The week slipped past like a blade through a narrow seam—precise, deliberate, and relentless.
The ruin path had grown familiar beneath Wolf's boots: the cracked stones, the tangle of rust-boned vines, the thin white mist that gathered at the edges of the dead forest like old breath.
Each morning, before the sun could decide whether to rise or sulk behind the cloudbank, he led the mining team through that same path—a quiet procession of dull tools, clanking carts, and weary breath. His steps were steady, almost ritualistic.
The others followed in a mix of caution and trust, their gazes often flicking to his back as if the shape of his shoulders alone could ward off what hid in the shadows.
When they reached the mouth of the ore mine, Wolf would hand the mining team to Klion's deputy, step away from the ore mine, and march toward the monster field alone. The air there always smelled different—wet earth, and the faint metallic taste of spore ash. His fingers tightened around the haft of his newly crafted club, a brutal thing made from stone.
It had weight. It had bite.
He exhaled once, then threw himself into the field like an uncoiled wire.
The ravelins shrieked when struck—wet, brittle sounds as their bodies cracked under the blunt force of each swing. His movements grew cleaner over the days.
On the first day, he fought with method; on the fourth, with rhythm. By the seventh, it was ritual—his breath aligned with each strike, each pivot, each thud against the hollow ground.
The club met flesh and bone with a resonant thunk that shuddered up his arm, satisfying in its cruel finality.
Blood splattered the dust, hot and metallic, streaking down his sleeves. He didn't wipe it off anymore.
When the last ravelin fell, Wolf would linger. Just long enough to listen—to feel the silence settle.
A hunter's silence. Then he would return to the mine, always at the same measured pace.
The iron door room became a second den to him.
Its air was cold—not the sharp cold of winter but the breathless, sterile chill of a place that had once housed delicate, dangerous work. Rows of tables stood where shadows crouched, most covered in instruments he'd never seen before—sleek dissecting rigs, tubes, pressure chambers, containers smeared with stains that weren't quite rust.
The smell of old chemicals clung to the room like damp paper.
On the first day the gathering team entered, Wolf had moved ahead of them, his voice cutting through their nervous chatter like a clean edge."Touch only what I say," he warned, his tone stripped of warmth. His gaze swept over their hesitant faces one by one.
"If you see glass, metal, or fluid you don't recognize—leave it. No questions."
They obeyed. His presence demanded that much. He guided them to the dissecting benches himself, hand occasionally brushing aside dangling wires or nudging an overturned crate."These," he said, tapping the trays of scalpels and bone saws, "are usable."The echo in the room stretched the words.
For everything else—the containers, the tanks with half-dried residue, the things with labels peeled away—he gave only one instruction.
"Do not touch."
His eyes lingered on the far corner where a dark stain clung stubbornly to the concrete.
The research journal remained hidden beneath a pile of empty sample trays at the table near the far wall.
That table was his.
He'd already cleaned it, checked every inch, memorized every line of the faded etchings on its edges. And to ensure no one wandered too close, he marked the floor around it with his own blood.
"Don't cross this line unless I tell you," he'd said on that day.
His tone had left no room for curiosity.
And at night—after the torches dimmed and the camp quieted—Wolf would find Klion.
Always at the same spot near the makeshift wooden roof. Klion would sit there like a stubborn root, arms resting on his knees, while Wolf approached with slow, heavy steps.
Their conversations were half strategy, half survival.
"Any trouble?" Wolf asked on the third night, voice rough from smoke and silence.
"None yet," Klion replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "But people are restless. Idle hands, idle heads."
"Keep them busy," Wolf muttered, crossing his arms. "The path to the mine, the patrol around the base. They need routine. If they don't have it, they'll find one of their own."
Klion grunted softly, a small nod. "And the monster field?"
"Cleared again today." Wolf's jaw flexed. "For now."
These nightly conversations were quiet, sometimes edged, but honest.
They spoke of ore yields, weapon stock, the union's status, Haven's shadow—and the unknown thing waiting in the depths.
On the sixth day, everything shifted.
The journal's spine had begun to wear where his fingers opened it every night. Its pages smelled faintly of mildew and some chemical that left a cold bite on his fingertips. He turned another brittle page, scanning the cramped handwriting beneath the flicker of a mining lantern.
"...Designation—H-A-966 (Alpha Refinement 9, Trial 66), Gestation Cycle reached Day 21..."
His brows lowered, his eyes following every letter, every rushed stroke. The ink grew frantic near the end of the entry—lines slanted, uneven.
"Breach and Urgent Threat… night, detect three hostile intruders. initiate Biolock Protocol… single primary command…"
"Defend the core zone. do not pursue. do not leave the laboratory!"
