, and the species is unlocked.
He smirked, dry.
Thought that's a bit a waste of time for him, due to his Perfect Sight, for other's that is the normal way. That's called discovery by blood.
His gaze turned to the horizon, where the first stars burned cold.
But me? I didn't need to wait for blood. My sight had it written from the start. The others will learn by dying. I'll learn by watching.
The grin faded, leaving only the dusk.
That's the only real shortcut.
His gaze lingered on the hollow where the wolves had fallen, their bodies broken in the dark. He lifted his eyes, checking the marker above his own name — faint, but there.
Emperor — Level 2.
He almost laughed, though not out of joy.
That's the arithmetic of this world. Numbers climb not by grace, not by glory, but by weight. Two beasts, one level 7 and the other level 8, almost 10 times my measure — worth more than the scraps of any training dummy. Yet even then, the code shows no mercy. Against players, the leap would be doubled for confronting someone with at least 6 levels more — 200% for the sheer audacity of facing what should crush you. But against mobs, the reward is halved. 50%. Merit, not miracle yet.
He smirked, voice low, dry.
So that's what it takes to drag a man from level 1 to level 2 — the corpses of two predators, each 200x times stronger, and even then, only just enough.
The silence pressed in again, the night stretching wide around him.
That's the brutality of Devir. The climb isn't steep — it's vertical. Every rung above you weighs more than the last, and every step up is paid in blood.
He let the thought fade, the mark of level two still faint on his vision.
One step. Nothing more.
He leaned back against the damp earth, breath steadying in the narrow dark. The wolves lay broken below, silence reclaiming the ridge.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
So that's where I've landed… death first.West Montanum.
He let the words fade, half memory, half certainty.
Could've been worse. At least I know the script from here.