The clamor of the aftermath still lingered in the streets. Broken carts and splintered stalls littered the northern walls, the air pungent with smoke, blood, and the heavy scent of overturned earth. Arin remained on the battered ramparts, spear in hand, eyes following the movements of the arriving reinforcements.
The Crimson Knights, the A Rank party, moved with a discipline that seemed almost ceremonial. Their armor gleamed in the afternoon light, crimson banners snapping crisply in the wind. At their center, a woman with a stern gaze and a silvered helm—their apparent leader—spoke in clipped tones to the lord stationed near the town hall. Her words carried over the distance, precise and commanding, though Arin could not catch the exact syllables.
Eliwood, the S Rank adventurer, stood slightly apart. The aura around him pulsed faintly, almost imperceptible, but Arin could sense it—the sheer mass of power pressing outward, brushing the edges of his perception. Even without understanding the specifics of his abilities, he felt the presence of someone who could challenge entire battalions of monsters alone.
From his vantage point, Arin watched the lord nod and gesture. Guards scrambled to relay orders, and the remaining adventurers of lower ranks were repositioned, forming lines at the town's southern and western gates. The tension in the air was almost physical, a coiled energy waiting for release.
Then, without fanfare, the reinforcements began to move. The Crimson Knights advanced in formation toward the outskirts where the monster horde had retreated, their polished boots thudding in rhythm on the cobblestones. Eliwood followed, his sword glinting with an almost supernatural sheen, aura condensing around him like a living shadow. Arin could faintly perceive the residual levels of the fleeing monsters—still dangerous, but far below Eliwood's threshold.
He watched the scene unfold with a mixture of awe and calculation. Every movement of the knights, every swing of a blade, was precise, measured. The monsters had not expected such organized opposition; when they turned to flee, the soldiers pressed the advantage, cutting them down as they streamed toward the bordering forest.
Arin's spear felt lighter in his hands now. He noted the creatures he could perceive: the remaining goblins, a few injured orcs, and the larger scaled hounds dragging wounded limbs as they retreated. He could not gauge the strongest of the monsters, the ones that had eluded him before—they had dispersed, probably routed by Eliwood or the Crimson Knights—but he could watch the battlefield from his position, learning, noting, absorbing patterns.
The forest at the town's edge shuddered as the last of the monsters were driven into it. Branches snapped, leaves shredded under claws and wings. From the distance, a few harpies screeched and took flight, harried by arrows and spears. The horde's cohesion was broken; the invaders were scattered, disorganized, and fleeing deeper into the woodland.
Arin allowed himself a breath, chest rising and falling steadily. Even from his vantage point, the difference in scale was staggering. The Crimson Knights were methodical and lethal, Eliwood a singular presence of raw force, and yet all around them, the town had suffered. Buildings still smoldered, wounded villagers lingered in alleys, and the smell of destruction clung to every corner.
He could faintly perceive the aura of each ally now, the levels beyond his comprehension. Their strength pressed against him in waves, but unlike the monsters' menace, it was reassuring. The stronger the reinforcements, the safer the town—and the safer he was allowed to feel in the midst of chaos.
Arin's eyes drifted to the lord, who now conferred with the Crimson Knight leader. Gestures, quick commands, orders shouted to the remaining guards. The human chain of authority and battle-readiness impressed itself upon him. This was the machinery of organized defense—the contrast to the haphazard terror of the first wave stark in his mind.
And yet, even as the retreating monsters fled into the forest, Arin knew the danger was not over. Somewhere beyond the trees, among the shadows, the remnants of the horde would regroup. Perhaps more would arrive, drawn by the scent of the town or the traces of chaos left behind.
But for now, the north walls were quiet, the first wave of devastation beaten back, and Arin could see the patterns of strength that would guide him in the next encounter. He straightened, adjusted his spear, and felt a pulse of his own newfound confidence. He had survived the dungeon break, leveled through real battle, and now observed the higher-tier adventurers in action.
Relief settled over him—not the kind born of safety, but the sharper, steadier kind that comes from knowing help had arrived. And in that moment, Arin allowed himself a thought he had not dared before: the stronger the allies, the safer he felt.
The monsters scattered into the forest, but Arin did not pause. He moved with the rhythm of battle still in his veins, spear at the ready, eyes scanning the shifting shadows between tree trunks. Every snapped branch, every rustle of leaves, drew his attention. With his Level Perception, he could sense which of the stragglers were weak enough to fall to him, which still carried enough menace to warrant caution, and which belonged beyond his reach, best left to the Crimson Knights or Eliwood.
