The atmosphere collapsed into chaos once more. Complaints and curses thundered through the clearing, a wave of anger aimed at the absurd cruelty of the so-called beginner mission.
Reach level 10 in seven days or die.
For those blessed with strong talents, the words were terrifying. For those cursed with F-tier scraps, non-combat skills, and useless oddities, it was a death sentence carved into stone. Some raged, spitting venom at the sky. Others wept, their bodies trembling with despair. A few simply sat down where they stood, hollow-eyed, their minds cracking under the weight of inevitability.
With every passing second, the truth sank deeper.
The world that had looked like an escape from Earth was far crueler.
More honest.
More lethal.
Instinct took over. People began to organize.
Groups formed like ripples spreading across water. Small clusters of five or ten. Larger bands swelling to dozens. And at the center of each gathering stood the self-proclaimed chosen, men and women with D-tier talents and above. They barked orders, puffed out their chests, convinced the system's numbers had crowned them worthy of leadership.
Humans.
Always needing a leader. Always needing the illusion of safety, even when safety was a lie.
Eryon watched from the edges, steps slow and measured, gaze constantly moving. He had no use for false unity. Collective defense meant exposing his strength. Emotional warmth meant vulnerability. Neither served him.
What he needed was different.
He needed efficiency.
He needed opportunity.
He needed a place to reap essence.
Mid-step, two bulky men cut across his path. Both gripped swords. Both wore smiles that looked practiced, almost rehearsed.
"We're short one. You look strong. Wanna join us?" one of them asked.
Eryon's eyes flicked over them once.
"Already in a group."
His voice was flat. His steps did not slow.
The lie slid out smooth and effortless. The men exchanged shrugs and drifted away, hunting for someone else.
Along the way, Eryon slowed to a stop.
From where he stood, he could see him. A young man about his age. Black hair. Athletic build. Even in the dim firelight, his presence stood out. There was something about him that naturally drew attention without trying.
He stood alone, focused, one hand wrapped firmly around a spear.
Leon Redfield.
If this were the original Eryon, he would have run to Leon without hesitation. He would have clung to him, stayed safely in his shadow, and chosen comfort over risk.
And that path would have led him to an early death.
The instinct still surfaced anyway, uninvited. Stick close to Leon. Stay behind him. Use what he remembered from the story to secure a safer, easier road forward.
That had always been the sensible choice.
But now…
With an SSS-tier talent in his hands, that thought no longer felt inevitable.
Soon, Eryon moved on, slipping past the densest part of the crowd. Most people had already drifted away from the bonfires, abandoning the circle of warmth as they chased destiny, or simply tried to survive the night.
Eryon did not look back.
Faces blurred past him. Westerners mostly, their expressions caught somewhere between fragile resolve and gnawing fear. But some faces were different. Calm. Too calm. People for whom death was neither surprise nor threat. Those were the ones Eryon marked as dangerous.
His steps carried him toward the treeline.
The forest around the sanctuary did not feel wild. It felt too precise. Trees stood in ordered ranks, their symmetry unnatural. This was not wilderness.
It was a cage.
A holding pen.
A sanctuary.
---
Fifteen minutes later, the sanctuary had mostly emptied. Only the elderly and a few broken women remained, paralyzed by despair.
Beyond the invisible boundary stretched the true Wild Forest.
It unfurled like an endless ocean of green. Trees towered like skyscrapers. The air carried the primal scent of soil, wind, and something older than humanity. And when Eryon lifted his gaze, he saw the truth etched into the heavens.
Two suns.
This was no Earth.
And at the boundary where safety ended and the Wild Forest began, chaos had already erupted.
Dozens of humans clashed against a swarm of goblins. The creatures were no taller than a child, yet grotesque. Green flesh. Jagged teeth. Crude weapons of rust and bone. Their shrieks tangled with the ringing of steel.
For now, numbers carried the day. Humans fought shoulder-to-shoulder, learning through blood and terror what it meant to kill. For some, the first screams had broken them. For others, the first kill awakened something fierce and dangerous.
Deeper still, beyond the first line, a second battle raged.
Here, the enemies were worse.
Rabbit-shaped monsters, twisted mockeries of innocence. Child-sized. Red eyes glowing with hunger. Fangs sharp enough to tear flesh like paper.
THUMP!
A goblin's skull shattered under a man's fist. Its jaw crumpled inward. Blood sprayed.
A holographic message bloomed before his eyes.
[Killed 1 Goblin, +20 EXP]
His grin turned feral. This was his third kill. Two more and he would hit Level 2. Pride radiated from him like heat. His talent was D-tier: Berserk.
"Hahahaha! Come at me, you ugly bastards!" he roared, charging straight into the tide of goblins.
Fear had no place in him. Behind him, dozens cheered. He was not just a fighter.
He was their leader.
Their shield.
Their symbol.
His name was Wyatt Palkon.
Leader of fifty-five.
Together, they surged forward, a wave of humanity against the lesser creatures of this new world.
THUMP!
CLANK!
CLANK!
CLANK!
Steel crashed. Flesh tore. Blood flowed freely. Screams filled the forest air, but so did laughter, adrenaline, euphoria. Goblins and nightmare rabbits fell like wheat under a scythe, and confidence swelled in human hearts.
If this was the challenge, they thought, then survival was not only possible, it was certain. Perhaps even glory awaited. Dreams bloomed where fear had stood.
But dreams were fragile.
They lasted only minutes.
Soon the field grew quiet. Goblin corpses sprawled across the dirt. Rabbit-things lay cut into pieces, their blood soaking into the soil.
