The atmosphere collapsed into chaos once more. Complaints and curses thundered through the clearing, a wave of anger directed at the absurd cruelty of the so-called beginner mission.
Reach level 10 in seven days or die?
For those blessed with strong talents, the words were terrifying. For those cursed with F-tier scraps, non-combat skills, useless oddities, it was a death sentence. Some raged, spitting venom at the sky. Others wept, bodies trembling with despair. A few simply sat down where they stood, hollow-eyed, their minds breaking under the weight of inevitability.
The truth struck deeper with every passing second. The world that had seemed like an escape from Earth… was in fact far crueler.
More honest.
More lethal.
Instinctively, people began to organize. Groups formed like ripples spreading in a pond: small clusters of five or ten, larger bands swelling to dozens. And at the center of each cluster stood those who believed themselves chosen, men and women with D-tier talents and above. They barked orders, puffed their chests, convinced the system's numbers had crowned them worthy of leadership.
Humans. Always needing a leader. Always needing the illusion of safety, even when safety was a lie.
Eryon watched it all from the edges, his steps slow and measured, his gaze never still. He had no use for false unity. Collective defense meant exposing his strength. Emotional warmth meant vulnerability. What he needed was neither.
He needed efficiency.
He needed opportunity.
He needed a place to reap essence.
Mid-step, two bulky men cut across his path. Both gripped swords, both wore smiles that were too carefully painted.
"We're short one. You look strong. Wanna join us?" one asked.
Eryon's eyes flicked over them once.
"Already in a group."
His voice was flat, his steps uninterrupted.
The lie slid out smooth, unquestionable. The men exchanged shrugs and drifted off, seeking easier prey.
Soon, Eryon slipped beyond the densest part of the crowd. Most had already left the bonfires, abandoning the circle of warmth in search of destiny, or perhaps survival.
Faces blurred past him. Westerners mostly, their expressions caught between fragile resolve and gnawing fear. But some faces… were different. Calm. Too calm. People for whom death was neither surprise nor threat. Those were the ones Eryon marked as dangerous.
His steps carried him toward the treeline. The forest around the sanctuary wasn't wild, it was too precise. Trees stood in ordered ranks, their symmetry unnatural. This wasn't wilderness. It was a cage. A holding pen.
A sanctuary.
---
Fifteen minutes later, the sanctuary had emptied. Only the elderly and a few broken women remained, paralyzed by despair.
Beyond the invisible boundary stretched the true Wild Forest.
It unfurled like a vast, endless ocean of green. Trees towered like skyscrapers. The air was thick with the primal scent of soil, wind, and something older than humanity. And when Eryon lifted his gaze, he saw the truth etched across the heavens.
Two suns.
This was no Earth.
And at the boundary where safety ended and the Wild Forest began, chaos already reigned.
Dozens of humans clashed against a swarm of goblins. The creatures were no taller than a child, yet grotesque, green flesh, jagged teeth, crude weapons of rust and bone. Their shrieks mingled with the ringing of steel.
For now, numbers carried the day. Humans fought shoulder-to-shoulder, learning through blood and terror what it meant to kill. For some, the first screams had broken them. For others, the first kill had awakened something fierce and dangerous.
Deeper still, beyond the first line, a second battle raged. Here the enemies were worse, rabbit-shaped monsters, twisted mockeries of innocence. Child-sized, their red eyes glowed with hunger, and their fangs gleamed sharp enough to tear flesh like paper.
THUMP!
A goblin's skull shattered under a man's fist, its jaw crumpling inward. Blood sprayed. A holographic message bloomed before his eyes:
[Killed 1 Goblin, +20 EXP]
His grin was feral. This was his third kill, two more and he'd hit Level 2. Pride radiated from him like fire. His talent was D-tier: Berserk.
"Hahahaha! Come at me, you ugly bastards!" he roared, charging headlong into a tide of goblins.
Fear had no place in his vocabulary. Behind him, dozens cheered. He wasn't just a fighter—he was their leader. Their shield. Their symbol.
His name: Wyatt Palkon.
Leader of fifty-five.
Together, they surged forward, a wave of humanity against the lesser creatures of this new world.
THUMP!
CLANK!
CLANK!
CLANK!
Steel crashed, flesh tore, blood flowed freely. Screams filled the forest air, but so too did laughter, adrenaline, euphoria. The goblins and nightmare rabbits fell like wheat before a scythe, and confidence swelled in human hearts.
If this was the challenge, they thought, then survival was not just possible, but certain. Perhaps even glory awaited. Dreams bloomed where fear had stood.
But dreams are fragile things.
They lasted only minutes.
Soon, the field was quiet. Goblin corpses sprawled across the dirt, rabbit-things cut into pieces, their blood soaking the soil.
And then..
THOOM. THOOM. THOOM.
The world itself seemed to shudder. Trees toppled like matchsticks, earth trembling beneath each step. For three eternal seconds, silence held its breath.
Then the forest split open.
A towering ogre burst forth. Four meters of muscle and stone-gray skin, its jaw split wide to reveal razored teeth. In its fist, it clutched a tree trunk stripped bare, now a club large enough to pulverize a carriage.