A wounded orc stumbled through the underbrush, claws dragging along the earth. Arin intercepted it before it could vanish into the dense trees. With a swift sidestep and a controlled thrust of his spear, the creature fell, its final gurgled roar swallowed by the forest.
He pressed onward, encountering a goblin shaman limping behind the larger packs. Its staff was cracked, smoke curling faintly from the splintered wood. Arin waited for it to hurl a last desperate fireball; when it did, he rolled aside, spear intercepting the arc of flame and deflecting it into a mossy bank. Then, a single, precise jab ended the creature's resistance.
Each kill reinforced the rhythm he had forged over the streets of the town. He moved fluidly, leveraging the Spearmaster's training he had gained in the church, every lunge and parry precise, his senses sharper than they had been just hours ago. His body remembered the lessons of the battle walls—the push and pull of steel and claw, the timing of evasion, the weight of counterattacks.
By the time he had dispatched half a dozen of the weaker monsters, a familiar chime echoed in his mind. The sensation was faint but unmistakable, a steady pulse of growth that had been earned in measured increments.
[Level Up: Lv. 11 → Lv. 12]
Arin felt the difference immediately: his chest expanded more easily, legs carried him faster over the uneven forest floor, and his spear felt like an extension of his own arm rather than a tool. Strength surged in his muscles, dexterity flowed with each twist of his torso, endurance anchored his stance, and agility threaded his steps into fluid motion. He allocated his unspent points carefully, prioritizing strength and dexterity, aware that each decision here could mean the difference between life and death in the woods.
The forest thickened as he pressed deeper, branches clawing at his cloak, roots tripping the unwary. A pair of winged harpies shrieked overhead, talons reaching down. Arin's eyes tracked their movements, judging distance, level, and intent. With a leap and a thrust, he drove his spear upward, grazing one wing and forcing it into a flail of motion that sent both creatures crashing into the underbrush. He followed swiftly, finishing off the weakened harpy before it could recover.
With each foe vanquished, the familiar chime came again. Slowly, methodically, his levels climbed—not from a single kill, but from dozens of measured, precise strikes, each honing him further into his Spearmaster form.
[Level Up: Lv. 12 → Lv. 13]
Sweat dripped from his brow, mixing with the grime of the forest. His chest rose steady, his legs carrying him with ease over the uneven ground. Even as he dodged another clawed strike from a panicked orc, he could feel his body adjusting mid-motion, his endurance allowing him to absorb blows that would have staggered him hours ago.
The monsters were disorganized, fleeing deeper into the dense woods, but the pressure remained relentless. Broken, injured, and scared creatures still clung to survival. Arin cut them down with efficiency, finishing off those who were beyond saving, sparing none that might regroup and threaten the forest again. The air rang with the sounds of steel meeting flesh, claws scraping bark, and the faint screams of creatures desperate to survive.
[Level Up: Lv. 13 → Lv. 14]
His movements were becoming instinctive, each breath and step integrated into a single, lethal rhythm. The forest seemed less like a trap and more like an extension of his battlefield, the trees and undergrowth bending to the patterns of his spear. Strength and dexterity surged further, endurance and agility tightening, and his mind sharpened with each decision made in milliseconds.
Garrick's party was ahead, cleaving through the stronger clusters of monsters, Eliwood a pulsing aura of menace that kept the larger predators in check. Arin followed their progress, knowing when to engage and when to let them handle threats beyond his perception. Every straggler he finished allowed him to grow stronger while the main wave of the horde was contained by superior forces.
By the time the forest opened to a small clearing, the majority of the monsters had either fallen or fled beyond sight. The sounds of battle faded to the occasional distant screech or snarl. Arin lowered his spear briefly, chest heaving. The forest was quiet, save for the rustling leaves and the heavy breathing of exhausted fighters.
[Level Up: Lv. 14 → Lv. 15]
The chime in his mind resonated through his limbs. He felt it now fully: his HP and MP pulsed with increased capacity, his unspent status points gleamed in his awareness. Every kill, every precise movement, every battle decision had molded him into a warrior who could stand independently even amid chaos.
He allowed himself a breath, finally noting the wider battlefield. The forest bore the marks of devastation—upturned soil, broken branches, scorched leaves, and the scattered, motionless remains of creatures he had slain. Relief mingled with the bitter knowledge that the threat had not vanished entirely.
He tightened his grip on his spear, gaze drifting toward the distant silhouettes of the Crimson Knights and Eliwood. Their presence was immense, their unknown levels pressing against his senses. Relief washed over him; the stronger the allies, the safer he felt—and yet, he knew that soon, he would need to meet threats of that magnitude on his own.