And then…
THOOM. THOOM. THOOM.
The world itself seemed to shudder. Trees toppled like matchsticks. The earth trembled beneath each step. For three eternal seconds, silence held its breath.
Then the forest split open.
A towering ogre burst forth.
Four meters of muscle and stone-gray skin. Its jaw split wide to reveal razored teeth. In its fist, it held a stripped tree trunk, turned into a club large enough to pulverize a carriage.
And it was not alone.
Behind it, a dozen orcs emerged. Hulking bodies clad in crude leather. Axes the size of men. Serrated swords. Spiked chains. Their breaths came out in guttural snarls, eyes glowing ember-red.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!"
The question died in a wet crunch.
The ogre's club swung sideways.
CRACK.
Five bodies vanished in one blow. Not thrown aside, but flattened. Crushed into pulp before the crowd's horrified eyes. Blood misted the air. Bones snapped like dry twigs.
Screams tore through the battlefield.
"WHAT THE FUCK, THAT'S NOT A GOBLIN!"
"OGRES?! ORCS?! THIS IS BULLSHIT!"
"We don't stand a chance!!"
The confidence that had carried them moments ago evaporated. Faces twisted, not with courage, but with raw terror.
At the front, Wyatt Palkon stood firm. His breath hitched. His body shook. But he did not step back.
The ogre's club still dripped with the blood of his comrades.
"DON'T FALTER! IF WE STICK TOGETHER, WE CAN TAKE THEM DOWN!" he shouted.
His voice cracked, but resolve burned beneath it.
No one moved.
Only he stepped forward.
Heavy steps.
Alone.
The orcs did not move. They stood like statues, watching with burning eyes. Only their champion advanced. A duel, unspoken and absolute. And the humans stayed frozen. Fear chained their limbs. No one stepped forward. No one dared.
Wyatt raised his sword. His eyes locked onto the towering ogre.
A red aura burst around him. His body swelled with raw power as his Berserk talent ignited. Muscles tensed. Veins bulged. With a roar that shook his chest, he charged.
The ogre swung first. The club whistled through the air, the sound like thunder tearing the sky. Wyatt dove aside. Dirt exploded under the crushing strike. He rolled, sprang up, and slashed at its side.
Steel bit flesh, barely.
A shallow cut opened. Dark blood trickled down stone-gray skin.
The ogre bellowed in fury. It lifted the club high and slammed it down, a strike like a falling mountain.
Wyatt raised his sword to block.
CRACK!
The blade snapped in two. The shockwave hurled him through the air. He smashed into a tree with a sickening crack. Ribs splintered. Air burst from his lungs. Blood filled his mouth.
But he forced himself up.
Staggering, swaying, he clenched his fists. Roaring again, he lunged and drove his knuckles into the ogre's face. Bone and flesh shuddered from the strike.
The monster did not even blink.
The return strike came instantly.
BOOM!
The club slammed into Wyatt's body and crushed him into the ground like a ragdoll. Bones shattered under the impact. The earth itself seemed to groan. Blood sprayed from his lips as his vision blurred.
Still, he rose.
One knee at a time.
His aura still burned. Defiance still lived inside him. Again and again, he forced his broken body to move, refusing to yield, refusing to fall.
Until, for the briefest moment, he glanced back.
At the people.
The ones he had protected. The ones who had followed his strength.
They were not standing with him.
They were running.
One by one. Then all at once.
Fleeing.
Some screamed apologies. Most did not even look back.
Wyatt's eyes widened. His voice rasped, disbelief soaked into every syllable.
"Cowards… all of you…"
"I should've never formed this group…"
His body twitched, then stopped obeying.
The ogre raised its club.
For a moment, Wyatt thought it would end him.
But instead, the beast paused.
Its lips curled into a grin.
It stepped back. The orcs followed.
They vanished into the trees.
Why?
Pity? Respect for a duel? Or cruelty, leaving him broken, discarded, forgotten?
It did not matter.
Wyatt lay in the dirt. Bleeding. Betrayed. Alone.
The sky blurred overhead. His vision fogged. Life slowed into embers. The world grew cold.
Minutes crawled by. Fifteen. Silence swallowed the forest.
And then footsteps.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Soft. Deliberate. Cutting through the quiet like a blade.
Wyatt forced his eyes open. His blurred vision caught a silhouette. Tall. Lean. Dark hair. A spear in hand.
Hope flared.
His bloodied lips trembled.
"I didn't expect anyone would be here," he rasped. "If you save me, I'll be forever grateful…"
His voice cracked, but his eyes gleamed with relief. With hope. With a last desperate lifeline.
The figure stopped beside him.
Eryon Cain.
"Please… help me," Wyatt begged again.
Eryon's gaze was steady. Cold, but not empty. Something moved behind it. Pity. Regret. Calculation.
His voice came quiet, almost like he was confessing to himself.
"If this world were fair… I might've been a good person."
Wyatt's eyes widened.
SCHLK!
The spear slid through his chest.
Wyatt's massive body stiffened. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Shock, betrayal, regret, all of it flickered across his face for a brief instant, then drained into emptiness.
A single tear fell.
His breath rattled, then stopped.
Eryon crouched. He placed a hand over the bloody wound and whispered something. An apology, a prayer, or a justification.
A message appeared.
[Devil's Touch successful, acquired D-tier skill: Berserk]
Eryon rose in silence.
This was the first life he had claimed. Proof that he, too, could kill. The first step carved in blood toward survival.
The world had shown its cruelty.
Eryon would answer with greater cruelty.