"Mission One: Defeat rogue werewolf," Sylarion muttered under his breath, staring at the glowing message from the system. His face twisted. "I can't even beat a human yet, and you're throwing me at a werewolf?"
His hand instinctively touched his temple, where the faint trace of the Nightborn Eye still tingled beneath his skin. "Even with these eyes, I doubt I can win."
"This is your first mission," the system replied coldly. "It is calibrated to your current level. If you can't handle even this… don't think about the future."
Sylarion went silent.
Memories of his past life—the regret, the limitations, the chances he never took—flashed through his mind. He clenched his fists, eyes hardening.
"No," he whispered. "Not again. This life… I'll risk it all."
"Target located: North Garden."
"Follow the indicator arrow."
A translucent arrow appeared ahead of him, pointing toward a dimly lit corridor beyond the estate's main wing. Sylarion took off, boots slamming against the marble floors.
Mid-sprint, something caught his eye—a long hallway, its stone walls lined with gleaming weapons mounted like trophies. His steps slowed.
Swords, axes, even polearms—most looked too heavy to lift. But one caught his attention: a large combat knife, the blade longer than his forearm. It looked well-used but sharp. He grabbed the hilt, tested its edge with a quick swipe through the air, and nodded.
"This might help."
With the knife gripped tight, he resumed his run.
Soon, the estate gave way to open earth and wild grass. The North Garden unfolded before him—less garden, more a sprawling patch of untamed forest.
He stopped, breathing hard. The moon loomed full above the twisted trees, its silver light bathing everything in a cold glow.
A chill crept down his spine.
It was time.
Even as he ran, doubt clung to Sylarion like a second skin. His grip on the knife tightened.
"This has to be like those stories, right?" he muttered to himself. "The first mission's always easy. A warm-up."
But the system's earlier words echoed coldly in his head.
He pressed forward, boots crunching against gravel and roots, the arrow still pulsing in his vision. The trees thickened, shadows swallowing light, until he came to a sudden stop.
Target detected.
Sylarion dropped low behind a bent, moss-covered trunk, breath shallow as he peeked into the clearing ahead.
There it was.
A hulking creature stood hunched in the moonlight—muscle-wrapped, its matted fur stained with blood. A monstrous snarl twisted its canine face. But it wasn't charging.
It was trapped.
Thick iron stakes had erupted from the ground like mechanical fangs, impaling one of its legs at three different points. The mechanism hissed faintly, arcane symbols glowing faint red around the base—enchanted restraints, not ordinary steel.
The werewolf growled, yanking at the stakes, but every movement sent spurts of thick black blood from its mangled limb. One wrong pull and its leg might tear clean off.
Sylarion's heart pounded. This wasn't some caged beast. It was wounded—furious—but still terrifying.
"…A werewolf," he whispered.
This might be his only chance.
Sylarion turned to run—too slow.
The werewolf soared at him like a meteor of claws and teeth.
In a panic, he slipped.
"Shit—!"
With a dull thud, his back hit the dirt—and at that exact moment, the creature mid-air lost its footing, crashing down on top of him.
SCHLUKK!
The oversized knife he'd held trembling in his grip pierced right through the beast's chest.
A moment of stunned silence passed.
Then—
"AAAAHHHH!" Sylarion screamed, flailing under the weight of the monstrous corpse.
He shoved, squirmed, kicked.
"Get off! Get off me you flea-bitten bastard!"
The werewolf didn't move.
It was dead.
He blinked.
"I… killed it?" he muttered, eyes wide in disbelief.
Then, suddenly desperate to prove it wasn't luck, he shoved the beast off, jumped to his feet, and with wild eyes—
STAB!
STAB!
STABSTABSTAB!
"Stay dead! You hear me?! Stay dead!!"
The scene looked less like a warrior's triumph and more like a terrified man arguing with a giant dog carcass.
Even the moon looked mildly embarrassed.
Sylarion staggered back, chest heaving, the adrenaline slowly burning off into something darker—nausea.
He glanced down at the werewolf's mangled corpse.
Blood. So much blood. The thick stench of iron. Guts. Hair. Bone.
"Ugh—"
His stomach churned violently.
Then it hit.
He bent over and puked, hard, hands gripping his knees as the vomit splashed against the soil. Again. And again. Until nothing came out but dry gasps and spit.
