Jester steadied his breathing as the next wave of Varkhul surged over the ridge, their guttural roars echoing across the battlefield like thunder. He fired again and with each kill, a faint pulse stirred inside his chest.
At first, he thought it was just an illusion of immersion, but then, as the corpses piled up and he noticed his physical capabilities and mana were increasing.
Yet the improvement was strangely limited.
It became clearer with every battle movement: this "game" didn't want its players to rely on supernatural power. Everything here demanded skill. It wanted mastery, not brute force.
But Jester wasn't truly thinking about game balance.
Because as his mana stirred and strength grew, something else awoke within him.
The faint coppery gleam of the simulated blood splashing across his vision seemed to stir something primal in him. His pupils dilated, his breathing slowed, and for the first time since entering the pod, his calm smile deepened into something feral.
