The atmosphere descended into chaos once more. Complaints erupted everywhere—people raged at the absurdity of the so-called "beginner mission."
Reach level 10 in seven days or die?
Those with F-tier talents—most of them non-combat—started to lose their minds. Some cursed, others wept. Some just sat there, hollow-eyed and limp, as if their brains refused to accept the new reality.
The world that had first appeared as an escape from Earth… was in fact crueler.
More honest.
More lethal.
Some began forming groups. Five people, ten, even large squads of dozens. The leaders? Naturally, those with D-tier talents and above. Those who felt entitled to lead just because the system card had granted them a slight edge.
Humans. Always needing a leader. Always needing a reason to feel safe—even if it was only an illusion.
Eryon observed it all from a distance. He walked slowly, eyes constantly scanning his surroundings. He had no intention of joining anyone. He didn't need collective defense or emotional warmth.
He needed efficiency. Opportunity. A place to harvest essence.
Mid-step, two bulky men approached him, each wielding a sword and wearing a forced smile.
"We're short one. You look strong. Wanna join us?" one of them asked.
Eryon looked at them briefly.
"Already in a group."
A short reply. Voice flat. Steps uninterrupted.
The two didn't argue. They simply shrugged and walked off, searching for an easier target.
Soon after, Eryon reached the edge of the crowd. Most had begun to abandon the bonfires and move away from the central gathering point.
His eyes swept the area—there were all sorts of people here, though most were Westerners, each radiating a different kind of resolve.
But they all shared a single thread: fear.
He noticed a few faces that remained calm, as if death meant nothing to them. He knew—people like that were far more dangerous than those who flaunted their power.
Eryon kept walking, studying his surroundings. The trees around him were oddly orderly, arranged with unnatural precision. On closer inspection, this looked less like a wild forest and more like a sanctuary.
Within fifteen minutes, most people had left the sanctuary, leaving behind the elderly and women who had already been consumed by fear-induced depression.
There was something strange about this place. Though it looked like a forest, it was actually a sanctuary. Beyond its invisible borders lay the true Wild Forest.
The Wild Forest stretched like a sea of green. Towering trees like skyscrapers, and the scent of soil and wind carried a primal sensation that defied description.
Few noticed it—but up above, there were two suns.
This was definitely not Earth.
And right at the boundary between sanctuary and Wild Forest—a battle had erupted.
Dozens of people were fighting a horde of goblins, each about one meter tall and armed with crude weapons: daggers, swords, and clubs.
The sound of combat echoed—loud and unrelenting. But teamwork among sapient beings against lesser creatures clearly tilted the scales.
Some were already growing used to the violence, learning what truly needed to be done in this lawless world.
Elsewhere, deeper in the forest—the atmosphere was more brutal.
Another group faced not only goblins, but rabbit-shaped creatures the size of children, with red eyes and sharp fangs—monstrous hybrids of predators and nightmare dolls.
A solid punch shattered a goblin's jaw, its skull caving in. The man responsible wore a satisfied expression as a holographic notification appeared before him:
[Killed 1 Goblin, +20 EXP]
It was his third kill, and he needed only two more to reach Level 2. He couldn't hide the pride he felt in his talent—D-tier: Berserk.
"Hahahaha! Come at me, you ugly bastards!" he bellowed, charging straight toward a dozen goblins sprinting his way.
He dashed forward like fear wasn't even part of his vocabulary.
Behind him, others looked hopeful. He was the leader of their 55-person group—Wyatt Palkon.
They surged forward with excitement, eager to fight the enemies before them.
Clashing metal, tearing flesh, and screams filled the air. Blood, sweat, and adrenaline saturated the battlefield. People were swept up in the chaos, drunk on the euphoria of slaughtering goblins and killer rabbits. They thought—if this was all the enemies were, they could survive. Maybe even thrive. Some began dreaming bigger.
But that dream lasted only minutes.
In no time, the creatures were nearly wiped out. Blood soaked the earth, green heads were severed, and the soil turned black.
But then—
THOOM. THOOM. THOOM.
Trees started falling one after another. The sound was like the sky itself collapsing. The ground shook. For three full seconds, the world fell silent. All eyes turned toward the right side of the forest.
And then chaos erupted.
A towering ogre burst through the foliage—four meters tall, with dark gray skin like scorched stone. Razor teeth jutted from a jaw too wide, and in its hand, it held a stripped tree trunk—transformed into a brutal club.