And it was not alone.
Behind it, a dozen orcs emerged. Hulking bodies clad in crude leather, wielding axes the size of men, serrated swords, spiked chains. Their breaths came in guttural snarls, eyes glowing ember-red.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT—?!"
The question died in a wet crunch.
The ogre's club swung sideways.
CRACK.
Five bodies were erased in one blow. Not merely thrown aside, but flattened. Crushed into pulp before the crowd's horrified eyes. Blood misted the air. Bones cracked like dry twigs.
Screams ripped the battlefield apart.
"WHAT THE FUCK—THAT'S NOT A GOBLIN!"
"OGRES?! ORCS?! THIS IS BULLSHIT!"
"We don't stand a chance!!"
The confidence that had carried them moments ago evaporated. Their faces twisted, not with courage, but with raw terror.
At the front, Wyatt Palkon stood firm. His breath hitched, his body shook, but he did not step back.
The ogre's club still dripped with the blood of his comrades.
"DON'T FALTER! IF WE STICK TOGETHER, WE CAN TAKE THEM DOWN!" His voice cracked, but resolve burned in it.
But no one moved.
Only he stepped forward.
Heavy steps. Alone.
The orcs didn't move. They stood like statues, watching with burning eyes. Only their champion advanced, a duel, unspoken but absolute. And the humans… they stayed frozen. Fear chained their limbs. No one stepped forward. No one dared.
Wyatt alone raised his sword. His eyes locked on the towering ogre. A red aura burst around him, his body swelling with raw power, his Berserk talent raging to life. Muscles strained, veins bulged. With a roar that shook his chest, he charged.
The ogre swung first. Its club whistled through the air, the sound like thunder tearing the sky. Wyatt dove aside, dirt exploding under the crushing strike. He rolled, came up fast, and slashed at its side. Steel bit flesh, barely. A shallow cut opened, a line of dark blood trickling down the giant's gray skin.
The ogre bellowed in fury. It lifted the club high and slammed it down, a strike like a falling mountain.
Wyatt raised his sword to block.
CRACK!
The blade snapped in two. The shockwave of the impact hurled him through the air. He smashed into a tree with a sickening crack. His ribs splintered. Air burst from his lungs. Blood filled his mouth.
But he forced himself up.
Staggering, swaying, he clenched his fists. Roaring again, he lunged at the ogre and drove his knuckles into its face. Bone and flesh shuddered from the strike, yet the monster didn't even blink.
The ogre's return strike came instantly.
BOOM!
The club crashed against Wyatt's body, slamming him into the ground like a ragdoll. Bones shattered under the weight. The earth itself seemed to groan. Blood sprayed from his lips as his vision blurred.
Still, he rose. One knee at a time. He dragged himself upright, aura still blazing, defiance burning through agony. Again and again, he forced his body to move, refusing to yield, refusing to fall.
Until, for the briefest moment, he glanced back.
At the people.
The ones he had protected. The ones who had followed his strength.
They weren't standing with him.
They were running.
One by one. Then all at once. Fleeing. Some screamed apologies. Most didn't even look back.
Wyatt's eyes widened. His voice rasped in disbelief.
"Cowards… all of you…"
"I should've never formed this group…"
His body twitched, but no longer obeyed.
The ogre raised its club. For a moment Wyatt thought it would end him. But instead, the beast paused. Its lips curled into a grin. It stepped back. The orcs followed.
They vanished into the trees.
Why? Pity? Respect for a duel? Or cruelty, leaving him broken, discarded, forgotten?
It didn't matter.
Wyatt lay in the dirt. Bleeding. Betrayed. Alone.
The sky above blurred. His vision fogged, life's rhythm slowing to embers. The world grew cold.
Minutes crawled by. Fifteen. Silence swallowed the forest.
And then—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps. Soft, deliberate, slicing through the quiet like a blade through flesh.
Wyatt forced his eyes open. Blurred vision revealed a silhouette. Tall. Lean. Dark hair. A spear in hand.
Hope flared. His bloodied lips trembled.
"I-I didn't expect… anyone would be here… If you save me, I'll be forever grateful…"
His voice cracked, but his eyes gleamed. Relief. Hope. A last desperate lifeline.
The figure stopped beside him.
Eryon Cain.
"Please… help me," Wyatt begged.
Eryon's gaze was steady. Cold, but not without something, pity? Regret? Calculation? His voice came quiet, almost a confession.
"If this world were fair… I might've been a good person."
Wyatt's eyes widened.
SCHLK!
The spear slid through his chest.
His massive body stiffened. His mouth gaped, but no sound emerged. Shock, betrayal, regret—all of it flickered across his face in an instant before fading to emptiness.
A single tear fell.
His breath rattled, then stopped.
Eryon crouched, placing a hand over the bloody wound, whispering, apology, prayer, or justification.
[Essence Reap successful, acquired D-tier skill: Berserk]
He rose in silence.
This was the first life he had claimed, proof that he, too, could kill. The first step carved in blood toward survival.
The world had shown its cruelty.
Eryon would answer with greater cruelty.