Wolf woke to blur.
It's not the gentle blur of sleep easing away, but the violent kind—the kind that smeared the world into streaks of gray and pressure, as if his eyes had opened before reality finished loading.
The ground beneath him felt too smooth, too cold, humming faintly like stone stretched thin over something alive. A sharp breath scraped out of his throat, half-instinct, half-habit, his chest rising before his vision could catch up.
But his mind was already there.
New environment, he noted instantly, without panic and without confusion.
His thoughts slid into place like blades returning to their sheaths. The disorientation never reached him. It died somewhere between nerve and thought.
His eyelids snapped fully open.
The blur still clung, thick and stubborn, but Wolf didn't wait for it to fade. His right hand twitched—not reaching for a weapon, not bracing to stand, but flicking upward in a practiced, almost lazy motion.
"Status window," he muttered.
His voice came out rough, scraped raw by dried blood and overuse, yet steady.
The window unfolded before him with a familiar hum, translucent light bleeding into the air like a quiet wound.
Name: Anantawat Thiphavong
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Age: 23
Height: 178 cm
Titles: First Looter, First Hand, The Brutalist, The Apex Feaster, The Hundredfold Hand, Relentless Hunter, Fatemaker's Logic, Mad Shadow of Seizing
Level: 35
Stats:
STR: 37 (+1) | SPD: 26 | AGI: 25 | STA: 24 | END: 20 (+3) | POW: 27 | LUCK: 16
Points Left: 40
Mental Stats:
INT: 23 (+13) | CHA: 20 (+13) | FORTITUDE: 20 | EVILNESS: 20 (+14)
Alignment: Evil
Active Skills: Red Tide,Thousand-Kill Toll, Kinetic Accumulation, I-SCS,Hysteria Outbreak, Madman's Grip
Passive Skills: Adaptive Nutrition, Artisan's Instinct, Analytic Sight, Flawless Strike, Shadow Parasite, Madness Synchronicity
The numbers burned themselves into his eyes even through the haze. Wolf stared at them without blinking, lips parting slightly as the blur in his vision finally began to retreat, reality sharpening around the edges.
Level 35.
40 points.
His brow creased—not in anger, not even disappointment, but something flatter. A pause. A beat of silence where his breathing slowed.
"…So there isn't even a reward?" he murmured.
The words came out soft, almost conversational, as if he were commenting on bad weather. His jaw tightened a fraction, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek.
For a full second, he said nothing. His eyes didn't move. His expression went still in that dangerous way—like a blade resting just before it cuts.
Then—
A breath escaped his nose.
A quiet, almost amused sound.
"Well," he said internally, the tone shifting—lighter, edged with dry joy, a flicker of something sharp and pleased curling through his thoughts.
Let's spend it all first. Then I'll look at the new titles and skills.
His fingers twitched again, slower this time, deliberate.
One by one, the points vanished as he allocated them with care.
Each adjustment felt like tightening tendons beneath skin, like reinforcing bone from the inside out. He could almost feel the change—pressure coiling in his muscles, heat blooming along his spine, his heartbeat thudding heavier, more confident.
When the last point disappeared, he exhaled through parted lips.
Only then did his gaze lift.
"Titles," he said quietly.
The window shifted. Reorganized. One name pulsed faintly, darker than the rest, as if the light itself hesitated to touch it.
Wolf focused on it.
Name: Mad Shadow of Seizing
Acquisition Requirement: You must at least plan and carry out the slaughter that kills all enemies in one area, with an additional count being at least one million for once.
Description:
You who have abandoned the light of reason and embraced the darkness in your heart until it condensed into a form—your shadow is a ravenous monster, ready to snatch everything for itself.
Effects:
+5 STR
+5 SPD
+10 Fortitude
+20 Evilness
You gain "Shadow Parasite" skill
You gain "Madness Synchronicity" skill
You gain "Madman's Grip" skill
You gain "Madman's Grip" skill
Upon entering battle, your body will rapidly produce adrenaline, increasing SPD and AGI by 2 points every 10 minutes (stackable up to 50 points) until the battle ends.
When you are in a life-or-death situation where escape is impossible, your body will momentarily unleash double your stats until you are able to run away.
