A sharp inhale.
Marcus's eyes snapped open.
Above him, the thick canopy of the Endless Forest filtered sunlight into scattered golden beams, shifting slowly with the breeze. Birdsong flitted through the trees, distant and cautious. The scent of damp moss and iron lingered in the air.
He lay still for a moment, letting his heart steady and his thoughts catch up.
The memory returned in jagged flashes—the Hobgoblin's roar, his blade slicing through hardened muscle, the pain in his ribs as the club struck him. Then, the silence. The final silence.
He was alive.
Somehow.
He sat up slowly, muscles aching but not screaming. Dirt clung to his clothes, blood dried black across one sleeve. The last thing he remembered was collapsing near the corpse, the Hobgoblin's blood seeping out in a slow, viscous pool beside him.
He was stiff, sore—but functional.
He pulled up his system.
Name: Marcus Haymon
Race: Human ★
Age: 17
Class: N/A
Level: 10 (EXP: 650/2,000)
Health:74/100
Mana:42/80
Stamina: 35/100
Karmic Level: Neutral
STR: 17
AGI: 35
END: 8
INT: 8
SPT: 10
Stat Points (Unassigned): 5
Skills:
Instinctive Footwork (Lv. 3)
Momentum Slash (Lv. 3)
Battle Focus (Lv. 3)
Dao: N/A
Gifts:
Great Comprehension [Epic]
Godly Learning [Unique]
Effects:
+200% EXP gain
Increased skill and Dao learning speed
Easier comprehension and weapon mastery
Marcus studied the screen. His stats were decent, but the Hobgoblin had taught him a brutal truth—strength mattered. So did speed.
He focused, assigning all five of his unspent stat points:
+3 AGI → 35 → 38
+2 STR → 17 → 19
It felt like a wave rolling through his limbs. Subtle at first—then grounding. His muscles tightened slightly, bones aligning more naturally, balance improved. He clenched a fist and felt a surge of power ripple up his forearm.
But he wasn't done.
He stood, exhaling slowly, and turned toward the Hobgoblin's corpse.
It lay there like a broken statue, limbs awkwardly twisted. The skin was a sickly green-gray, darker now in death. He hadn't looted it before collapsing. He stepped closer.
A shimmer caught his eye—blue and gold, nested in the moss beside the body.
A system chest.
Marcus grinned, crouching beside it. The chest wasn't large, maybe the size of a backpack, but it gleamed with faintly glowing etchings along the sides, carved in the same strange, angular runes he'd seen on his stat window.
He touched it.
The chest clicked open.
Inside were four items: a pair of brown-gray leather boots, a dull blue vial, a red vial, and something wrapped in coarse black cloth. He reached in carefully and pulled them out one by one, activating Identify on each.
Boots of Speed [Common]
Soft leather footwear made from stitched forest wolf hide. Lightweight and flexible.
Effect: +6 AGI
Health Potion (Common)
Restores 50 Health instantly upon drinking.
Cannot be used if already at full Health.
Mana Potion (Common)
Restores 50 Mana instantly upon drinking.
Cooldown: 1 minute.
Dynamite (Common)
An unstable explosive. Detonates on contact with fire.
Effect radius: unknown.
Warning: unpredictable behavior in magical environments.
He blinked at the last one. Dynamite? This world had that?
The potions were straightforward. No hesitation this time.
He drank both immediately, tipping the vials down one after the other.
A chill slid down his throat like glacial wind. His muscles warmed in response, tension fading. The mana potion sparked something in his chest—a bright flicker, like lighting a fuse in his bloodstream.
Health: 74/100 → 100/100
Mana: 42/80 → 80/80
Fully restored.
He pulled on the Boots of Speed, tightening the laces, flexing his feet. They were light—absurdly light. He bounced on the balls of his feet once and felt his entire body shift to accommodate it.
AGI: 38 → 44
His mind spun slightly. Everything around him looked slower.
The sway of the trees, the flutter of leaves—he could feel the way the wind moved around his limbs before it even touched him. His vision sharpened, but it was more than that—it was instinctual. The anticipation of motion.
He felt like a bowstring drawn tight.
Done looting, Marcus rose and took one final look around the clearing. Nothing else stirred. Birds cautiously began singing again as the forest forgot the violence that had spilled here.
His time here was up.
With one last glance at the Hobgoblin's twisted body, Marcus turned and began moving again—deeper into the woods, heading toward whatever waited beyond the next ridge.
The deeper Marcus traveled, the more alien the forest became.