His heartbeat slowed, thickened. His thumb brushed the edge of the page as if testing the weight of those words.
Some sentences were smeared beyond recognition, others burned away. But the last paragraph remained intact. The handwriting turned cold again—arrogant, deliberate.
"I utilized the H-A-966 subject as a necessary means of defense and distraction against the infiltrators.
My primary objective—the preservation of my intellect and the collected data—is paramount.
I have accordingly abandoned this laboratory and secured my own escape.
I wish myself continued safety and success in my next phase.
To whosoever reads this: I hope you possess a brilliant and far-reaching intellect such as mine.
Absorb the data I have recorded and carry on the Great Work.
Lysander Corvus, The Architect of the Next Species."
The name bled into him like a whisper he didn't expect to hear.
Lysander Corvus…His lips parted slightly, a faint breath pushing out.
So you're the one who left the beast here.
Wolf closed his eyes for a moment, letting the cold damp air soak into his lungs.
He could hear the subtle drip of condensation somewhere deeper in the chamber. A low hum—not mechanical, just the resonance of the empty facility—filled the silence between heartbeats.
You gave it one order, he thought. Defend.
His hand tightened around the edge of the journal, knuckles whitening.
When he finally lowered the last page, a small sound broke the silence.
[ Class requirements met: The Cryptic Experimenter ]
[ Will you accept this class? ]
The blue light of the system screen cast faint glimmers across his face, painting the hard angles of his expression in spectral hues.
Wolf's breath hitched—just slightly. His eyes narrowed at the floating text, lashes casting thin shadows.
His shoulders rose with a slow inhale. The room felt heavier now, as if the walls were listening. Cryptic Experimenter. The name itself coiled like a thing that breathed in riddles.
A faint, humorless chuckle slipped out of him, low and rasped.
"Hah… of course." His voice bounced softly against the cold concrete walls.
He didn't reach for the prompt yet. He only stared at it, letting the quiet wrap around him, letting the weight of the week, the blood, the ore, and the journal settle like lead behind his ribs.
The lantern's flame wavered, throwing the text into trembling light.
Wolf exhaled slowly, his eyes never leaving the glowing screen.
The faint blue light from the system screen bled into Wolf's eyes—cold, steady, too alive for something that wasn't real. His heartbeat quickened at first, a faint tremor of excitement threading through his chest.
The words Cryptic Experimenter had a kind of pull to them—mysterious, sharp-edged, different.
But that flicker of thrill faded almost as fast as it came.
No, he thought, his expression hardening as a single brow creased. Calm down. I have rules for this.
His thumb brushed his lower lip, a small, unconscious motion as he leaned back slightly against the cold iron wall.
First rule… he ticked it off in his head like carving on a blade.
The class must contain fighting ability on your own. Doesn't matter how fancy it sounds—if you can't fight alone, you're dead the second no one's around to save your ass.
His gaze lingered on the name of the class again. Cryptic Experimenter.
Not a hint of fighting, no weight of battle in it.
Second rule… the class must be unique.That, at least, it passed. His eyes narrowed just slightly, calculating.
Third rule… his jaw set. The class must be flexible.
His thoughts spun quickly. What is flexible? He pictured a fighter with a blade.
A swordsman—he can switch between one-handed, two-handed, or dual wielding. Sword and shield, sword and dagger, adapt to the situation. Flexible means options.
His breath grew quieter, shallower, a rhythm he only had when thinking too fast.
But this one… his eyes flicked back to the glowing text, expression flattening.
Doesn't even sound like it can fight at all. What are the chances it can adapt in combat? Almost none. Passes rule two, fails the rest.
The decision was sharp and clean.I decline.
He didn't say it out loud, but the system answered anyway. The screen vanished in a blink, like mist cut away by a blade.
The room returned to silence, filled only by the slow tick of water dripping somewhere beyond the corridor. His face stayed still, but inside his mind, thoughts spiraled.
That thing… the rock creature. What did it say again? "This world is no longer the world I know."
His gaze lowered to the research journal resting on the table like an open wound.Is the world really just… changed? Or did I end up in a different one entirely?
His pulse thudded faintly in his ears.
Can history change… can time itself change too? Can everything just be rewritten?
The journal stared back at him in silence—its yellowed pages older than anything he could verify.
At least a thousand years… he thought, tracing the edge of the brittle cover with his finger.
Not enough information.
He exhaled through his nose, long and steady, the breath ghosting white in the chilled air.
His shoulders slouched slightly as his arms stretched out, muscles quietly cracking from the tension he'd held too long.
Anyway…
what should I do with it?
His eyes narrowed at the book.
It's a unique class trigger. Destroying it would be a waste for sure.