If you do not engage in battle or killing for a long time, you may suffer a heart attack until you are able to engage in it.
Wolf blinked once.
"…Eh? Uhh?" he muttered.
A short, dry laugh scraped out of his throat, humorless but genuine, shoulders lifting slightly before settling back down.
"Well, that'll never happen—for now," he said, half to himself, half to the system that listened but never answered.
His eyes lingered on the last line, then slid back upward, scanning the rest again. The adrenaline effect. The stat surge. The sheer brutality of it.
"And the other two effects…" His lips curled faintly, not quite a smile, but close. "Good. Real good."
The window dissolved at his unspoken command, its glow folding inward and vanishing like swallowed light. Wolf didn't relax afterward—didn't even lean back or stretch. Instead, he rolled his shoulders once, slow and deliberate, joints popping softly, testing the weight of his body like a predator reacquainting itself with new limbs.
"Skills," he said.
The air responded.
Shadow Parasite lv. Max
Effects:
When an enemy damaged by you attempts to flee or move beyond your line of sight, the shadow beneath their feet fractures into near-invisible micro-filaments that burrow into the target's ether flow and muscle fibers.
Every second the enemy continues to flee, the parasite devours their ether and stamina, returning all drained amounts to you.
You gain a heightened sense of the parasite-infected enemy's location, bypassing darkness and physical obstacles.
Wolf's pupils dilated slightly.
His breathing slowed.
"That's…" he murmured, voice low, appreciative.
Madness Synchronicity lv. Max
Effects:
For every 1 status ailment present on enemies, you gain +5% STR.
Killing an enemy with multiple status ailments instantly restores a portion of your stamina and grants you a moment of ecstasy.
His eyes widened—not in shock, but in naked satisfaction. A sharp exhale left him, teeth flashing briefly as his lips pulled back.
"…Both passives," he thought, warmth blooming behind his sternum, they reinforce everything I already do.
His head tilted slightly as if listening to an internal rhythm only he could hear. The faint hum under his skin felt stronger now, more synchronized.
"Alright," he said softly, a playful edge slipping into his inner voice. Active skills—don't tell me you lose to the passives.
The list shifted again.
Madman's Grip lv. Max
Cooldown: 1 minute
Ether Cost: 150
Effects:
violently charge toward a single target, pinning them with raw strength.
The captured target is restrained, preventing all movement, dashes, or escape skills.
During the hold, you drain ether and life force from the enemy to heal your own body.
If the enemy attempts to struggle or activate a skill to break free, constriction damage is instantly doubled.
Wolf's fingers curled unconsciously, tendons standing out along his forearm as if imagining the motion.
"…Tricky," he muttered, head tilting. "But deadly."
Hysteria Outbreak lv. Max
Cooldown: 10 minutes
Ether Cost: 300
Effects:
Emit a black-and-red aura accompanied by a blood-curdling scream.
Enemies within the radius lose their senses, perceiving their allies as the most hideous monsters imaginable.
Affected enemies will attack the nearest unit with full power, regardless of allegiance.
If an enemy kills an ally while under this effect, the madness intensifies, resetting the duration.
"Oh?" Wolf breathed.
A low, pleased chuckle slipped out, shoulders shaking once. "So damn good."
His tongue clicked softly against his teeth as he imagined it—imagined the chaos, the screams, the way lines would collapse without him lifting a finger.
"Hysteria Outbreak…" he mused. "I'll use that every time the situation calls for it."
His gaze slid back to Madman's Grip. "…And this one. Risky. But I see the potential."
Satisfied, Wolf closed the skill window. The light vanished. Silence settled.
He finally looked around.
The environment resolved fully now—cold air brushing his skin, the faint echo of space stretching outward, textures snapping into focus as his senses finished adapting. He drew in a slow breath, nostrils flaring slightly.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's see where I am."
The status window flickered open one last time.
