I keep walking long after the old fortress disappears behind the trees.
The smell of smoke clings to me like a second skin.
It sits in my hair, in the folds of my torn clothes, in every breath I take.
Fifty-two kills since that night and still the forest is silent, too silent for victory.
I should feel proud.
I only feel heavy.
Something inside me stirs again, a slow dark ripple that lives under the bone of my skull.
At first it sounds like a breeze moving through dry leaves.
Then it shapes into words that aren't quite words.
Slaughter.
Slaughter.
Kill.
They start as a whisper and end as a knife scraping against my thoughts.
I press both hands against my ears until my nails dig into my scalp.
It doesn't matter.
The voice isn't outside.
It lives behind my eyes.
"Stop," I say aloud.
My voice is hoarse and thin.
"I am not a beast. I am Fan Ling."
The whisper curls like smoke.
Kill, Fun Ling. Kill.
I breathe slow, counting each inhale the way I did back in the village when storms rattled the walls at night.
The trees around me rise like black spears.
Moonlight runs along the bark and pools in the roots.
Every shadow looks like a blade.
"Status window," I mutter, hoping the small light will drown the voice.
Cold letters float before me.
Name: Fun Ling
Age: 32
Realm: Second-Rate Warrior – Middle Stage
Strength: 23
Agility: 23
Intelligence: 9
Chi: 29/29
Skills: comprehension(18 days),Flame Palm
Nothing new.
Still no place for the art my father taught me.
The system accepts a clumsy fire trick but not the strike that once split stone.
I stare at the words until they blur and swim.
The whisper in my skull laughs, low and amused.
---
Morning drags itself over the horizon, a slow grey wash that barely warms the ground.
I keep moving.
Each goblin I find falls quick beneath my blade.
Each kill feeds the voice.
Every splash of blood sharpens the chant until it feels like a second heartbeat.
Slaughter.
More.
By noon the sun hangs high and white.
I crouch in a nest of ferns, breath held, muscles tight.
Ahead a clearing opens wide as a training field.
Dozens of goblins work there, their green backs slick with sweat.
They cut trees, drag stones, sharpen weapons.
The air smells of sap and smoke and something sour, like rotting fruit.
Four of them move differently—taller, shoulders broader, iron armor black with soot.
Commanders.
Their eyes gleam like dull coals when the light catches them.
Sap drips from a branch above and slides down my neck, cold as mountain water.
I shift to wipe it away and a twig snaps under my knee.
A single sound, but in the hush it is thunder.
A sharp hiss slices the air.
An arrow.
It brushes my cheek, hot and fast, leaving a bright sting.
A bead of blood rolls down to my jaw.
They have seen me.
The camp explodes with noise.
Goblins bark harsh words that clang like iron on stone.
Heads snap toward me, yellow eyes burning.
I run.
The forest becomes a blur of root and rock and sudden spears of sunlight.
Arrows hiss past, thudding into trunks, spraying bark.
Behind me a red glow flares—a spell.
Light like molten rope coils around my legs.
It bites deep, burning.
I crash to the ground, dirt filling my mouth.
The spell tightens.
My legs won't move.
Feet pound closer.
Dozens.
The circle closes.
I claw at the glowing ring until my nails break and skin peels.
The whisper in my skull laughs again, deeper now.
Fight.
I rip free with a cry, pain slicing up my calves, and surge to my feet.
Sword in hand, I slash at the first goblin that lunges.
Steel meets flesh.
A shriek.
The body drops.
Another charges.
Two more.
I move without thought—duck, spin, strike—blood splattering the leaves in black arcs.
For every one that falls, two more leap forward.
The air fills with the copper stink of blood and the wet slap of feet on mud.
Something hard slams into my ribs.
A spear.
I twist, wrench it free, slash its wielder across the throat.
More bodies crowd in.
The clearing is a storm of claws and teeth and flashing steel.
Then the shadow of something larger falls across me.
The four commanders step through the ring of their dead.
They move with a cold rhythm, blades heavy, eyes like molten glass.
Each carries a sword broad enough to split a tree.
They spread out, sealing every escape.
I tighten my grip, breath sharp and fast.
The first commander lunges.
Our blades crash with a sound like thunder.
The force rattles through my arms to my teeth.
Before I can recover, a second swings low.
I barely parry, sparks leaping.
The third drives a boot into my chest.
I stagger back, air punched from my lungs.
I roll, dirt and leaves sticking to my blood-wet skin, and a downward strike hisses past, splitting the earth where my head had been.
I slash upward, feel the edge bite through armor but not deep enough.
Another blow hammers my shoulder.
Bone grinds, muscles scream.
The circle tightens.
I fight because there is nothing else.
Sword flashing, breath ragged, I carve at legs and arms.
I duck, spin, kick, slash again.
My vision tunnels until the world is only red and silver and the sound of my own heartbeat.
A commander feints low, then his blade whips high.
White pain sears across my left side.
For an instant I feel nothing.
Then heat and cold at once.
My left arm is gone.
I stagger back, screaming, blood pouring like a river down my ribs.
Another steps in, a clean cut, cruel and sure.
My right arm falls away.
The sword clatters into the mud.
I drop to my knees, choking on a howl that will not stop.
I stare at the stumps where my hands once were, disbelief sliding into a hard cold rage.
The largest commander raises his weapon.
Its edge drips with the blood of the forest.
The whisper inside me howls, not with fear but with hunger.
Slaughter. Become slaughter.
I close my eyes.
I am ready for the last strike.
---
The world erupts.
Ding.
The sound cuts through everything—through the pain, through the whisper.
A voice bright as sunlight floods my skull.
Congratulations, Fun Ling.
Kill count: 100 goblins.
Objective complete.
Transfer to Tower Lobby.
Light spills from the sky like a river.
It wraps around me, soft and endless.
The pain fades as if it never lived.
The forest, the blood, the goblins—all unravel into shining dust.
For a breathless heartbeat I float in the whiteness, weightless, arms whole again, skin clean.
Then another voice, deep as stone, rumbles through the light.
You have only begun to climb.
The world folds in on itself.
Darkness follows, silent and complete.
---
When I open my eyes I stand in a hall of glass and shadow.
A lobby of the Tower, the place the system promised.
But even here, in the stillness, the echo of that whisper lingers.
Slaughter.
It is softer now, almost gentle, but it beats inside me like a second heart.
I do not know if it will ever leave.