The line of his mouth shifted subtly, just enough to hint at a grin—not the soft kind, but the quiet, calculated kind that came when an idea snapped into place.
Right… that should work.
He closed the journal gently, almost reverently, then slid it back beneath the pile of unused trays where it had slept for days. The metal tray gave a soft click when he pushed it into place, and just like that, the secret disappeared again into the background of the room.
He left the iron door chamber the same way he always did: quiet steps, hands in pockets, the scent of dust and cold steel trailing behind.
Outside, the mining team was still at work, pickaxes striking stone in rhythm like distant drums.
Ore clinked into carts. Dust floated in thin veils through the sunlight that broke through cracks in the ruin above.
Wolf squinted against the light, then crossed the path to lean against a boulder and wait for them to finish. No words were needed; just his presence steadied their nerves. When the sun tilted low, they packed up, and he walked them back to base—just like every day.
Next day.
The routine repeated. But this time, Leo trailed beside him.
The boy didn't talk much along the path. He walked fast to match Wolf's pace, sometimes glancing up as if trying to read something in Wolf's silence.
When they reached the mine, Wolf dropped him off with the miners.
"You stay with them," Wolf said flatly, adjusting the strap on his club.
"Don't wander."
Leo nodded. He can't argue.
Wolf then headed to the monster field again. The fight was brief, as it had been for days—stone against flesh, dust against breath, the club meeting the skull of a ravelin with dull, final thuds.
The creatures fell faster now. His motions were efficient, honed.
After the last corpse stopped twitching, Wolf wiped the blood from his wrist, turned, and walked back without a word.
When he returned, Leo was waiting, legs dusty, shirt clinging to his back from the heat. Wolf jerked his chin toward the iron door.
"Come with me."
The boy followed without hesitation.
Inside the cold chamber, Wolf went straight to the table, reached beneath the trays, and pulled out the journal. It was heavier in his hand today—not in weight, but in meaning.
He held it out to Leo.
"Read it," he said simply.
Leo blinked at him. "Huh? Why—"
"It can help you." Wolf's tone was steady, carved clean of doubt.
Leo hesitated but accepted it. At first, he flipped through the pages without much care. But after a few lines—his brows started to knit. The boy looked up at Wolf, confused.
"What is this? How is this supposed to help me?"
Wolf crossed his arms, his eyes steady, almost cold but not unkind.
"Reading it is one of the requirements for a unique class. If you want to be more useful… if you want to help Teddy… then read it."
The words hit their mark. Leo's lips parted, but no excuse came out. After a moment, he lowered his eyes again."…Ah—okay."
He went back to reading, slower this time. Wolf watched him for a moment longer before leaning against the far wall, listening to the quiet scratch of paper and the echoing drip of water in the distance.
Those two… he thought. Leo and Teddy. They're close—too close. Each other's weakness, and strength. His eyes softened just a fraction before hardening again.
At least it gives them a reason to fight.
That evening, the air around the base carried the smell of smoke and earth. Wolf moved through camp with his usual quiet gait, the kind that didn't ask for attention but commanded it anyway. When he found Klion near the wooden roof structure again, he didn't bother with greetings.
"They seem to be in good shape," Wolf said simply, leaning against one of the wooden posts. His voice was low, calm, almost like stating the weather.
Klion scratched the side of his jaw, nodding slightly. "I didn't expect this either."
Klion tilted his head. "Should we still wait?"
Wolf's expression tightened, thoughtful. "Hm… tell me their situation."
"Seems like they had some conflict," Klion replied, arms crossing over his chest. "They changed their leader."
Wolf's gaze sharpened. "Is it Hyung-woo?"
"The Korean guy? Yeah, that's him. There's also a rumor he killed the former leader." Klion replied.
For a moment, Wolf didn't say anything. His eyes narrowed just slightly, jaw clenching.
The torchlight near the wooden post flickered across his face, making the line of his expression seem heavier.
Is he stupid? Wolf thought.
Does he not realize staying in that fractured nest will only drag both of us down? If we keep this separation for too long… both sides will bleed out the moment a hostile group shows up.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, shoulders dropping just a fraction.
We need to unite soon. Stability first.
He let out a low sigh, voice steady when he finally spoke.
"No. Let's just wait for another couple of days."
Klion studied him for a moment, then nodded once. "Alright. That's all for today then. I'll go."
Wolf watched him leave, the firelight shrinking against Klion's back as the man disappeared into the camp's dim edges.
The night wind pressed against Wolf's cheek—dry, whispering like the beginning of something that hadn't yet arrived.
He stood there for a long moment, silent, hands in his pockets, as the camp settled into its usual quiet rhythm.