Behind it, a dozen orcs emerged. Muscular bodies clad in crude leather armor, wielding weapons forged in hell: giant axes, serrated swords, spiked chains. Their breaths were heavy, their glowing red eyes burned like embers.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT—?!"
Too late.
The ogre's club swung sideways.
CRACK.
Five bodies flew at once. Not thrown—but crushed. Flattened. Pulverized before they even hit the ground. Blood sprayed. Bones snapped like dry twigs.
Panic. Terror. Screaming.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?! THAT'S NOT A GOBLIN!"
"FUCK!! OGRES AND ORCS?! SERIOUSLY?!"
"WE DON'T STAND A CHANCE!!"
Confidence gave way to pure hysteria. Faces that had glowed moments ago were now masks of fear.
Wyatt stood at the front. Muscles taut. Breathing heavy. Face pale. But he didn't step back. He wouldn't.
The ogre's club still dripped with his comrades' blood.
"DON'T FALTER! IF WE STICK TOGETHER, WE CAN TAKE THEM DOWN!" he shouted—voice trembling, but filled with resolve.
But no one moved.
Only he stepped forward.
Heavy steps. Alone.
The orcs didn't charge. They remained still, letting their leader advance. A duel—unspoken, but understood. And the rest of the humans… simply watched. Frozen. Paralyzed by fear.
Wyatt raised his sword, locking eyes with the ogre. His body ignited with a red aura—his talent: Berserk, enhancing his strength severalfold. With a roar, he lunged.
The battle began.
He dodged one swing and stabbed the ogre's side—but only managed a shallow wound. The ogre roared and brought its club down.
Wyatt blocked.
His sword snapped.
He was flung two meters, slamming into a tree. Bones fractured. But he rose again.
With bare fists, he struck the ogre's face. It didn't flinch—then retaliated, slamming him into the dirt. Air fled his lungs. Blood erupted from his mouth.
Again. And again.
Wyatt was beaten to a pulp. Every bone screamed. Yet he kept staring ahead, teeth clenched.
But when he looked for support—
He saw them.
The people he'd protected. The ones he'd given hope.
They stepped back. One by one. Then they ran.
Some screamed apologies. Others didn't look back.
They fled.
Wyatt whispered through gritted teeth. Eyes wide with disbelief.
"Cowards…"
"All of you…"
"I should've never formed this group…"
His hand twitched, trying to rise—but his body no longer listened.
And at that moment—
The ogre raised its club once more. But didn't strike.
It stared at Wyatt with a twisted grin, as if savoring the moment—then stepped back. The orcs followed. They left the battlefield in silence, their heavy steps fading into the distance.
Wyatt lay there, gasping. Bleeding. Broken. Unable to move.
He didn't know why they spared him. Maybe the ogre thought he was weak. Or—perhaps—it respected a one-on-one duel.
But the outcome was the same.
He had lost. Betrayed. Abandoned.
The world felt cold.
The sky that once shone bright now blurred in Wyatt's eyes. A thin fog crept into his vision. Cold air seeped into weakening lungs. Life's rhythm faded—like the last flicker of a candle.
Fifteen minutes passed.
No sound, save the wind's whispers and a slowing heartbeat. And then…
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps echoed between the trees. Soft, yet distinct. Cutting through the silence like a knife sliding over skin.
Wyatt forced his eyes open. Blurry. But a figure approached… a silhouette. Upright posture. Dark hair.
Wyatt groaned faintly, a dry, blood-soaked voice escaping his throat.
"I-I didn't expect… anyone would be here… If you save me, I'll be forever grateful…"
His voice was weak, but there was a glimmer of relief—of hope not yet extinguished.
The figure stopped beside him, a spear in hand.
Eryon Cain.
"Please… help me," Wyatt begged.
Eryon looked down at him as if gazing at a ruined painting.
Then he spoke. Calm. Almost a whisper.
"If this world were fair… I might've been a good person."
Wyatt couldn't respond. His eyes widened.
SCHLK.
The spear pierced his chest.
His large body stiffened. Mouth agape, but no sound came out. His expression shattered—betrayal, regret, disbelief.
A single tear fell down his cheek. No one knew whose it was.
In his final seconds, Wyatt's breath faded… then vanished.
Eryon stood still. Silent.
He crouched slowly, placing his palm over Wyatt's blood-soaked chest, whispering softly—either in apology… or perhaps to convince himself that this was necessary.
[Essence Reap successful, acquired D-tier skill: Berserk]