Aelion melted into the shadows of a thicket of bushes near the wolf den, his form still and his breathing shallow.
The air was thick with the musky scent of predator and old bones. He was a spectrum of patience, every sense tuned to the dark opening in the rock.
Soon, a large, grey-furred wolf emerged, its ears pricked, sniffing the air suspiciously.
It was a sentry, Level 12 according to the tag that flickered above its head.
Aelion's hands moved with silent purpose. In his right palm, an icicle began to form, its surface glistening.
But this was no ordinary ice.
Beneath its frozen surface, a network of blue-white lightning crackled and swam, contained and amplified by the shell of ice.
He didn't aim for long; he didn't need to.
He launched it without a whisper of sound.
The hybrid projectile crossed the short distance in a blur. The wolf's instincts screamed a fraction of a second too late.
The icicle struck its flank, and upon impact, the contained thunder within it detonated.
There was a muffled crump of shattering ice and a simultaneous sizzle of released electricity.
The wolf's pained, surprised howl was cut short as it convulsed and collapsed, its fur smoking.
The anguished cry was a beacon.
From the depths of the den, two more wolves, larger and more enraged, burst forth, their eyes glowing with feral fury.
They scanned the area, searching for the threat.
Aelion was already on the move.
Using the distraction of their fallen packmate, he flowed from the bushes, closing the distance with a silent, ground-eating lunge.
As he moved, his will—a tangible force honed by a life of overcoming impossible odds—pressed down on the two new wolves like a physical weight, stunning them for a critical second.
Chains of roaring fire erupted from the ground, snapping around the wolves' legs and torsos, not to burn them immediately, but to hold them fast, their fur singeing, panic overriding their aggression.
Aelion didn't give them a moment to recover.
He was among them, his flaming sword a blur of decisive motion.
A horizontal slash severed the first wolf's head. A reverse stroke plunged into the heart of the second.
In less than three seconds, the fight was over. The clearing fell silent once more, save for the crackle of dying flames and the coppery scent of blood.
Without pausing to savor the victory, Aelion stepped into the cave's maw. The interior was dark, the air thick and warm.
And there, huddled in a far corner, were four wolf cubs, mewling and blind, their world reduced to the scent of their mother and the sudden, terrifying silence.
Aelion's expression did not change.
Sentiment was a luxury he could not afford in a realm of absolutes.
This was annihilation, not culling.
A small fireball, no larger than his fist, bloomed in his palm and shot into the corner.
The mewling ceased instantly, replaced by a brief, sharp sizzle.
The moment the last cub fell, a wave of profound exhaustion washed over him. His head spun, his vision blurring at the edges.
He was almost completely out of mana.
The complex hybrid spell and the fiery chains had drained his minuscule level-zero reserves.
He frowned, a deep crease forming on his brow. This limitation was more severe than he had anticipated.
His power was there, but the vessel to contain it was frustratingly small.
The notifications came, a small balm for his frustration.
[Wolf Pack Annihilated]
[EXP stored]
[Achievement Recorded: Pack Annihilator]
He pushed the exhaustion aside, a grim grin replacing his frown. An Achievement was earned. Progress was made.
His pragmatic mind immediately sought a solution. He dragged the bodies of the adult wolves deeper into the cave.
Using his nearly depleted mana to conjure a controlled, cooking flame, he butchered and roasted the meat.
The smell was gamey and rich. He ate, not for pleasure, but for fuel, tearing into the tough meat with methodical bites.
As he consumed the meat, he felt it.
A warm, tangible energy spread through his limbs, seeping into his muscles and bones, fortifying them.
It was a sensation entirely different from the digital notification of gained experience. This was physical, real.
[Strength +1]
[Constitution +1]
He pulled up his status screen.
[Stats:
Strength: 11 (Stat limit: 330)
Constitution: 11 (Stat Limit: 330)
Agility: 10 (Stat Limit: 330)
Dexterity: 10 (Stat Limit: 330)
Charisma: 10 (Stat Limit: 330)
Will: 10 (Stat Limit: 330)
Intelligence: 10 (Stat Limit: 330)]
He had increased his stats. He had found a path.
Leaving the den behind, he stepped back out into the late afternoon sun. His body felt more solid, more capable.