Arin's mind flicked over his unspent points, the status increases awaiting allocation. The forest was temporarily quiet, the horde scattered, but tomorrow—or perhaps tonight—would bring the next wave, the next surge, the next test. And he would be ready, level by level, strike by strike, heartbeat by heartbeat.
Arin planted his spear firmly into the forest floor, chest heaving, eyes scanning the remaining monsters scattered across the trees. Each movement, each hiss, each snap of claws and wings carried danger—but now he could read them, sense their levels, and judge which he could confront safely.
He had grown. The past hours of relentless fighting, the rapid succession of monsters he'd cut down, and the focus demanded by each precise strike had accumulated into a rhythm that coursed through his limbs. And now, with the level-ups behind him, it was time to assign the unallocated points gained from four successive levels.
He crouched beside a fallen log, taking a moment of rare stillness. Twelve points to distribute. Every choice mattered—every point could mean the difference between life and death in the forest beyond.
Strength first. He had relied on raw power to drive the spear through hide and bone. He allocated 5 points, feeling the cold steel of the weapon more responsive in his hands. Next, Dexterity. Precision had saved him countless times; the sway of claws, the tilt of a charging monster—3 points went there. Endurance followed—he needed to stand long, brace against onslaughts without faltering—2 points. Finally, Agility. Quick footwork, evasive pivots, the ability to exploit openings—2 points.
He exhaled, letting his choices settle. His body already felt sharper, more attuned to the pulse of the forest and the chaos still erupting nearby.
---
Name: Arin
Level: 15
Class: Spearmaster
HP: 107 / 107
MP: 34 / 34
Strength: 36 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 24 (Max: 83)
Agility: 18 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 19 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 8 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 0
Ability: Level Perception
Skill Slots:
Slot 1: [Vital Boost — Increases Max HP by +35, Max MP by +10, improves regeneration]
---
Arin rose to his feet, spear in hand. The forest was alive with the echoes of the monster horde—the remains of the clash, their movements stilled in small pockets, some limping, some gathering to retreat. The ground was torn, leaves shredded, branches broken underfoot. Smoke spiraled up from fires where magical and physical attacks had scorched the undergrowth.
Through the trees, he could faintly see the banners of the Crimson Knight and the unmistakable aura around Eliwood, the dragon slayer. Their presence radiated power, impossible to measure fully, but undeniable. Arin's heartbeat steadied. The reinforcements were here. The stronger the allies, the safer he felt—and yet, the forest was far from quiet.
He moved forward with careful steps, spear at the ready, picking out monsters still staggered but not dead. Orcs with jagged blades, goblins muttering curses, harpies circling above, eyes glinting with predatory cunning. Each fall brought a familiar chime in his mind, the leveling rhythm finally catching up with the relentless pace of his strikes. He struck, sidestepped, thrust, each motion flowing in harmony with the spear as though his body had memorized the dance of death in advance.
The forest around him bore the scars of the conflict: broken tree trunks, torn foliage, scorched underbrush. Here and there, monsters lay fallen, but faint groans and shifting shadows reminded him that the threat was not over. The distant flash of Eliwood's blade cleaving through an A-rank monster was a focal point, drawing Arin's eyes and marking both relief and awe. The aura surrounding the dragon slayer condensed, brilliant and untouchable even from this distance.
Arin pressed forward, picking off monsters that lingered near the wounded or scattered his allies' focus. Each kill fed the surge of his body—muscles coiled with new power, lungs drawing deeper breaths, reflexes sharper than before. By the time he paused to assess the clearing, his body hummed with growth.
Arin's body was no longer just an instrument of survival. It had become a conduit of precision and efficiency—a Spearmaster tuned to the rhythm of life and death in this scarred forest. He could feel the weight of each monster, the stagger of each fall, the pressure of the unbroken trees around him, and the distant presence of overwhelming power from Eliwood and the Crimson Knight. Relief settled in his chest; the reinforcements had arrived, and the forest, though still dangerous, had a measure of order restored around him.
The forest's shadows stretched longer as the sun dipped closer to the horizon. Smoke and scattered leaves swirled around Arin's boots, and the faint cries of monsters retreating into the deeper thickets echoed off the trunks. Eliwood's final strike against the A-rank boss sent a ripple of awe through the clearing. Arin felt it—the sheer condensation of aura, the impossible level of power, and the certainty that with allies this strong, the battle was far from hopeless.
He tightened his grip on the spear, inhaled deeply, and prepared to advance. The forest would not give them peace yet, but Arin's body, mind, and newly leveled strength were ready.