He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, eyes wide.
"This… was supposed to be easy," he croaked.
But this wasn't a story.
It was real. Bloody. Brutal. And far more terrifying than he imagined.
The system's voice rang out, glitchy and amused.
"By the way…" it said, barely holding back its laughter, "you've received your mission reward. And… honestly, you should enter a circus. You'd make a perfect clown."
Sylarion wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand, still pale.
"Shut up," he muttered between coughs.
"I mean, you screamed, slipped, and accidentally stabbed a monster to death. That's not a win. That's slapstick horror."
He scowled. "Just give me the reward."
The system chimed:
[Mission Complete: Eliminate Rogue Werewolf (Predatory Tier: Wretch)]
+50 Predator Points
+1 Lottery Pass
+ Minor Stat Boost
Sylarion stared at the corpse, bile rising again. "So this was a Wretch… and I nearly died."
"Correct. That was the weakest class in the food chain," the system replied flatly. "Try not to trip when you face something actually dangerous."
He groaned. "This world's gonna kill me."
Then he froze.
Boots.
The sound of footsteps approached from the edge of the garden. When he turned, he saw them—ten men, tall and imposing, dressed in black and crimson uniforms that shimmered faintly under the moonlight. Their presence was suffocating, like standing in the path of a storm.
One of them stepped forward, his silver hair falling past sharp, regal features. He looked down at the scene without emotion.
"Young Master Drekkh." His voice was calm, but there was steel behind it. "You just killed our trap-checker."
Sylarion blinked. "What?"
Another man stepped forward, inspecting the body. "Yes. A Wretch-class rogue we had captured days ago. We used it to test our traps before deploying them. It wasn't meant to be killed. Not like this."
A pause.
Several of them exchanged looks. One smirked.
"Well... I suppose it did prove useful after all."
Sylarion didn't speak. His hands were still shaking.
The silver-haired man narrowed his eyes slightly, studying the blood-covered Sylarion as if trying to understand the bizarre scene before him.
"At first, we assumed you were out here for some fresh air, Young Master," he said slowly. "Then you walked right up to the creature… What exactly were you doing?"
Still catching his breath, Sylarion wiped the blood off his face and muttered, "What were you doing? Why didn't you kill it when it attacked me?"
The man's brow arched slightly, amused. "That wasn't a lethal attack. More like a struggle. And you looked… calm. We figured you were performing some kind of strange ritual or handling personal business. We didn't want to interrupt."
Sylarion grit his teeth. "What the hell is a trap checker? And why the hell was a werewolf here? Aren't vampires and werewolves enemies?"
A faint smirk curled the man's lips. "Yes, Young Master. You've answered your own question. These... frenzied, low-level werewolves? We capture them and use them to test traps. They're unstable, mindless, perfect for triggering mechanisms in full motion." He gestured to the broken trap. "If the day ever comes when they attack us in large numbers, we need to know our defenses will hold. But today… this trap failed. And you... well, you stepped in."
Sylarion stayed quiet, eyes flicking to the corpse.
"That being said," the man continued, "you shouldn't be wandering around at night. It's dangerous." His tone hardened slightly. "Tonight was inspection night. That's the only reason no one tried to stop you. But if you'd encountered any lower-tier ghouls alone… they might've killed you."
A pause.
"And if I recall correctly, the Master has forbidden you from stepping out after dark."
The wind suddenly felt colder.
System: "Looks like someone just broke curfew."
The man let out a quiet sigh before giving a small nod to the others.
"Take the Young Master back to his chambers."
Before Sylarion could protest, a cold hand gripped his arm—firm but not rough. In the blink of an eye, his feet left the ground.
"Wait—! I can walk, damn it!" he snapped, flailing slightly.
But the ghoul carrying him ignored the outburst. Shadows twisted at their feet, and in a heartbeat, they were gone from the garden.
When Sylarion opened his eyes again, he found himself standing in front of his massive, darkwood door—his chambers.
"What the—That was… teleportation?" he whispered.
The ghoul gently let go, giving him a respectful nod. "Rest well, Young Master." Then, like smoke on the wind, they vanished down the corridor.
Sylarion stood there, still splattered in drying blood, heart pounding.
System: "Not bad for your first night. You're already getting carried around like a little prince."
He gritted his teeth and shoved the door open.
"Shut up."