Name: Anantawat Thiphavong
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Age: 23
Height: 178 cm
Titles: First Looter, First Hand, The Brutalist, The Apex Feaster, The Hundredfold Hand, Relentless Hunter, Fatemaker's Logic, Mad Shadow of Seizing
Level: 35
Stats:
STR: 45 (+1) | SPD: 31 | AGI: 35 | STA: 34 | END: 30 (+3) | POW: 30 | LUCK: 20
Mental Stats:
INT: 23 (+13) | CHA: 20 (+13) | FORTITUDE: 20 (+10)| EVILNESS: 50 (+14)
Alignment: Evil
Active Skills: Red Tide,Thousand-Kill Toll, Kinetic Accumulation, I-SCS,Hysteria Outbreak, Madman's Grip
Passive Skills: Adaptive Nutrition, Artisan's Instinct, Analytic Sight, Flawless Strike, Shadow Parasite, Madness Synchronicity
Wolf found himself standing in an alleyway washed in sunlight.
For a fraction of a second, the world swam—brightness bleeding into shadow, edges melting into pale ghosts. His vision blurred as if someone had smeared oil across his eyes, but before his body could even register panic, his mind had already snapped into place. Calm. Alert. Oriented. The adjustment came not from comfort, but from habit.
He inhaled sharply.
Air—clean, dry, faintly metallic—rushed into his lungs. Not stale. Not rotten. Not soaked in blood or ether residue. Just… air.
Without hesitation, Wolf stepped forward, boots scraping softly against the ground as he exited the alleyway.
And the world opened.
Sunlight spilled across a broad street, reflecting off surfaces that looked neither stone nor steel, but something in between—silver-grey plates layered together, reinforced with enormous sheets of hardened, industrial cardboard. The city breathed around him. People moved in streams, each wrapped in their own intent, their own pace, their own lives.
Sound crashed into him all at once.
"Outta the way—hot coils!"
Children's laughter rang bright and sharp as glass chimes, their feet slapping against the street as they chased one another in loose spirals. Somewhere nearby, a beggar wailed—long, drawn-out pleas cracking with hunger and resignation, hands trembling as they reached toward passing silhouettes.
Wolf stopped.
He stood there, shoulders squared, spine straight, eyes half-lidded as he took it all in.
A slow breath in.
Then out.
Before him stretched a metropolis unlike anything forged by nature. There wasn't a single curve in sight. Every building rose in strict defiance of fluidity—razor-sharp angles, brutal edges, facades sealed tight like vaults. The structures looked bolted shut, windowless cocoons of metal and composite, standing in unnervingly perfect alignment. Cold. Silent. As if the city itself were holding its breath.
Wolf's gaze traveled upward, following the towering monoliths.
Then—
Chime.
A single, crystal-clear note rang out across the street.
Wolf's eyes narrowed.
Wind swept through the avenue, sudden and deliberate, as if summoned rather than born. It collided with the lifeless steel walls—
—and the city moved.
Panels shifted. Hidden seams cracked open. Thousands of concealed folds unfurled at once, cascading outward like enormous mechanical fans. The rigid exteriors peeled back to reveal inner layers of stained glass and vibrant silks, colors bursting into the light—amber, cobalt, crimson—rippling and shimmering as they caught the sun.
The silence shattered into rhythm.
Swish… swish… tick… whirr…
Fabric brushed against fabric. Gears murmured behind walls. The city exhaled.
Wolf felt it then— a quiet, predatory fascination.
His eyes shifted to the people.
At first glance, they looked uniformly solemn, each clad in sleek, cylinder-shaped garments—rigid, structured, almost ceremonial. But as they walked, turned, dodged one another, or sat, the illusion broke. Pleats hidden at hems and sleeves bloomed open in split seconds, expanding and contracting with each motion like mechanical flowers responding to touch.
Every step produced a soft, rhythmic swish, harmonizing with the ticking heartbeat of the city itself.
"…Axion," Wolf murmured under his breath, voice low, gravelly.
The name surfaced from memory—lessons absorbed, dissected, stored. Lamentia's words echoed faintly in his mind.
"I'm in the Axion Kingdom," he concluded silently.
Before the thought could settle, his instincts flared.
Someone was approaching.
Wolf's head tilted slightly as his eyes flicked sideways.
A child—no more than eight or nine—broke away from a group of others, curiosity pulling him forward faster than caution. The boy stopped a few steps away, staring.
