Wein hadn't gone far—maybe twenty feet—when he felt it again: a familiar tremble in the ground beneath his boots. The Skitters were close. He could hear them—soft, sharp clicks, like claws tapping against bark and dry earth.
The forest around him didn't help. It was twisted and strange, like something out of a nightmare. The trees curled inward, their trunks bent and gnarled as if trying to block out the sky. Branches stretched like claws, while thick roots coiled across the forest floor, making each step a trap. The air was dry, dusty, and heavy with the scent of rot and old bark.
Wein stopped and scanned the surroundings, every sense on edge.
"Too many blind spots," he muttered under his breath.
He crouched slightly, his body tense and ready, and reached into his pouch. The silence was thick—pressing down like a weighted blanket. Only the soft rustle of brittle leaves at his feet and the faintest whisper of wind broke the stillness.
Clik—clik.
The sound was getting closer—but it was impossible to tell where it was coming from. Left? Right? Above? It was like being trapped in a tunnel where every sound echoed, twisted, and bounced, confusing direction.
Eventually, his fingers found the cool surface of a silver bell.
He pulled it out and gave it a soft ring.
Ting... ting-ting...
'If he couldn't find them—then he'd make them find him.'
The sound echoed through the forest corridor, delicate and eerie, like a wind chime hanging in a forgotten shrine.
A faint smile crossed his lips. "Let's try the same trick again."
He tossed the bell forward. It bounced across the dirt, rolled over a root, and rang once more as it came to a stop.
Ting...
Then—crack.
A branch snapped above. A shriek followed.
The first Skitter dropped from the trees, its legs flailing, red shell glinting in the faint light. It landed with a heavy thud and lunged straight for the bell, crashing into it and sending it rolling across the dirt.
Wein narrowed his eyes. His breathing was steady.
"Go on," he murmured. "Ring it for me."
The beast lunged again, mandibles snapping, thrashing wildly around the bell.
Then—thud.
A second Skitter dropped from above, landing squarely on the first. Their limbs tangled as they fought over the bell, screeching, scratching, and twisting in a blur of chitin and claws.
Behind them, more branches cracked.
Six more Skitters surged from the underbrush, their many legs tearing through the dirt as they raced toward the sound.
Six now—no, eight—all focused on the same target.
Wein's grip tightened around his sword.
He stepped forward like a shadow—quick, quiet, lethal.
One clean strike. His blade slipped into the soft gap beneath a Skitter's rear armor.
Shrrk.
A weak cry. Then a burst of glowing blue light.
The others didn't react.
He pivoted—another strike.
Shhk. Another gone.
Third. Fourth.
He moved with practiced grace. The bell continued to ring faintly beneath the chaos as the Skitters clashed with it, too distracted to realize their numbers were thinning.
Above each slain beast, glowing blue numbers flashed—11. 12. 13.—then faded into the air.
He was fluid. Precise. Every step, every motion—sharp and controlled. His blade sliced through the air like part of him. The bell's rhythmic chime had become his cue, the background music to a dance of death.
Only one Skitter remained.
It paused—then turned. Its mandibles twitched, rows of tiny, wormlike teeth flexing inside its mouth.
Wein wrinkled his nose.
"Ugh. Your face is really something."
The beast lunged.
He didn't flinch. He thrust the sword straight into its open maw and pulled downward in a swift, brutal motion. The Skitter clamped down on the blade, but he didn't stop.
With a grunt, Wein lifted the beast—still impaled—and slammed it into the ground.
Once. Twice. Again.
Thud. Crack. Thud.
Blue light exploded. The final number—14—flickered above the vanishing dust before disappearing.
As the silence settled, Wein let out a slow breath of relief.
Despite their terrifying looks, the Skitters weren't actually much stronger than the Ratcha he'd fought before. Ratcha were just overgrown rats—mutant vermin with bristly hair tougher than pig hide. The Skitters were similar, only with harder shells.
And Wein wasn't even using a special weapon—just a basic steel sword.
In Levels One to Ten, most beasts were simply a mix or mutated versions of common animals. Their enhancements were slight, but their aggression was deliberate. They were programmed to hunt humans on sight.
They weren't clever. They weren't tactical.
They were just mindless beasts—wild things crazed by instinct.
That's why hunting them wasn't all that different from hunting wild animals back on Earth. Dangerous? Yes. But manageable for someone prepared.
The real threat wasn't their strength.
It was their numbers.
What challengers truly feared in the early levels wasn't the beasts themselves—but accidentally getting too close to a spawning ground.
Doing so could trigger a Beast Tide—a mass surge of creatures flooding from their nests in a wave of violence. These tides would hunt down any human presence in the realm—especially strongholds and settlements.
And even if these low-level beasts were easy to kill one-on-one, fighting dozens—hundreds—at once was a death sentence.
Especially since many of them reproduced quickly.
The Skitters in this realm were no different. Fast. Aggressive. Unintelligent. Once Wein figured out their pattern and learned their weak points, they were just another checkmark in his kill count.
As long as he didn't face a swarm, he could manage them.
Wein stood for a moment, breathing slowly, letting the adrenaline settle.
His eyes fell to the bell on the ground—dented, scratched… broken.
"Rest in pieces," he muttered.
Above him, the glowing blue timer continued its silent countdown. Time was slipping away.
He reached into his pouch and pulled out another bell—untouched, polished, ready.
"Good thing I brought extras."
Behind him, the forest stirred again—rustling leaves, screeching cries, the skittering march of clawed limbs.
The hunt had resumed.
Wein moved forward, repeating the cycle—toss the bell, lure them in, strike fast, vanish again.
The maze wasn't enormous—just the size of two football fields—but the twisting paths made it feel like a labyrinth. He'd only made two wrong turns, but in a place like this, every second mattered.
Fortunately, he still remembered the layout.
By the time he reached the final clearing, his blade dripped with glowing residue, and his kill count had reached 92.
The trees opened into a circular space, wide and bare. The cracked earth was dotted with patches of brittle grass and jagged stones. At the far edge, the glowing platform shimmered—his exit, waiting.
Wein slowed his pace, each step light and deliberate. His gaze was sharp, eyes scanning the surroundings with quiet intensity—searching for anything out of place.
He stepped forward, sword raised and ready.
Thump.
The air shifted.
He looked up—and his heart jumped.
A shadow fell from above, massive and fast.
SLAM.
The ground trembled as it landed—just ten feet away.
Wein staggered back, breath caught in his throat.
What stood before him was revolting.
A massive Skitter—more than ten feet long. Its body was bloated and hunched, its shell darker and glistening with some kind of slime. Its legs were thick, twitching under its own weight, and its enormous mandibles clicked with sharp, metallic sounds.
It let out a guttural hiss—a low, rumbling snarl that vibrated through the air and into the ground beneath his feet.