Crimson stepped onto the grassy plains just outside the towering walls of Windsong City, the cool morning air brushing against his armor. He paused for a moment, letting his senses stretch out to the surrounding wilderness, always alert for the distant rustle of hidden monsters or the faint whispers of approaching travelers.
With a slight flick of his wrist, he pulled out the Status Appraisal Scroll he had picked up at the NAA earlier. He had been curious to see how much progress he had made after his long night of travel and constant monster hunting.
As the scroll unfurled, a familiar translucent status screen shimmered into view:
Name: Crimson Aegis
Level: 352/∞
Experience Points: 13.39%
Health Points: 966,600 / 966,600
Mana Points: 467,150 / 467,150
Strength: 38,366
Agility: 38,010
Intelligence: 18,686
Vitality: 38,664
Luck: 29,568
Crimson's eyes focused on the Level and Experience Points sections. He had leveled up — his journey from the capital had earned him an impressive amount of experience, pushing him to Level 352 with a solid 13.39% progress toward his next level.
"Not bad," he muttered, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. Considering the number of monsters he had slain and the constant fighting he had endured, the gain felt deserved. It reminded him of the early days when each level felt like a hard-won victory, not just a number on a screen.
The scroll shimmered briefly before disintegrating into glowing particles, vanishing like mist under the morning sun. Crimson watched them drift away, his sharp gaze tracing the faint sparkles fading into nothingness.
His hand instinctively brushed against the cold, firm surface of his battleplate. The weight was familiar, a comforting presence that had seen him through countless battles. But here, beneath the open sky and the whispering wind of the plains, it was a reminder, power was not just in his armor but in his own strength, honed through endless trials.
The Heartless King's Battleplate was a Divine rank set known for its unmatched defensive capabilities and terrifying presence on the battlefield. This set was forged from the bones of ancient powerful dragons and tempered in the flames of the Abyssal Forge, a mythical blacksmith's furnace said to be capable of shaping the very essence of destruction. It included four main components: Heartless King's Helm, Heartless King's Chestplate, Heartless King's Armguards, Heartless King's Legplates.
Together, these four pieces formed the Heartless King's Battleplate, a set that granted its wearer unmatched resilience and power, making them nearly unstoppable on the battlefield. This armor was one of the few Divine rank sets in existence, a tier of gear that sat at the very pinnacle of the equipment hierarchy: Common (Gray/White), Uncommon (Green), Rare (Blue), Unique (Purple), Epic (Gold), Legendary (Orange), Mythic (Red), Divine (Rainbow).
Crimson wasn't the only one with such rare, god-tier equipment. Each of the Six High Elders of the Heartless Guild possessed Divine rank gear, each piece representing the peak of power and mastery in their respective combat styles. These sets and weapons were said to be forged by the very gods themselves or crafted from the remains of ancient, world-ending beasts.
With his Heartless King's Battleplate and Crimson Edge, Crimson stood among the mightiest warriors in the world, his every step echoing with the power of a true legend.
Without another word, he turned his gaze to the path stretching into the distant horizon. Rugged hills rose like the backs of sleeping beasts, the shadow of mountains looming beyond them. Two thousand miles to the Western Border — a journey long enough to test any warrior.
But Crimson was not just any warrior.
The morning breeze tugged at his cloak, and with a calm, steady stride, he began to move forward. Each step was light yet purposeful, the rhythm of a hunter in his element. The cool air carried the scent of dew-kissed grass, and in the distance, birds stirred to life, their songs a distant melody.
His senses remained sharp, a habit born from countless ambushes and battles. A flicker of movement among the trees to his left, a subtle rustle in the underbrush — nothing escaped his notice. But no threat emerged, and Crimson's stride remained unbroken.
The morning breeze tugged at his cloak as he strode forward, each step light yet purposeful — the steady rhythm of a hunter in his element. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of dew-kissed grass, and the distant chirping of waking birds formed a gentle, melodic backdrop.
His senses remained sharp, honed by countless ambushes and battles. A flicker of movement in the trees to his left, a subtle rustle in the underbrush — nothing escaped his notice. But no threat emerged, and Crimson's stride remained unbroken.
Time blurred as he walked, the sun climbing higher, its golden rays piercing the morning mist. Hours passed, marked only by the slow drift of shadows and the growing warmth in the air.
It wasn't long before the first sign of danger appeared — deep claw marks gouged into tree trunks, the scent of blood faint but unmistakable. Crimson's lips curved into a faint smile. He knew this pattern. Fellhounds.
Without breaking stride, he drew the Crimson Edge, the blade's familiar weight settling comfortably in his grasp. His sharp eyes swept over the dense foliage, each leaf and branch a potential hiding place for the lurking predators.
The path ahead wound through rolling hills and dense, enchanted forests, their branches twisting like the strokes of an ancient painter. Sunlight filtered through vibrant canopies, casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the forest floor. The cool morning breeze whispered through the leaves, carrying the distant calls of unseen creatures, their voices both haunting and beautiful.
As he moved deeper into the wilderness, his eyes caught the faint outline of a weathered stone marker by the roadside, half-buried in the wild grass. The carved letters, though worn by time, were still legible:
"2200 miles to the Western Border."
Crimson gave a small, grim smile. The distance felt less daunting now that he had already crossed the first 500 miles. He reached up, adjusting the collar of his cloak, the shadowy fabric whispering softly as it moved.
"At this pace, I should reach the border within two days... assuming nothing major delays me," he muttered, his gaze sweeping the horizon.
The wilderness around him was alive with rustling leaves and distant growls — a constant reminder that he was deep in monster territory. Yet, despite the ever-present danger, he felt no fear. If anything, the threat only sharpened his focus, fueling the fire of his resolve.