The forest had grown eerily quiet in pockets, punctuated only by distant snarls and the occasional snapping of a branch under a fleeing monster. Arin moved methodically, spear in hand, eyes scanning the undergrowth for any creature that had survived the first waves. His body hummed with the rhythm of combat, still carrying the pulse of rapid growth from his recent level-ups. Every thrust, every sidestep, every calculated strike was deliberate—no wasted motion, no hesitation.
"Over here!" Garrick's voice called from a clearing ahead, steel gleaming as he forced down a stubborn orc that had lingered too long. Elira's rapier flashed in tandem, precise, swift, and deadly. Serah trailed behind them, offering quick bursts of healing to those still conscious. Together, they moved like a well-oiled machine, and Arin's spear found its place among their coordinated strikes.
Monsters staggered, some fleeing in terror, others collapsing under the relentless assault. The forest floor was littered with the bodies of the fallen—orc, goblin, hound, and harpy alike. Arin could sense the levels of the remaining enemies: manageable, dangerous, and beyond him. He targeted only those he could perceive with confidence, leaving the higher-tier foes to Garrick, Elira, and the others.
Above, the harpy screeched, its wings slicing through branches as it descended, eyes locked on the small group of hunters. Arin planted his feet and launched the spear, twisting mid-step to dodge its talons. The shaft caught the creature in the chest, piercing just enough to send it sprawling into a thicket. A low growl from behind drew his attention—a goblin shaman muttering chants that fizzled in the air as Elira's rapier found its mark.
And then, through the canopy, a sharp glow caught Arin's eye. Eliwood had stepped into the clearing where the A-rank boss—a towering, scaled brute with jagged horns and claws like curved blades—stood defiant. The dragon slayer's presence radiated a weight impossible to measure fully, aura coiling around him like liquid steel. The ground itself seemed to tremble beneath the sweep of his strikes.
Arin watched, awe and relief intertwining, as Eliwood moved with precision and speed that left even the most battle-hardened monsters staggered. The boss lunged, swinging a massive claw, but Eliwood's blade met it with a ringing clash that sent shockwaves across the clearing. Step by step, strike by strike, the boss was worn down, its defenses shattered, until finally, with a single, devastating swing, Eliwood drove his blade into its heart. The beast let out a final roar, shaking the forest, then collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs and splintered scales.
From the shadows, a familiar voice came, light and sly: "Cleared a few stragglers while you lot had the big show. They didn't see me coming." Kaelen, the thief of Garrick's party, stepped into view, a few daggers still streaked with blood. "Scouted ahead, killed what I could. Thought I'd help tidy up your mess."
Arin nodded faintly, acknowledging the unseen contribution of Kaelen. Every kill had counted, every maneuver sharpened his reflexes. He and Garrick's party moved swiftly, cutting down the remaining orcs, hounds, and harpies, rounding them up and forcing them back toward the deeper forest. Every encounter honed his senses, every kill reinforcing the rhythm of his spear and his body. The growth he had earned in the prior hours now proved its worth—he was stronger, faster, and more precise than he had ever been.
By the time the last stragglers were either slain or driven off, the forest lay in relative silence. Smoke curled from scorched underbrush, broken branches littered the clearing, and the occasional groan of a wounded monster was all that remained. Garrick, Elira, Serah, and the thief regrouped with Arin, faces grim but relieved, while Eliwood's aura still lingered faintly in the distance, a silent reminder of the power that had turned the tide.
Arin exhaled, lowering his spear. He had survived. He had grown. And in the shadow of allies stronger than any he had faced, he felt a measure of safety that he had not known before. The forest was scarred, but the immediate threat had passed.
Arin's gaze drifted to the forest beyond, where Eliwood had just delivered a final, decisive strike to the A-rank boss, the ground shaking slightly with the impact. The aura surrounding the S-rank adventurer condensed, faint but undeniable, and Arin felt a surge of relief. Reinforcements had arrived, and with them, the strongest allies he had ever fought beside. The forest might still hold dangers, but with Eliwood and Garrick's party at his back—and Kaelen silently clearing paths—he finally allowed himself a moment of confidence.
The forest was quieter now, the immediate wave of monsters routed, yet Arin's senses remained alert. This was a battle that would be remembered, and the scars of it—the broken trees, the scorched undergrowth, the bodies both human and monster—would linger. He had leveled, grown, and survived. And he knew, as he looked toward the horizon, that even greater challenges were already stirring.
Arin's Fully Updated Status Window
Name: Arin
Level: 15
Class: Spearmaster
HP: 104 / 104
MP: 34 / 34
Strength: 35 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 25 (Max: 83)
Agility: 18 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 19 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 8 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 0
Ability: Level Perception
Skill Slots:
Slot 1: [Vital Boost — Increases Max HP by +35, Max MP by +10, improves regeneration.]