"I don't have a choice."
Blood dripped from Rantaro's mouth, staining his chin as he staggered to his feet. His breathing was ragged—each inhale sharp, like dragging in glass. All around him, the battlefield burned with the scent of sulfur and charred flesh. The ground trembled beneath the feet of the charging monsters.
He had no time.
With a grimace, he flicked open his status screen mid-battle, the translucent interface shimmering above his bleeding form.
Stat Points: 150
His fingers, cracked and bruised, moved without hesitation.
75 points to Strength.
75 points to Speed.
The system pulsed.
Status Updated.
Strength: 261
Speed: 263
A wave of energy flooded his body—pure, violent, dark. His muscles surged, veins pulsing with black light. His spine straightened with renewed power, and even his vision sharpened, locking in on every motion around him like time had slowed.
A second later, the monsters lunged.
Rantaro was ready.
SLASH!
A thick-scaled beast charged headfirst, but Rantaro's sword moved faster than lightning. The blade flashed—and an entire arm flew off, dark ichor splattering across the dirt. The creature shrieked, crashing into its own allies.
Another monster, twice the size, dove with claws aimed for his throat.
BOOM!
Rantaro didn't even use his blade—he punched the creature mid-air, shattering its jaw and slamming its head into the ground with enough force to leave a crater. Cracks rippled through the earth.
He didn't stop.
His sword blurred. Left. Right. Down. Each motion was death incarnate. For every step he took, another monster fell. Blood sprayed like rainfall. His blade danced with elegance—no wasted motion, no hesitation.
A spear-wielding creature lunged from the side, venom glistening from its jagged teeth. Its mouth opened wide, screeching with twisted glee.
Rantaro didn't flinch.
He sidestepped, smooth as shadow—and with a single reverse grip slash, opened its stomach from hip to ribcage. Black guts poured out as the beast toppled backward in a twitching heap.
Another enemy launched a fireball from its palms. A second creature—a dual-headed lizard—charged in tandem, aiming to catch him mid-dodge.
But Rantaro didn't dodge.
He spun mid-air, cutting through the fireball with a dark energy-infused sweep. Flames curled around his blade, dissipating. In the same motion, he twisted his wrist and decapitated the twin-headed lizard with a horizontal slice.
Its heads rolled across the ground like charred fruit.
The battlefield around him became a blur of violence. The air grew hotter, the scent of ash and blood merging into something unholy. Smoke curled into the sky.
But the monsters didn't stop.
In fact—they surged.
Dozens now. Swarming. Layering themselves over one another like a wave of teeth and hatred.
Rantaro's eyes narrowed.
"Dark Step."
His body flickered—no, vanished.
To the beasts, he became a ghost. One moment, standing there in a pool of blood—the next, gone. He blinked through the shadows like a whisper of death. Every time he reappeared, something died.
He ducked a claw swipe from a bat-winged beast. As it spun to recover, he slid under its legs, slicing both hamstrings. It collapsed with a roar.
He vaulted onto a nearby monster's back, plunged his sword through its spine, and used its falling body as leverage to leap above the horde.
Mid-air, he twisted, tracking four monsters at once.
Slash. Thrust. Backhand.
He landed behind them, and they collapsed in pieces.
Every step he took, he used his momentum. He wasn't just fighting. He was dancing through death—a dark hurricane given form.
The monsters howled in frustration.
They clawed.
They spat.
They screamed.
And Rantaro roared back.
His voice echoed louder than thunder.
BOOM!
A shockwave of dark energy exploded from him, knocking monsters off their feet.
SLASH! SLASH! SLASH!
Blood geysered into the sky. Disemboweled beasts twitched on the ground. Yet the horde pressed in, their sheer numbers overwhelming.
Still… the more they pushed…
…the more savage he became.
His sword was no longer a weapon—it was an extension of his rage. Each swing carried the fury of being outnumbered, wounded, and cornered. But also the will to conquer.
He parried a whip-like tail. Broke a horn with the butt of his sword. Crushed a skull beneath his boot.
He was one man—yet the monsters looked like the ones panicking now.
One shrieked and turned to run.
Rantaro hurled a dark blade—made from condensed energy—into its back. It pierced through two more monsters behind it like a spear.
All around him, the battlefield was littered with bodies. Limbs, wings, tails. Broken fangs. Burnt husks. The soil had turned black with blood and ash.
His breaths grew heavier.
Not from fatigue—but from intensity.
Like a storm that hadn't passed yet.
He took a single step forward—and the remaining monsters hesitated.
They had numbers.
But Rantaro had become a nightmare.
And they knew it.