The dense forests gradually gave way to a broader, sun-drenched path. Vines heavy with emerald leaves twisted around the ancient trunks, their tendrils shimmering with a faint, magical glow. The air here was thicker, alive with the energy of the land itself, each breath tingling against his skin. Small, luminous insects flitted among the branches, their wings whispering secrets of old as they danced through the dappled light.
As he continued, Crimson's mind drifted back to his last encounter with the Fellhounds. They hunted in massive packs, their numbers easily reaching the hundreds. Their jaws were like iron traps, their eyes aglow with a savage, unnatural intelligence. He had seen their kind rip through iron armor as if it were cloth, their howls shaking the courage of even the most seasoned warriors.
He adjusted his grip on the Crimson Edge, the blade humming softly as if sensing the approaching danger. The path dipped into a shallow ravine, the air growing cooler, the light dimmer as the trees closed in around him. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision, and the faintest echo of padded feet whispered through the underbrush.
"Come then," he whispered, his voice a low, calm challenge to the unseen predators lurking in the depths of the forest. "Let's see if you still have the hunger for a real fight."
Crimson moved like a shadow among the trees, his blade a blur of steel and crimson light. The first wave of Fellhounds leaped from the underbrush, their fangs bared and eyes glowing with savage hunger. He met them without hesitation, the Crimson Edge slicing through muscle and bone as if they were mere shadows.
Despite their overwhelming numbers, the battle lasted only a few minutes. The forest floor became a chaotic blur of snarling jaws and slashing claws, but Crimson remained untouchable. His every movement was precise, his strikes perfectly timed, each blow a calculated response to the frenzied attacks.
Back in the game, Fellhounds ranged in level from 292 to 336 — formidable foes, even for veteran players. Yet, for Crimson, their strength was merely a passing challenge. He had faced far worse, his experience making him a force of nature in this world.
As the final creature fell, its twisted body crumpling to the earth, Crimson paused, the echo of their howls fading into the forest's deep silence. He adjusted his cloak, the blade in his hand still humming softly, its thirst for battle briefly sated.
"Not even a warm-up," he muttered, his gaze shifting to the path ahead, the ground littered with the still forms of the defeated pack.
He continued his journey, relentless and unwavering, his gaze fixed on the distant western border that still lay miles ahead. Hours slipped by unnoticed as the sun arced across the sky, the morning light slowly fading into the warm hues of evening.
The dense forests around him shifted with the passing day—shadows stretched longer, twisting and weaving between ancient trunks, while the air cooled, carrying the scents of earth, pine, and distant rain. Daytime creatures fell silent, replaced by the subtle, haunting calls of nocturnal hunters awakening in the dusk.
Crimson's pace never faltered. Each step struck the soft earth with a steady, unyielding rhythm, muscles burning yet controlled, his breathing deep and measured. The Crimson Edge remained ready at his side, humming faintly as if attuned to the dying light and the quiet threats lurking just beyond the tree line. Occasionally, a rustle in the underbrush or the flicker of a shadow would test his vigilance, but each time he met the danger with swift, decisive strikes. His blade flashed through the gloom—cutting, slicing, and dispatching any monster foolish enough to challenge him.
The path beneath his feet wound through rolling hills and ancient forests alive with magic. The sunlight filtering through the canopy grew weaker, casting long streaks of amber and violet that danced upon leaves and moss. Faint trails of glowing insects twirled in the cooling air, their tiny lights like stars caught between branches.
Many hours had passed, and now the evening of the second day of Crimson's journey had settled over the land — four days since the players had been trapped inside the game world. He was now far from the capital city, with the distance between him and the western border reduced to 1,637 miles.
Throughout his journey, Crimson had not stopped hunting. Monsters appeared frequently along the path, and he cut them down swiftly to farm experience and keep his skills honed. To save time, he sometimes chose not to collect the corpses or loot left behind, focusing instead on moving forward as fast as possible.
What allowed Crimson to cover such vast distances so quickly was his extraordinary speed. Depending on how fast he wanted to push himself, he could run at speeds up to 600 kilometers per hour. This incredible ability let him tear through forests, hills, and open land with relentless momentum, shrinking the seemingly impossible distance to the western border with every pounding step.
In addition to his speed, Crimson's immense attributes had elevated him far beyond normal limits. He no longer needed sleep or food; hunger and exhaustion were foreign to him now. Such a status was rare — when an individual reached this level, their body and mind transcended normal human needs, allowing Crimson to maintain his relentless pace without rest.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows through the enchanted forest, the cool evening air whispered with the calls of nocturnal creatures. But Crimson's determination never wavered. Every sprint, every fight, every breath brought him closer to the border — and to the unknown challenges that awaited.
The morning sun filtered softly through the towering canopy as the third day of Crimson's journey dawned — the fifth day since the players had been trapped inside the game world. After pushing forward through night and day, he had covered another 343 miles, closing the distance to the western border to just 1,294 miles.
Now, he had arrived in the province of Alariel, the largest region within the Heartless Republic and home to all kinds of elves. The vast expanse of Alariel was a sprawling, dense magical forest where ancient trees stretched endlessly skyward, their crowns disappearing into the clouds. The air here thrummed with raw, untamed magic, and the gentle hum of life vibrated through every leaf and branch.
No matter how many times Crimson had seen Alariel, the province never failed to captivate him. The sheer scale of the towering trees, the shimmering light that danced between the leaves, and the mysterious beauty woven into every corner of the forest stirred something deep within him — a blend of awe, respect, and quiet wonder.
As he stepped deeper into the heart of Alariel, the world seemed to shift around him — every breath felt charged with ancient power, and every step brought him closer to new challenges hidden beneath the emerald canopy.