The third morning came grey and windless, thick with the scent of ash and rain.
Listern stood at the edge of the eastern wilds, boot sunk in churned mud, gaze fixed on the hills ahead. The Cayas region stretched before him like a scar—quiet, hostile, crawling with the remnants of the Cerberic den.
He hadn't slept poorly, but the world still felt out of time. His body had finally adjusted to the rhythm of this strange place—neither wholly game nor fully real. The transition was subtle. In sleep, he no longer expected to wake in his old apartment. In battle, he no longer looked for respawn timers.
He was here.
And he intended to survive.
The scent of iron carried on the breeze.
Listern's hand dropped to the hilt at his side.
He wasn't here to investigate mysteries or unravel noble houses. He wasn't here for Anna, or Quent, or the Duke's twisted bloodlines. He was here for strength.
Because only power—not politics—would keep him alive.
And the Cerberic dens had plenty left to give.
The first pack came before noon.
Listern moved like a ghost between the trees, cloak drawn, blade low. The three-headed hounds snarled as they charged, but he'd seen this before—dozens of times.
They had no strategy. No coordination.
Just teeth and weight and rage.
Whip–crack!
His blade flashed in an arc of steel and blood. One beast's heads fell, another howled with a burst lung, the third tried to flank—but Listern's boot met its snout before it could close. He didn't hesitate. Not once.
Strike the neck. Sever the spine. Move.
"Too slow," he muttered as the last one fell.
He exhaled and cleaned the blade with practiced ease.
The bodies cooled quickly in the September air.
This wasn't a battle.
This was butchery.
Over the course of two weeks, the hills of Cayas turned quiet. Too quiet. The dens that once echoed with feral howls now lay littered with corpses and cracked bone.
Listern sat on a mossed rock at the edge of one of the deeper caves, watching steam rise from the blood on his hands.
He checked his interface.
[Experience: 310,000]
Time to level.
He dumped just over 50,000 XP, eyes narrowing as the surge of energy burned through his core like hot oil.
[Level 20 reached.]
[You have reached Tier Two. You must complete a Class Advancement to progress beyond Level 20.]
[Available Stat Points: +3]
[Begin Class Advancement Quest?]
"Decline," he whispered.
It was tempting to accept. Many players did—early, impulsive, impatient. But he wasn't most players. He knew better.
Before he ever picked a path, his foundation needed to be unshakable.
Solid stats. No weak points. No rushed decisions.
That had been his greatest regret in his past life. Four job changes, each on weak footing. By the end, he was barely above average. His final class—"Voidblade Ascendant"—sounded impressive, but with underdeveloped attributes and mismatched passives, it was a broken tool.
Not this time.
Not again.
He allocated his new stat points.
[Strength: 14 → 17]
Then he pulled up his skill tree and poured another batch of XP into the one passive he refused to neglect.
[Upgrade "Merrick Breathing Technique" from Lv3 → Lv8]
[Passive Bonus: +8 Strength]
A warm pulse spread through his arms and spine as raw power tightened the muscles beneath his skin.
The numbers flickered.
[Current Strength: 25]
[System Evaluation: F → D]
[New Classification: Elite-Tier]
He exhaled—shaky, stunned.
He had never seen this before.
Not in seventeen years of playing Godwake. Not once had he reached a D-tier evaluation. Not even when he was max level. Not even when he was level 180.
He had always been average—stats trailing behind, job mismatched, too many hybrid skills, never enough synergy.
But this?
This felt… right.
His blade rested easier in his grip. His center of gravity had shifted. His stance was more grounded. Stronger.
He smiled.
So this is what it feels like to build properly.
Then he heard it.
A low, rhythmic tremor.
Like stone drums beneath the earth.
The birds vanished. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Listern stood. The hair on his neck prickled. He turned slowly toward the den's deeper chambers.
Thump... Thump... Thump...
A presence.
Heavy.
Wrong.
Blood thickened in the air.
Then—a howl.
Not wild.
Commanding.
He barely had time to move.
A black shadow tore from the treeline with impossible speed. The air compressed. His skin burned as if pierced by needles.
BOSS CHARGE!
Listern dropped and rolled sideways just as the beast slammed into the spot where he'd stood.
CRACK!
Three trees exploded behind him in a shower of bark and branches. One of the fleeing Cerberic pups wasn't so lucky. It was caught beneath a falling trunk and crushed instantly.
Listern's boots slid as he regained his footing.
The thing turned to face him.
It was massive.
Not just in size—but in density. Its triple heads moved in perfect sync. Red eyes glowed like coals. Dark metal chains dangled from old collars around its neck, and each clawed foot sank an inch into the earth as it advanced.
[Enemy Identified: Cerberic Alpha Knight]
[Level: 26]
[HP: 15,019 / 15,996]
[Strength: 24 | Intelligence: 7 | Agility: 17]
[Skill: Rampage Charge (Lv17 – Rank D)]
[Class: Elite (D-Rank)]
[Warning: Target's combat power exceeds yours. Direct engagement not advised.]
Listern's eye twitched.
Strength: 24.
Mine is 25.
He grinned.
It was the narrowest of margins. But it was enough.
The difference between survival and death in this world wasn't always a full rank or a glowing sword. Sometimes, it was one point.
Just one.
He reached behind his back, drew both shortblades in a smooth flourish, and lowered into a ready stance.
His breath slowed.
His heart did not.
This would be his first real test. Not against AI. Not against a simulation.
But against a monster that learned.
That killed.
And this time, there was no respawn.
Listern took a step forward.
"Let's see what you've got, mutt."