Having high vitality, Leo knew, came with obvious advantages. It wasn't just about stamina or toughness in battle—it meant faster recovery, better resistance to fatigue, and quicker healing from injuries. A shallow cut would vanish in moments, and bruises might fade before the swelling even set in.
But infinite vitality?
That was an entirely different matter.
That... might be something bordering on immortality.
The thought tugged at the corners of his mind, equal parts fascinating and absurd.
"Dispel," Leo muttered.
In a blink, every clone in the room vanished into fading wisps of light, leaving behind a stillness that made the moment feel almost sacred. He stood in silence, his heartbeat steady but his thoughts racing.
He walked into the cramped kitchen, opened a drawer, and took out a small kitchen knife. The handle was worn from use, and the blade wasn't particularly sharp, but it would do.
Testing this theory would require proof—direct, painful proof.
He stared at the blade for a while, turning it over in his hands, then glanced down at his palm. The idea of cutting into himself didn't exactly thrill him, but it was the only way to know for sure.
"If I'm wrong, this'll bleed like hell," he mumbled to no one in particular, his voice low and unsure.
For a long moment, he just stood there, knife raised, unable to bring himself to do it. He wasn't a masochist or a daredevil. And he definitely wasn't immune to fear.
"Alright, nothing crazy," he muttered, almost laughing at himself. "Just a small nick."
He dragged the blade gently across his forearm. Not deep, just enough to leave a red line.
But nothing happened.
No pain. No blood. Not even a scratch.
Leo blinked. He hadn't held back that much. Had he missed?
He frowned and tried again, this time applying more pressure as he slashed a short line across his palm.
Again, nothing.
His skin was untouched, like the blade had never been there.
"Okay, that's... strange."
Puzzled but determined, Leo gritted his teeth and dug the knife deeper into his palm. This time, he felt it—the sting of the blade slicing through flesh—and blood began to spill out in a thin stream.
But almost immediately, the wound began to knit itself back together.
It wasn't just fast—it was instant. By the time he blinked, the bleeding had stopped and the skin had closed completely. The pain vanished right alongside the cut.
He dropped the knife in shock, taking a step back.
His heart thudded hard in his chest, not from exertion, but from sheer disbelief.
"I might actually be immortal," he breathed.
The words felt ridiculous even as he said them, but the evidence was right there, plain as day. Still, he wasn't ready to jump to wild conclusions. Healing from a cut wasn't the same as surviving decapitation.
Sure, he'd bounced back from a knife wound, but what about something more severe?
*Losing a limb? Having your heart torn out?*
There were limits even high-ranked hunters couldn't surpass. And Leo wasn't about to test those particular boundaries. He might be bold, but he wasn't suicidal.
"What if I die by accident?" he said aloud, shaking his head. "Now that would be a dumb headline."
Despite himself, he chuckled softly. It was a ridiculous problem to have, but somehow, it was *his* problem now.
He returned to the living room and collapsed onto the threadbare couch, deep in thought.
Between his bizarre regeneration and the clone ability, he was sitting on a goldmine of potential—assuming he could learn how to control it properly.
If he played his cards right, he could probably clear an F-rank dungeon solo. Maybe even an E-rank if he got creative.
But anything higher than that? He'd be a corpse unless his other stats improved to match. Regeneration and clones wouldn't help much against monsters that could crush buildings with a swing of their claws.
"Copy," he whispered, and a clone appeared instantly in front of him.
He looked it over carefully. It was identical in every way. Same messy hair, same faint scar on the chin, even the same nervous expression he hadn't realized he'd been wearing.
"Do push-ups," he said.
The clone dropped to the floor and began, each rep smooth and controlled.
After a hundred push-ups, Leo told it to stop and stand. The clone obeyed, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, sweat glistening on its skin.
Interesting. The clone showed fatigue. It had limits, even if Leo didn't. That meant the clones had their own stamina pools—separate from his. That could be useful.
Leo, for his part, couldn't even manage thirty push-ups without trembling arms.
He was tempted to see what else \[Duplicate] could copy, so he started small.
He duplicated a pen. Then a deck of cards. A dull kitchen knife. Some of his old clothes.
Each object appeared almost perfectly—but not quite. The colors were just slightly off. The weight felt wrong in his hand. The copies were good enough to fool someone at a glance, but not under close inspection.
So much for duplicating money. That dream died quickly.
He also learned that anything powered by electricity was a no-go. Phones, light bulbs, even a digital watch—none of them could be copied. Either they failed outright, or the duplicates were just hollow shells.
The more complex the object, the more the skill fell short.
But that was fine. Leo hadn't awakened to become a counterfeiter.
He had something far more dangerous in mind.
It was time to take the first real step into the world of awakened hunters.
To do that, he needed a license.
Every hunter had to register with the Association. It wasn't optional. They evaluated your skill, issued your identification, and assigned you a rank based on performance and potential. It wasn't just bureaucracy—it was a matter of survival.
Putting an unranked rookie in an A-rank dungeon wasn't just dumb—it was a death sentence. The system existed for a reason.
Leo knew all this. He'd grown up around it.
His father had been a hunter—one of the good ones. He wasn't world-famous, but he was strong, respected. Until the Great War took him.
That war had changed everything.
Half the world gone. Cities flattened. Countries erased.
And in the end, only the strongest hunters had kept humanity standing.
Leo survived, barely, thanks to the money his dad left behind. It wasn't much, but it kept him housed, fed, and clothed through the chaos of the early years. It gave him a chance to grow up.
Back then, no one worried about careers or money. Everyone just tried to live to see the next sunrise.
But now? With society somewhat stable and the dungeon threat "managed," money had returned as the ultimate motivator.
Hunters were the new elite.
The world ran on them. The economy, safety, politics—everything revolved around those powerful few who risked their lives to stop dungeon breaks.
And the pay reflected that reality.
Even an E-rank hunter could make ten grand in a day. Higher ranks earned millions.
Of course, the higher you climbed, the more likely you were to die.
Hunters fell every week. Some from carelessness. Others from sheer bad luck. It didn't matter if you were A-rank or D-rank. Monsters didn't discriminate.
And still, people lined up to take the tests. To step into the dungeons. To chase glory.
And that kind of risk, that willingness to face death for the sake of power or a paycheck, had to be...