Gone were the occasional birdsong and familiar tree trunks of the outer woods. These trees were older—gargantuan things, twisted and gnarled with bark blackened by age or fire. The canopy thickened until the light dimmed to a perpetual twilight, even though the sun hadn't yet begun to set. Strange vines curled down from overhead, thick like ropes, some even pulsing faintly with bioluminescence. He couldn't tell if they were plant or creature.
His footfalls were near silent now, thanks to the Boots of Speed. Moss muffled every step, and even the scattered branches on the forest floor seemed to avoid snapping beneath him. His increased agility wasn't just a number. It was sensation—perception. His awareness extended outward, like a sixth sense.
The world had slowed down, just slightly. Just enough.
He moved with grace he didn't fully understand, weaving between tree trunks like the wind. The scent of something burnt touched his nose—faint but recent. He paused, ducked low, and slid behind a thick root bulge.
Then he saw it.
Through the underbrush, maybe seventy meters ahead, the trees opened into a clearing.
Marcus crept forward on instinct, breath shallow, heartbeat steady.
He found a ridge—a narrow slope above the clearing—and crouched behind a thicket of tall grass. The vantage point was perfect. He parted the grass with care.
Below, nestled between the trees like a wound in the forest, was a goblin camp.
A low bonfire crackled in the center, its smoke rising into the sky in a thin, gray pillar. Around it, several makeshift huts were spread in a half-moon, constructed from animal hide, rotting wood, and vines. Some of them were actively leaking smoke from their own chimneys or holes, and in one, he could see a goblin stirring a pot over flame.
The camp was alive with motion. Goblins. Dozens of them.
He began counting.
Twenty goblins, smaller and wirier than the Hobgoblin he had fought before, milled about the clearing. Some sat in circles laughing with sharp, nasal voices. Others sharpened bone-tipped spears, or carried buckets of what looked like murky water from a central trough.
But what drew his attention more were the five larger figures.
Hobgoblins.
They stood guard near a much larger hut at the far end of the camp—this one was nearly twice the size of the others, painted with crude red symbols and covered in skins. One of the Hobgoblins stood at the door, leaning on a jagged steel blade, its yellow eyes glowing faintly in the firelight.
Marcus's brows furrowed.
The layout was clear now.
Central bonfire surrounded by smaller huts.
Goblins scattered throughout.
Five Hobgoblins—three patrolling, two guarding the largest hut.
He ducked down behind the grass again and exhaled.
This wasn't just a camp. It was organized. The larger hut was probably a command structure—or housed something stronger.
Marcus closed his eyes and leaned back into the grass. His heartbeat was steady, but he could feel the tension coiling in his stomach. This wasn't a random encounter anymore. This was deliberate.
He glanced at the wrapped dynamite in his pack.
The plan came together like puzzle pieces clicking into place.
Wait for nightfall.
Approach silently.
Throw the dynamite into the central bonfire—turn their gathering place into a death trap.
Pick off survivors in the confusion.
Use the shadows. Use speed. No prolonged fights unless necessary.
He needed rest. Calm before the storm.
Marcus slowly crawled backward, away from the ridge, until the goblin camp vanished behind the foliage. He found a patch of thick, waist-high grass a good forty meters back from the slope, settled into it belly-down, and waited.
He lay completely still, breathing slow and deep.
The forest moved around him—creatures chirped and skittered, unaware of the tension building just beyond the hill. The sun began its long descent, and with it, a chill crept through the air. Shadows stretched and merged. The firelight in the camp grew brighter, flickering now through the leaves like distant lightning.
He remained hidden, motionless.
Time passed, hearing what sounded like voices, Marcus became alert of his surroundings.
Two goblins, both carrying crude wooden mugs, stumbled up the ridge from the opposite side of the camp. They were drunk, voices high-pitched and slurred, laughing at something in their twisted tongue. One of them tripped on a root and fell, spilling his drink. The other let out a shrill cackle, pointing and slapping its thigh.
They weren't patrolling. Just pissing around.
They turned toward the tall grass, swaying as they walked.
Straight toward him.
Marcus didn't move—not at first. He waited, heartbeat slow, every muscle relaxed and coiled like a spring.
The goblins pushed through the outer brush, blinking, still laughing—until the first one's smile froze.
Too late.
Marcus surged forward with explosive speed, drawing his sword in a single fluid motion. The first goblin's head barely had time to turn before the blade cut clean through its neck, the body collapsing into the grass without a sound.
The second goblin opened its mouth to scream.