His gaze swept across the horizon, and it was then that he saw it: a thick, dark column of smoke rising ominously into the sky from the northern direction.
A signal. A destination.
Steeling his resolve, his mana slowly beginning to regenerate, Aelion adjusted his course and began walking toward the distant plume of smoke, each step taking him closer to his next destination.
An hour of steady travel toward the column of smoke brought Aelion to the edge of a clearing.
The source of the fire was revealed: a small, crude goblin village, now mostly smoldering ruins.
The main conflagration had died down, leaving behind tendrils of grey smoke that curled into the afternoon sky like dying serpents.
The air stank of ash, burnt hide, and something distinctly foul.
The sun hung heavy, indicating it was now late afternoon.
By his reckoning, nearly eight hours had bled away since he first stepped into the Sublimation Realm.
Time was moving, and with his year-long extension, every moment was a currency to be spent wisely.
The village was eerily quiet, save for the crackle of dying embers.
The male goblins, it seemed, were all out on a hunt or raid, leaving the settlement vulnerable.
A few green-skinned females, children, and the elderly scurried between the huts, their movements frantic and fearful.
They were low-level, non-combatants, posing no threat.
Aelion entered the village not with stealth, but with an unhurried, deliberate pace.
His boots crunched on ash and scattered bones. He had a new objective now: to test himself, to grow in a way that didn't rely on the crutch of his immense magical power.
The iron sword appeared in his hand, its blade dull and unadorned. He consciously suppressed the urge to call upon fire or ice. This would be a test of pure, unadulterated skill.
A goblin whelp, barely level 3, charged him with a sharpened stick, its beady eyes wide with a mix of fear and aggression. Aelion didn't flare with magic. He simply moved.
His body, already slightly fortified by the wolf meat, flowed with an instinctual grace. He parried the clumsy thrust, sidestepped, and his blade licked out in a short, precise arc, opening the creature's throat. It was efficient. Clean.
As the goblin fell, two notifications appeared, their text glowing with a subtle, different luminance than the previous ones.
[Skill Obtained: Sword Mastery (Beginner)]
[Ascension Achievement Obtained: Skill Savant]
[Ascension Achievement Obtained: Sword Master]
Ascension Achievements? The term was new.
These were different from the standard Achievements he'd earned before.
They felt weightier, more significant, as if they touched upon the core principles of this realm's purpose—to ascend, to evolve beyond one's initial state.
Before he could contemplate further, another, larger goblin (Level 5) emerged from a hut, wielding a crude wooden club. It rushed forward with a guttural roar.
Aelion raised his sword, meeting the overhead swing with a solid block that jarred his arm. He didn't overpower it with strength.
He used its momentum, side-stepping smoothly and slashing his blade across the back of the goblin's knees.
The creature cried out, its legs buckling, stumbling forward. Aelion didn't hesitate.
He reversed his grip and drove the point of his sword down, piercing directly through the goblin's back and into its heart.
The fight was over in seconds.
Leaving the body behind, he moved toward the center of the village.
His destination was obvious: the largest structure, a rough longhouse built from lashed-together logs and packed mud.
This had to be the chieftain's hut or a place of importance.
Standing before its hide-covered entrance, Aelion closed his eyes.
He reached inward, pushing his will outward like an invisible wave, seeking to scan the building's interior, to feel for life, for traps, for anything of power.
His will washed over the hut—and slammed into a barrier he hadn't sensed.
It wasn't a physical wall, but a mental, spiritual one, thick and primal. His probing energy rebounded violently, snapping back into his own mind like a cracked whip.
A psychic backlash, sharp and stunning, lanced through his consciousness.
Aelion grunted, stumbling forward a step, his free hand flying to his temple as a spike of pain bloomed behind his eyes. His vision swam.
It was the opportunity the remaining guards were waiting for.
From the shadows between nearby huts, three goblin guards—larger, clad in scavenged leather armor, and wielding notched iron swords (Level 8)—rushed forward.
Their eyes gleamed with malicious intent, seeing the momentarily disoriented human as easy prey.
They fanned out, surrounding him, their weapons raised. The easy part of the village clearing was over. The real challenge had just begun.
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