In the Wilderness.
A brutal clash unfolded between man and monster.
Simon's figure blurred through the forest clearing, locked in fierce combat with a Dreadbeast—a massive black lion with burning crimson eyes and skin like slick tar.
Lyga.
A Level-4 Dreadbeast, infamous for its near-impenetrable hide and monstrous vitality. It was a creature that demanded overwhelming firepower just to scratch, let alone slay. Blood and flame danced through the air as their battle raged, searing the earth and igniting the trees in their wake.
Simon fought with practiced grace. His footwork was flawless, his strikes purposeful. He flowed through the chaos like water shaped by fire. In his hand gleamed Ignis Fangs, still radiating residual heat from previous kills.
But this time, even they were starting to falter.
Lyga's thick hide, now streaked with shallow cuts and scorched fur, bore the damage without slowing. Wounds were accumulating—yes—but far too slowly. In stark contrast, Simon remained untouched. Not for lack of effort on Lyga's part, but because of the vast gap in skill.
Still… something gnawed at Simon's edge.
Ignis Fangs aren't cutting as deep anymore, he realized, ducking a swipe powerful enough to cleave a tree in half. Its edge is dulling... or rather, the enemies are growing tougher.
That realization struck harder than Lyga's blows ever could.
In just a few short weeks, his strength had exploded. The wilderness had changed him—pushed him beyond limits he hadn't known he had. The weapons he'd once relied on—top-tier, custom-forged—were now falling behind. Their edge, once divine, had dulled against the tide of his own evolution.
It was a strange feeling.
Pride, yes. He was proud of his rapid ascent. But also a bitter sting—because strength, in this world, came with a price tag. And power demanded constant payment.
A proper upgrade will cost a fortune. Again.
But giving up weapons? Never.
These blades—this strength—they were why his family was still breathing. Without them, Thane would've murdered his father. His sister would've starved in some forgotten alley. These weren't tools—they were symbols of survival. Of salvation.
Simon gritted his teeth and dismissed the thought.
Now's not the time to reminisce.
He inhaled deeply and surged heat into the Ignis Fangs. The blades pulsed crimson, then glowed white-hot, the surrounding air shimmering from the raw energy. The sharpness of the daggers spiked to absurd levels as they neared combustion.
Lyga growled, sensing the spike in danger—but it was far too late.
With explosive force, Simon launched forward, a crimson blur across the battlefield. His body twisted midair, arms crossing before releasing an arc of pure heat and death.
A flash of white-hot light sliced through the clearing.
In one clean, perfect motion—Lyga was bisected.
The massive Dreadbeast let out one final roar before collapsing in two halves, its strength fading into the scorched soil.
Simon landed softly, heat still rising from his body, the ground beneath his feet smoking. His breaths were deep but controlled. His eyes scanned the corpse with a cold, assessing gaze.
A moment later, he sheathed the Ignis Fangs. The glow dimmed.
I'll need new blades soon, he thought, sliding the beast's remains into his space belt. But for now…
He looked ahead, toward the darker edge of the forest.
This strength will carry me forward.
He walked on—deeper into the untamed lands. Into territory where danger no longer lurked, but waited.
Without pause, he swapped weapons. Ignis Fangs vanished into his belt, replaced by a single, broad weapon: the Ember Cleaver. A blade built for brutality—its metal heat-forged and designed for high-impact slashes rather than finesse.
Here in the deep wilds, Level-4 Dreadbeasts were more than just strong—they were smart. They moved like predators, but thought like survivors. They didn't prowl; they ambushed. Some bore traits that put them in the upper echelons of their tier—rare, monstrous anomalies that could even challenge fledgling Level-5s.
Simon welcomed it.
Yet even these battles, hard-fought as they were, gradually began to feel… routine.
He killed them. One by one. With patience. With precision. But not with difficulty.
Eventually, the signs became undeniable: he had already surpassed them all.
He wasn't just hunting them—they were starting to avoid him. Like lesser beasts sensing an apex predator.
And so, his goal shifted.
He wanted a Level-5.
Craved one.
But finding such a creature? That was like stumbling across another Enlightened Leaf. Rare. Coveted. Elusive.
Still, he pressed on—driven by instinct, hunger, and something more primal.
Until one quiet afternoon, the forest turned against him.
A sudden silence fell. The birds vanished. Even the wind stilled.
Simon paused. Tension coiled in his shoulders.
Then, from the shadows—they struck.
A blur of black. Then another. And another. Six in total.
Dart Wolves.
Fast, intelligent, terrifyingly coordinated. Their slick black fur let them melt into the forest's underbrush, and their quiet footsteps made them near-impossible to detect until it was too late.
These weren't beasts. They were assassins.
Each one a Level-4 threat on its own. Together, they were death incarnate.
Simon's grip on the Ember Cleaver tightened. His stance shifted.
He didn't retreat. Didn't blink.
He welcomed them.
As they lunged in tandem, fangs bared and claws flashing—Simon activated Infrared Waves.
Heat pulsed outward in an invisible shockwave, superheating the air in an instant. The Dart Wolves faltered, stunned by the sudden spike in temperature. Their coordinated attack staggered.
That hesitation was fatal.
Simon moved like a storm unleashed.
The Ember Cleaver sang through the air—once, twice, again. Wide arcs of crimson heat. Flesh parted. Bone shattered. Blood hissed against the burning blade.
One fell. Then another. And another.
Within moments, all six lay dead. The underbrush smoked, scorched by their deaths.
Simon exhaled, his chest rising and falling slowly. He stepped forward, kneeling beside the corpses.
He didn't celebrate.
He simply worked—harvesting cores, extracting materials, storing it all with mechanical precision. No hesitation. No waste.
But unknown to him, he was being watched.
Far above, hidden beneath a thick canopy atop a ridge, two figures observed him.
"He's stronger than he looks," murmured a soft, youthful voice. A woman, her tone curious yet measured.
Beside her, an older man with stern eyes watched in silence. His aura was calm, his presence grounded like an old tree that had weathered a thousand storms.
"Yes, young mistress," he said after a pause, voice deep with age and wisdom. "I believe he can help us."
The wind stirred the leaves around them, carrying the scent of scorched fur and blood-warmed steel.
Below, Simon remained unaware.
His hunt had only just begun.