To Wolf, the kid looked almost absurd at first—a small, grey stone pillar wrapped in carefully engineered fabric. The child squinted, head tilting as he examined Wolf from head to toe.
"Hey, mister," the kid said, voice bright and unguarded. "Why do your clothes look like that?"
Wolf didn't respond immediately.
The child stepped closer, emboldened.
"Is your outfit… unfinished?"
Tiny fingers reached out, brushing against Wolf's pants. The boy frowned, running his hand over the rough, unyielding material. No pleats. No give. No bloom.
"It's all stiff," the kid muttered, nose wrinkling. "Looks heavy. Like bark. Or animal hide."
In the boy's mind, confusion blossomed. How does he even walk around in that?
Wolf watched him without moving, eyes sharp but unreadable.
Only after a moment did he speak.
"You've got sharp eyes," Wolf said calmly, his voice low and even. "I'm an outsider."
The kid blinked, then looked up.
Wolf crouched slightly—not submissive, just enough to lower himself to the child's level. His movements were slow, deliberate. Non-threatening.
"Tell me something," Wolf continued, tone casual, almost conversational. "Would you be a good kid and tell me where I can find a folder shop?"
As he spoke, his fingers subtly brushed the child's sleeve.
Information flowed instantly.
Dense horizontal folds around the waist and hem. Growth-responsive design. A release mechanism embedded within the seams—expandable without replacement.
Middle class, Wolf assessed. Parents planned ahead.
The boy beamed, completely missing the silent evaluation.
"Oh! Oh! Mister, you should totally go to my favorite one!" he said, bouncing on his heels.
"It's called The Daily Fold! The clothes there are super pretty—like, really colorful!"
He waved animatedly, nearly smacking a passerby before hopping aside.
"You go right," he said, pointing emphatically, "until you see a big hexagonal metal pillar in the middle of a courtyard. You can't miss it—it's huge!"
Wolf followed the direction with his eyes, committing it to memory.
"When you get there," the kid continued, voice dropping theatrically, "you wait. And then—whoosh! The Propeller Stairs roll down!"
His hands spun in the air, mimicking unfolding panels.
"The city unfolds pleated steel sheets from the pillar, and they turn into a spiral staircase. Step by step. Like a fan!"
He grinned proudly, then leaned closer.
"Second floor," he added. "There's a narrow corridor with folded metal walls. Don't touch them. Seriously. You mess up the folds, and the shopkeepers get mad."
His smile turned sheepish.
"Follow the smell," the kid finished. "Engine oil and silk mixed together. That's The Daily Fold. If you're lucky, Master Stitch Rent might fix your rusty clothes!"
Wolf let out a dry chuckle, the sound low and brief.
"Hah… alright," he said, nodding. "Thank you, kiddo."
He lifted a hand, gesturing gently for the child to go.
"When my partner gets here," Wolf added, "I'll check it out."
The boy nodded eagerly, then ran off, laughter trailing behind him as he rejoined the others.
Wolf watched him disappear into the moving crowd.
Then, without another word, Wolf turned—
—and slipped back into the alleyway he had come out from.
Wolf found what he needed not far from where he had retreated—discarded remnants pushed into the corner of the alley as if the city itself had decided they were no longer worth acknowledging. Torn clothing stiff with old dust, a blanket frayed thin enough for light to pass through in places, its original color long lost to grime. He crouched, fingers testing the fabric with brief, efficient motions, eyes half-lidded yet alert.
Usable. Barely—but usable was enough.
He dragged everything toward the wall and lowered himself down with a slow exhale, back pressing against the cold stone. The chill seeped through immediately, crawling along his spine, but he welcomed it.
He arranged the torn clothes first, folding them with deliberate care, then pulled the blanket over his shoulders and knees, hunching slightly, letting his posture collapse into something convincingly fragile. Head tilted forward. Shoulders slack. Breath shallow, uneven.
To anyone passing by, he was just another body swallowed by the city.
Hm. No money, his eyes closed but mind sharp, calculating. And walking straight to the Adventurer Guild isn't bad… just inefficient.
His thoughts moved smoothly, lining themselves up like pieces on a board.
