The Night.
For the first time since entering the wilderness, Simon stepped out beneath the stars.
The forest at night was a different world. A darker one. Colder. Wilder. The shadows didn't just linger—they shifted. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was taut, like a wire pulled to its limit, ready to snap.
And yet, Simon didn't hesitate.
He walked into that darkness with purpose.
Not out of arrogance. Not out of recklessness.
He didn't believe himself invincible. He wasn't chasing glory.
This was something deeper.
Something raw.
Frustration.
He had grown—faster, sharper, more refined. His control over heat could melt reinforced alloys. His weapons tore through Level-4 Dreadbeasts with increasing ease. And still, there it was:
A wall.
Subtle. Silent. Invisible. But real.
Something was keeping him from advancing further. From getting stronger.
No matter how many beasts he cut down or how far he pushed his body, his physical strength remained unchanged. His strikes held force—but no longer growth. His muscles strained but didn't evolve. He hadn't hit a ceiling.
He'd hit a missing piece.
And it infuriated him.
At first, he believed it was just a matter of time. That strength would come through repetition. But as days passed, and the same plateau loomed, doubt grew louder. The answer never came—no matter how much blood he spilled.
So now, under the pale moonlight, he wasn't hunting prey.
He was seeking truth.
The kind of truth only found when death was close enough to breathe on your neck.
Not because he thought this was some cliché way to power up. Not some storybook logics were near-death unlocked sudden growth.
No.
This wasn't about plot. It wasn't about fate.
This was instinct.
Something in him whispered:
Only when you burn everything—every reserve, every drop of will—will you find what's missing.
And that required something more than just a fight.
It required a real threat.
No allies. No safety net.
Just Simon. Ember Cleaver on his back. And the night pressing close.
The deeper he walked into the forest, the more wrong it felt.
Night in the wilderness wasn't supposed to be silent. It was supposed to be alive—insects chirping, trees creaking, distant howls.
But tonight… nothing.
Not silence.
Stillness.
Simon froze.
His eyes narrowed, adjusting to the dim light as moonbeams filtered through the canopy, casting streaks of silver across the ground. Mist curled from his breath like smoke.
Then, he felt it.
A presence. Heavy. Watching.
Not one. Several.
He didn't draw his weapon immediately. He lowered his stance, listening with his whole body. Every instinct screamed caution. Then—
A rustle, just to his left.
A breath—too faint for normal ears—behind him.
He turned.
A long, serpentine figure launched from the darkness. Scales like obsidian. Eyes glowing like burning coals.
Night Serpent.
Level-4. Maybe high Level-4.
Venomous. Agile. Ambush predator.
And not alone.
Another slithered from the opposite side. Then a third dropped from above.
Simon sighed through his nose.
"So, this is what you're hiding in the dark…"
With a single motion, he unsheathed Ember Cleaver. The metal hissed, already warming to his touch.
Then they struck.
He met the first mid-lunge. One clean upward arc, and the serpent's body split midsection. It spasmed violently before collapsing.
The second dove from above. He twisted, caught it with the blade's flat side, and surged heat through his body—burning it off before it could coil.
He didn't have time to breathe. The third struck.
Faster. Stronger.
Its tail lashed out, slamming into his ribs. He blocked, but the impact sent a jarring ripple through his bones.
Then it bit.
Just a graze.
But it was enough.
Venom.
He felt it immediately—sharp and cold—spreading like fire beneath his skin. His vision flickered. Pain exploded through his side.
He staggered, swaying for just a moment.
And then… he smiled.
Finally.
Something dangerous.
"I've been waiting for something like you," he whispered.
His eyes lit—not with fire, but with clarity.
He called on every ounce of strength, every drop of focus, every speck of will. Ember Cleaver ignited, glowing white-hot. The surrounding air shimmered. Leaves curled. Trees cracked under the sudden rise in heat.
The serpent recoiled.
Too late.
Simon surged forward, faster than before. Stronger. Sharper. The pain didn't slow him—it sharpened him. Freed him.
And in that instant—when death danced just inches from his throat—he saw it.
A crack. A shift. A glimpse behind the wall.
The serpent lunged again. But this time, he didn't dodge.
He met it.
Steel collided with fangs. Heat met venom. And in a single, perfect motion, Simon cleaved it in two—head to tail.
It fell in sizzling pieces.
Simon dropped to one knee.
His breath came fast and shallow. Sweat dripped down his jaw. The venom still burned in his veins—but something was different.
His body wasn't just enduring it.
It was adapting.
Not just surviving.
Changing.
He looked down at his trembling arm—muscles twitching, but not failing. Heat pulsed through him. Beneath the pain, he could feel something shift. Something foundational.
No golden glow. No thunderous roar.
Just… a truth.
The venom still moved—threading through him like fire—but in that moment of agony, he understood.
It wasn't his muscles that were holding him back.
Not his technique. Not his fire control.
His bones.
They were the foundation. And they were weak.
Not broken. Not brittle.
Just unchanged.
Everything else had evolved—his will, his weapons, his instincts. But his bones remained the same. Like old stone beneath new towers.
And now… he saw it.
The venom passed through his marrow like wind through dried leaves. No resistance. No fortification.
Terrifying. But freeing.
He laughed—soft and shaken. Not from fear. From relief.
"I was right."
This was the answer.
Not some hero's fate.
Not some contrived narrative.
Just raw experience.
Raw suffering.
The kind of pain that didn't break you—it burned away what wasn't real.
He rose slowly, the pain fading, but the truth settling deep—deeper than any weapon could reach.
There would be more nights like this.
More fights that peeled back the layers and showed him what still needed to change.
And he would face them all.
Because only in those moments—when death pressed close—would he uncover what it meant to move forward.
The night embraced him now.
The cold didn't bite.
The shadows didn't whisper.
They simply watched.
Simon exhaled, steam curling from his lips. He turned his gaze toward the deeper dark.
Toward danger.
Toward truth.
Toward the next layer of himself.
And stepped forward.
Far away from his location, the old man watched the madness unfold as the young man fought his way through the forest in the night with flaming spear and arrows flying through the forest burning everything on his path.
"MADMAN!" only one word came for his month when saw this madness.