The battlefield stretched endlessly.
Once a forest, now a wasteland — burned trees, shattered ground, and endless corpses.
The air smelled of ash, blood, and rot.
There were no more commands.
No formation.
No comrades left.
Only Haru.
Everywhere he looked, there was nothing but the dead.
And yet, they kept coming — an endless tide of undead crawling from the darkness of the southern plains.
The elves had retreated days ago, regrouping and waiting for reinforcements from the Silver Grove.
But Haru…
He never left.
Sword in hand, shield cracked, and body drenched in sweat and blood — he stayed.
Each swing cut through rotting flesh, black ichor splattering the ground.
Each step forward left another corpse behind.
At first, it was a fight.
Then, it became routine.
Then, it turned into a massacre.
He wasn't fighting for survival anymore.
He was erasing them.
> Slash. Step. Swing. Guard. Thrust.
His movements became one with the rhythm of death.
If there was a higher-level undead — a Knight, a Wraith, a Necromancer — Haru waited, hidden behind a broken boulder, eyes steady, heart silent.
He never rushed them. He studied their movement, memorized their weakness, and struck when the shadow blinked.
> One kill. Two kills. Dozens.
Days blurred into nights.
Weeks into months.
His armor broke.
His sword cracked.
He reforged it from the bones of his enemies and kept going.
When his body screamed for rest, he ignored it.
When his mana burned out, he forced it to flow again.
He kept killing.
Until the system itself began to tremble from the number of corpses.
> [You have slain 7,431 Undead]
[Level Up → 67]
But he didn't stop.
The sky no longer mattered.
The world beyond the battlefield didn't exist.
He was the war.
Three months passed.
And on that blood-soaked ground, the System Window appeared again — glowing faintly golden, cutting through the smoke and darkness.
> [Level Up → 70]
[You have reached the threshold: Class Ascension Available]
Haru dropped to one knee, breathing hard.
His sword dug into the soil, surrounded by mountains of corpses.
His reflection in the blade was no longer human —
Eyes faintly crimson, aura like a storm.
He muttered under his breath, voice almost gone.
"Three months… huh… and not a single soul left standing but me."
He looked south, where the black mist still swirled in the far horizon.
That was where the real enemy remained.
The generals.
The demons.
The reason this world was dying.
He tightened his grip on the sword.
"Then I'll come to you next."