Yamino stood silently before the two red boxes, their surfaces gleaming like fresh blood under sunlight. They were no longer the same as before. Both had changed—completely dyed in crimson, etched with black symbols that pulsed faintly like living ink. Right at the center of each box was a tattoo-like mark—the insignia of the Solo King—a black crown surrounded by ancient glyphs that shifted slightly when he stared too long.
He didn't know exactly what they were, but he could feel a connection—a link, deep and rooted, like a bond between master and creation. Each time he tried calling out a weapon, the small-sized box clicked open with a whisper of mechanical grace, and one of the newly evolved weapons would rise smoothly out like it was answering a command.
First came the sniper rifle. It was long, sleek, and looked nothing like the one he had picked up before. Now, its design was futuristic—its barrel forged from matte-red alloy, with black rings etched with glowing crown symbols. The body shimmered with sharp angles and fine lines, like a weapon pulled from the dreams of war gods. Its scope looked alive, lenses swirling with energy.
He lifted it carefully. It didn't feel cold or metallic. It felt warm—responsive—almost like it wanted to be used.
Next were the two pistols. As he summoned them, they floated out side by side from the second red box. They were also crimson, but far more unique. One had curved emerald engravings, glowing softly across the barrel and down the grip in swirling wave patterns. The other was adorned in deep blue carvings, more angular and geometric. Their shapes weren't quite like Earth-made weapons. They were longer, heavier, and clearly more advanced than modern technology.
They weren't just tools anymore. They were artifacts—reforged by something ancient, reshaped by his will.
He glanced at the sniper again and raised it, peering through the shimmering scope. The moment his eye aligned with it, the vision sharpened instantly, zooming hundreds of meters away with perfect clarity. No buttons. No lag. It responded to thought.
Through the trees and across a ridge, he spotted two figures approaching—slow, cautious steps. From their body movement, they weren't ordinary humans. Their outlines flickered with divine remnants.
Without hesitation, Yamino pressed the trigger.
Pfft.
The bullet flew out with no recoil, no sound—like a whisper of death. A moment later, both targets dropped. One clean headshot each. Their bodies fell in unison, necks snapped back, eyes wide.
A new prompt slid into view across his vision:
> [Do you want to devour the dead's soul?]
Yamino didn't flinch. "Yes."
> [Soul devoured.]
[Rank updated.]
[You are now Level 2.]
A wave of heat passed through his chest. It wasn't painful, just… strange. Like swallowing a piece of hot fruit—warm and thick, not unpleasant, but nothing like the first soul he had consumed upon awakening. That one had tasted divine, like golden honey soaked in lightning. This? This was meat. Satisfying, but dull.
Still, strength flowed into him. His arms felt lighter. Vision sharper. His breath steadier.
Then, he paused.
Movement.
Ahead of him, a shimmer—then six figures appeared out of thin air. Their presence was suffocating, pressing like invisible hands around his throat. They weren't human. Their skin was pale as marble, with ethereal robes that shimmered with thin layers of silver light. But they were male—tall, elegant, and proud.
And their eyes burned with fury.
One of them sniffed the air like a beast and growled, "He has the scent."
Another narrowed his eyes. "He ate her. He ate one of us."
The first one snarled, "How can a lowly soul eat one of us? Even if she was the weakest?"
"He did," the second said coldly. "There's no denying it. He carries her residue."
"Kill him."
The command echoed without hesitation.
From their group, one angel stepped forward. His wings were larger, armor slicker, and aura heavier. Unlike the others, he had golden cuffs binding his wrists. A warrior, no doubt.
"I'm sure everyone is mistaken," he said smoothly. "But… to clear our doubts—"
He raised a hand, pointing at Yamino. "I'll kill him."
Yamino didn't respond. He just stared at them, two crimson pistols now in hand.
The angel vanished—teleporting forward in a blink.
Bang.
The shot echoed through the wind like a crack in time.
The angel's head exploded mid-charge, body slumping to the ground without momentum.
The others froze. Shocked.
Yamino's expression remained blank. His arms didn't move. Only the faint trails of smoke rising from the pistols' barrels gave away what just happened.
"He's holding…" one of them muttered. "He's holding those pistols."
"Damn…!" the third shouted, stepping forward. "We can't use our powers here! But still—he's just a lowly bastard—"
Bang.
Dead.
Another body dropped, skull caved in.
Now only four remained, eyes wide, hearts racing. They weren't used to fear. They weren't used to seeing one of their own killed by a human—no, by prey.
Yamino didn't speak. He didn't taunt.
He simply raised both pistols again.
And hunted.
.
.