The guild only actually starts paying when you're worth something to them. Warden rank. That's when materials sell high and reputation begins to snowball. Until then, it's just an investment—time, blood and effort.
A pause. His jaw tightened slightly beneath the blanket.
But right now, I don't need long-term returns. I need liquidity.
The corner of his mouth twitched faintly, almost a smile.
I passed the vetting. I came in with more knowledge, more power, more clarity than most people ever will. Not using that would be stupidity.
A breath in. A breath out.
Create a bigger gap. As early as possible.
The alley smelled faintly of metal, damp stone, and old refuse. Somewhere nearby, gears turned within the city's hidden mechanisms, producing a soft, rhythmic clicking that blended into the background hum of Axion. Wolf let the sound wash over him, letting his breathing sync just enough to appear unconscious.
Luck, he thought, quieter now. If she's in the same kingdom… that would simplify things.
His brow furrowed slightly.
But I won't build a plan on hope.
Another thought surfaced, sharper, more decisive.
She'll look for me. The moment she can move freely, she will.
His fingers curled beneath the blanket.
So I'll build the house first. Let her find me instead of the other way around.
A final decision settled into place, clean and cold.
Night. I move at night.
With that, he let go. Not fully—never fully—but enough. His breathing deepened, shoulders rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. This time, he actually slept.
Somewhere far from that alley, the midnight bell tolled.
Its resonance rolled through the jagged streets of the port city, metal and stone carrying the sound like a warning that no one truly listened to anymore. Oil lamps flickered, their amber light bending and stretching as a cold wind dragged heavy sea mist into every crevice. The city breathed out, slow and uneasy.
From the shadow of an ancient cathedral, she stepped forward.
Tall. Unmistakably so.
Her presence bent the space around her, not through force, but certainty. A white dress clung to her athletic frame—too clean, too perfect for a city that reeked of fish, coal smoke, and desperation. The fabric followed every line of muscle, every subtle shift of balance, as if it had been tailored for violence rather than elegance. Her jet-black hair fell straight down her back, a sharp, ink-dark line against white.
She stopped in the center of the square and lifted her chin, eyes scanning the emptiness with something close to anticipation.
"The priests say I'll go to hell," she murmured.
Her voice was husky, confident, edged with something almost playful.
"But I think that's just a hideous little belief—built by blind eyes and weaker minds… waiting to be split apart by whatever they worship."
Footsteps echoed.
Guards. Three of them.
They shouted. Demanded her name. Her purpose.
She turned her head slowly.
Her eyes—pitch black, calm, hungry—met theirs.
No weapon was visible, but the way her body shifted told them everything they needed to know far too late.
"Tell me," she said lightly, a smile blooming across her face, "do you know? Rules are for people who fear death."
She laughed—bright, cheerful, completely wrong.
"I'm in love with it."
Suspicion hardened into alarm. Hands went to weapons.
Her smile widened.
"Did those rules ever teach you how to kill an enemy?"
Then she moved.
The distance vanished. One guard fell before his body understood what had happened. The second barely managed a sound before she was already inside his reach, turning his own equipment against him with brutal efficiency. The third didn't hesitate—he ran.
She didn't chase.
She straightened slowly, blood spattered across her cheek, breathing steady. She tasted it with the tip of her tongue, eyes following the fleeing silhouette until it disappeared.
Satisfied, she laughed again, the sound echoing through the square.
"Ahahahahaahhahah!"
Inside one of a cerain bar, the crowd had gone silent while a man's laughter echoed throughout the bar exactly the girl laugh.
At the center, two men sat opposite each other at a metal table folded in precise, origami-like patterns. Grooves carved into fractal designs ran across its surface, filled with dark, drying blood. A knife rested between them—its handle adorned with folded, wing-like edges.
Lamplight above cast jagged shadows. The blade's silhouette stretched across the table, perfectly masking drops of green blood soaking into the grooves.
On the left sat a man with black hair streaked faintly with gray. His clothing marked him as an outsider, yet he sat comfortably, shoulders loose, head tilted back as laughter tore freely from his chest.
"Ahahahahaahhahah!"
He slapped the table once, hard enough to rattle the knife.
"I won."
His grin was wide and feral.
"Who's next?"