A blur of motion—Marcus's free hand clamped over its mouth as he drove his sword into its gut, twisting as the creature thrashed.
It went limp.
He held still, crouched between the corpses, blood soaking into his tunic.
Nothing from the camp. No alarms. No raised voices.
He exhaled slowly and dragged the bodies deeper into the brush, hiding them beneath a tangle of vines. By the time he returned to his original spot, the adrenaline was already fading, but the clarity remained.
This was his world now.
This was survival.
He waited patiently like a predator.
The sun dipped below the horizon, and the clearing below became a flickering ring of orange fire in the surrounding black. The goblins gathered more closely now—around the bonfire, shouting and shoving each other. Drinking. Eating. Laughing in those guttural, nasal screeches that grated against the silence of the forest.
Perfect.
Marcus pulled out the dynamite, unwrapped it carefully, and tested the weight. It was crude but functional—about the size of a large banana, with a blackened fuse curled tightly to its side.
He drew closer to the ridge again, staying just behind the grass line.
His hands moved with quiet purpose. He reached into his belt and struck a rock, once—twice—then a spark caught on the end of the short fuse.
Sssst...
Marcus stood, aimed, and threw.
The dynamite arced through the air in a perfect curve, trailing smoke.
It hit the center of the bonfire and vanished into the flames.
The goblins had only just begun to turn when the earth shook.
BOOM!
The bonfire erupted in a blinding sphere of orange flame and splintered wood. The pressure slammed outward, flattening the nearest goblins and hurling bits of charred meat and burning debris into the air.
Screams split the twilight. High-pitched. Piercing. Several goblins lay motionless, their ragged bodies sprawled around the remains of the fire. Others staggered, deafened or bleeding, their formations broken instantly.
Marcus was already moving.
He burst from the ridge like a released arrow, body low, feet barely touching the earth. A stunned goblin clutched its ears just as he arrived—his blade took its head cleanly off. He didn't stop.
Another pair tried to flee the explosion, coughing on the smoke.
Too slow.
He passed between them like wind.
A rising slash across one chest—blood sprayed. A downward thrust into the other's collarbone—the blade sank deep. Three dead in under five seconds.
Health: 100/100
Mana: 80/80
He was in control. Every motion flowed with terrifying ease. His AGI-dominated form slipped through the chaos like a ghost, momentum building with every step.
Another goblin raised a spear shakily, squealing in panic.
Marcus pivoted, letting the thrust glide past his ribs, then answered with a vicious kick to the goblin's knee. Bone snapped. The goblin shrieked, dropped its weapon—and Marcus's sword silenced it with a brutal thrust to the chest.
Four more goblins approached from the far side of the fire, shouting, trying to rally.
He darted forward—zigzagging, blurring left, right.
Instinctive Footwork activated subconsciously now, adjusting every angle, every weight shift. His blade sang through the air.
The first goblin's arm was severed in a flash of steel. It dropped, howling. The next had its spine cleaved as Marcus dashed past. The third raised a shield—useless. He slid beneath it, carving out its hamstring before finishing the kill with a thrust upward through the back.
The fourth goblin ran.
Marcus let it.
For now.
Health: 99/100 — a shallow scratch on his left arm pulsed from earlier.
Mana: 80/80
The camp was chaos incarnate now—goblins scattering, shrieking, some clawing to put out fires on their clothes. The air reeked of burnt hair, blood, and smoke. Flames crackled where the bonfire used to be.
He continued the rampage.
Every two or three goblins tried to stand against him—and fell. They were no match for his raw speed. They couldn't track him. Couldn't coordinate. He was never where they aimed. They died with eyes wide and blades unblooded.
He wasn't wasting mana. Not yet. No need.
Not for them.
When he finally stood at the center of the decimated camp, the clearing was a graveyard of twitching corpses. Limbs strewn. Fires dying in the pits of overturned huts.
Then a roar.
From the largest hut.
Marcus's heart thudded, but not from fear. Something deeper. Anticipation.
The Hobgoblins had arrived.
Three of them burst from the smoke, weapons raised, their brutish forms bellowing in rage. The remaining two followed seconds later—one limping, burned from the explosion.
The ground trembled under their steps.
Behind them, the flap of the large hut opened—and out stepped a new figure.
It was hunched, taller than the others, with mossy robes and a long crooked staff pulsing faintly green. Glowing eyes locked onto Marcus with focused hatred. Using my knowledge from before it all went to shit I figured it was a shaman from the books my family used to read.
The ugly creature hissed something guttural and slammed its staff to the ground.