The world was silent—too silent.
Yamino stepped through the field of corpses, his crimson boots splashing quietly through puddles of fading divine blood. The scent was sharp, metallic, but strangely sweet—like iron soaked in starlight. His breath was calm. Each step precise. The two pistols in his hands gleamed with residual heat, thin wisps of smoke still curling from their barrels.
Above, the sun flickered unnaturally, veiled behind pale clouds and pulsing mana.
But Yamino wasn't done.
Far from it.
There were still 25 of them left—Seraphborn. Half-angel, half-something-else. They had descended into this dungeon like it was theirs to purge. Arrogant. Powerful. Radiant.
Now they were prey.
Yamino raised his hand slowly. "Map."
A glowing panel spread before his eyes.
> [Player count: 99,900]
[Angelic Signal Detected – Seraphborn Remaining: 25]
[Warning: Dungeon Threshold Reached – 100 souls have perished]
A small grin tugged at his lips.
"Only five left to waste," he whispered to himself. "Better make them count."
Suddenly—movement.
A pulse of light shimmered to his left. Two Seraphborn emerged from behind the crystalline ridge, armed with radiant swords glowing with holy runes. They moved fast, their wings slicing the air like blades, feathers trailing motes of divine fire.
Yamino ducked.
Bang. Bang.
Both pistols barked in quick rhythm. One angel's neck twisted unnaturally, body dropping mid-flight. The other twisted in the air, avoiding the shot—but only just. His foot grazed the ground, and Yamino was already there.
He dropped low, slid across the gravel, and pulled the trigger upward—
Bang.
The bullet tore through the angel's jaw, exiting through the skull in a silent explosion of silver gore. The body crumpled before it even understood it was dead.
> [Soul devoured.]
[Level Up: 3 → 5]
[Solo King synchronizing...]
Yamino barely blinked. Already, another group of three approached from above—hovering with spears made of crystallized wrath. They hurled them down.
He rolled sideways, and one of the pistols vanished into mist. In its place, the sniper rifle appeared—called instantly by will. He took a knee.
Crack.
One down.
Crack.
Second.
The third descended furiously, sword ignited in golden flames. Yamino didn't shoot. He stood up instead and faced him.
"You think power means safety?"
The angel slashed downward—
But the sniper was already gone.
Yamino's hand held a new shape. A blade of black mist. Curved. With bone-like segments and purple glows crawling along its edge. It pulsed with hunger.
The angel's sword struck it—
But it shattered.
Yamino spun once—clean.
The angel's body split diagonally, soul already fleeing—
Too late.
> [Soul devoured.]
[Level 6 → 9]
He exhaled slowly as the remaining sixteen Seraphborn felt it—the fear. Their divine senses trembled as the pressure around the dungeon thickened. The air turned heavy, tainted by something they couldn't explain.
Yamino didn't chase.
He hunted.
He began stalking them one by one—sniping from rooftops, ambushing in dark caverns, setting traps using the map data and terrain. His movements were silent, flawless.
Every shot was a headshot.
Every soul devoured.
> [Level 9 → 12]
[Level 12 → 16]
[Level 16 → 18]
[Level 18 → 19]
Two more fled to the eastern cavern. He pursued them slowly, steps echoing through the narrow stone tunnel. They begged.
"We are holy! You cannot—"
Bang.
No second sentence. No mercy.
> [Soul devoured.]
[Level 20]
Just as the last essence was absorbed, a flurry of notifications surged before Yamino's eyes, glowing in red and gold:
> [Level Cap Temporarily Reached: 20]
[100 Player Deaths Detected – Soul Limit Reached]
[Devouring suspended to prevent Dungeon Collapse.]
Five remaining Seraphborn—frozen, watching from beyond a transparent barrier now erected by the system. Their fear was palpable. Yamino didn't even try to break it.
He already knew it was over.
And the system knew it too.
Two final lines flickered into his vision—this time not from Solo King—but from the Shinigami class itself.
> [Class: Shinigami recognized. Two Class Skills unlocked.]
1. Grim Weapon (Passive) – Any weapon wielded by the user gains death attribute. Kills grant the user lingering soul fragments for temporary stat buffs.
2. Death Night (Active) – Upon activation, the user cloaks the battlefield in the veil of the underworld for 60 seconds. All enemies inside suffer soul corrosion, vision loss, and stat decay. Night persists even in light. 12-hour cooldown.
Yamino stared at the skills in silence. The information soaked into him like water into dry roots.
He didn't laugh. Didn't celebrate.
But for the first time since awakening in this strange world—he smiled.
The King had begun his true hunt.