Green light surged from its body and wrapped around the Hobgoblins like smoke. Muscles bulged. Veins glowed faintly.
A buff spell.
Marcus's lips parted in a slow exhale.
Finally.
A real fight.
The Hobgoblins snarled and charged, fanned out in an arc to surround him. Their speed was better than before—no longer lumbering. The magic worked.
Good.
He surged forward toward the leftmost one—then feinted and reversed. The center Hobgoblin adjusted, lifting its crude axe to block. Marcus skidded under it, twisted, and drove his sword up into the soft underside of its chin.
The blade burst out through the top of its skull.
One down.
The second slammed a club into where he'd been a second ago. The air shook with the missed strike. Marcus had already pivoted behind him and sliced through the back of the knee, then leapt up and severed the spine with a diagonal slash.
The third roared and swiped—
Marcus ducked, then activated Momentum Slash.
A ripple surged through him. The air bent around his blade.
He struck once.
The Hobgoblin's chest exploded in a spray of gore as the skill triggered perfectly, cleaving through bone and muscle like nothing. It stumbled back, dead before it hit the ground.
Mana: 65/80
He gasped—he could feel it. A new awareness lighting up behind his eyes.
[Skill Level Up: Momentum Slash → Level 4]
[Skill Gained: Flicker Step (Rare)]
—You briefly accelerate beyond the limits of sight. Grants a short-range teleport effect within 5 meters. Cooldown: 20 seconds. Mana cost: 10.
His skin tingled. A spark raced up his spine.
It wasn't just words. He could feel it waking in his blood. A new layer of movement, a new way to manipulate space.
But there was no time to marvel.
The two remaining Hobgoblins, now fully buffed, came at him together. One swung a huge mace. The other lunged with twin daggers.
Marcus let the flow take him.
Instinctive Footwork (Lv. 3) and his speed turned the battlefield into water.
He dodged the mace with an inch to spare, rolled past the stab, and Flicker Step activated.
Mana: 45/80
A heartbeat of silence.
Then he reappeared behind them both.
They turned—confused, off-balance.
He didn't hesitate.
Momentum Slash again—this time angled between them.
The wave of force split both in half.
Mana: 20/80
He was panting now. Muscles tight. Limbs slick with sweat and blood. Not all of it his.
Then—
The Shaman raised its staff and shrieked.
A bolt of green energy crackled and launched toward him.
Marcus threw himself sideways—barely avoiding the magic—but the heat of it seared past his shoulder.
Health: 79/100
He circled, keeping low, watching.
The Goblin Shaman was casting again—hands moving in rapid patterns, muttering something in a language that hurt to hear.
Marcus sprinted forward in a zigzag pattern. Another bolt flew—he ducked. A cloud of poison mist exploded where he'd been. The stench made his lungs ache.
Closer.
He jumped, narrowly missing a trap glyph etched into the ground—and landed ten feet from the shaman.
It raised a hand, chanting faster.
Flicker Step.
He vanished from in front of it—reappearing behind.
Its head turned, mouth opening in shock.
Marcus's sword plunged into the base of its skull.
The glow vanished. The body crumpled.
Silence.
Health: 79/100
Mana: 0/80
A long, shaking breath escaped him.
He stood in the center of the burning, blood-soaked camp, chest rising and falling. His vision pulsed faintly from the adrenaline. The scent of ash and death coated the air.
Then:
[Level Up! → Level 11]
[Level Up! → Level 12]
[Level Up! → Level 13]
[Level Up! → Level 14]
[EXP: 1,400 / 4,100]
[Skill Level Up: Instinctive Footwork → Level 4]
[Skill Gained: Ghoststep (Uncommon)]
—Your footwork becomes so silent and smooth that all but the most perceptive enemies cannot hear or sense your movement. Passive bonus: +10% evasion chance.
[Item Drop: Uncommon Chest Obtained]
Marcus blinked—his body trembled with sudden euphoria.
Four levels.
A new skill.
The glow of the chest pulled his attention.
He approached it slowly, cautiously. It was made of aged metal, banded with green iron. The lid clicked open at his touch.
Inside:
[Uncommon Mana Potion] — restores 75 Mana.
[Health Potion ×2] — restores 50 Health each.
[Blade of the Hollow Fang] — Uncommon Sword, bonus: +4 AGI, passive: chance to bleed on hit.
Marcus sank to one knee.
The night wind cooled the sweat on his neck. Blood dripped from his sword.
His chest rose and fell, and for the first time since entering the Endless Forest… he smiled.