The sky split open with a sound like air being sliced.
Light bled through the cracks above, washing over the forest canopy.
Veridian's form—once so solid, radiant with molten veins—shivered and began to dissolve, fragment by fragment, as if being pulled backward into an unseen current.
Each shard of its body ascended, melting into streaks of faint gold that vanished into the overcast heavens.
And as the last glow faded, the air snapped back into motion—leaves fluttered again, and the stagnant mist resumed its drift.
Wolf's ears twitched first to the sound of moving air, then to distant voices—the noise of men.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Oh… it canceled the time stop."
The words left his lips barely above a whisper, but a faint grin formed as he said it. His pupils narrowed, recalibrating to the rhythm of a world that resumed breathing.
Without wasting another moment, he turned. His boots met the softened earth with muted thuds—his pace deliberate but brisk—as he threaded through the trunks toward the direction where Exploration Team two had last been placed.
The damp scent of rotting leaves and cold bark filled his lungs as his eyes adjusted to the returning gloom.
Soon enough, the faint clamor of human voices cut through the still air.
Someone's panicked call echoed from ahead—followed by the sharp metallic scrape of a weapon being hastily drawn.
When Wolf emerged from behind a half-collapsed tree, three men whirled toward him—mud-streaked faces, startled eyes wide as saucers.
"Wolf—!?" one of them exclaimed, almost dropping his spear.
"What the hell—where'd you come from?"
Wolf raised a hand in a casual half-wave, his expression composed, calm.
"Relax. I came looking for you guys. You've been gone for a while."
His tone was steady, unhurried, but his eyes scanned their faces and posture with quick precision—measuring fatigue, gear condition, blood traces.
"The deeper you go, the worse it gets," he continued, voice low, almost drowned by the rustle of the wind.
"This forest is worth nothing. No resources. No landmarks. Just dead air and dangerous statue"
The men exchanged glances, uncertain but visibly relieved that someone higher-ranked had made the decision for them.
"So we're pulling out?"
"Yeah," Wolf said, already stepping past them.
"Don't come here again. There's nothing left to find."
He didn't bother explaining further—the less they knew, the safer his secret stayed.
The trip back to camp was quiet. The only sound was the occasional snap of a twig beneath boots, or the wind brushing past the ruined bark of Bleakroot trees.
When they reached the perimeter lights of the base camp, Wolf dismissed them with a simple nod.
"Report to leader. Tell him the zone's marked as empty."
They saluted briefly—reluctant but obedient—and split away toward the tents.
Wolf watched until their silhouettes vanished, then turned down a narrow path toward his house. The torchlight flickered against the wall panels.
He pushed the door open.
The room was dim, silent. The air smelled faintly of old metal and dried sweat. His equipment hung neatly by the wall—meticulous order, almost surgical.
He sat down at the edge of the bed, exhaled once, then said quietly,
"Status window."
The invisible pane shimmered into view, glowing softly before his eyes.
Lines of text unfolded, meticulous and deliberate:
Name: Anantawat Thiphavong
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Age: 23
Height: 178 cm
Title: First Looter, First Hand, The Brutalist, The Apex Feaster, The Hundredfold Hand, Relentless Hunter, Fatemaker's Logic
Lv. 17
Stats:
STR: 27 (+1)| SPD : 26| AGI: 20| STA: 20| END: 20 (+3)| POW: 12| LUCK: 16
Mental Stats:
INT: 18 (+13)| CHA: 15 (+13)| FORTITUDE: 20| EVILNESS: 20 (+14)
Alignment: Evil
Active Skills: Red Tide, Thousand-Kill Toll, Kinetic Accumulation
Passive Skills: Adaptive Nutrition, Artisan's Instinct, Analytic Sight
The light reflected off his eyes as he scrolled slowly through the stats. His lips curved slightly upward—not surprise, but the faint satisfaction of a craftsman inspecting his progress.
He murmured:
"… Fatemaker's Logic."
The letters shifted, reorganizing into new lines of text.
Name: Fatemaker's Logic (Unique Title)
Acquisition Requirement: Bestowed by a god who possesses the ability to perceive and manipulate Fate and Destiny.
Description:
You possess the logic to define all and cross the curtain of fate, rejecting the path set by the individual god.
Effects:
+10 INT
+10 CHA
When you level up, you will receive +1 Bonus Point.
When an enemy reveals a strategic weakness, your response will be immediate and ruthless.
When you kill an enemy with a single attack whose INT is higher than the target, there is a high chance of gaining one point.
Wolf blinked once, then let out a short chuckle. It was quiet at first, then broke into an amused exhale.
"Oh my…"
His tone was half-mocking, half-genuine awe. He leaned back, elbows resting loosely on his knees, as his grin spread wider across his face.
"Just this huge bonus stat alone… no penalty, no drawback—that's already a win."
His finger hovered over the floating text, eyes narrowing with interest.
"But these two effects…"
His gaze locked sharply on the lines:
When you level up, you will receive +1 Bonus Point.
When you kill an enemy with a single attack whose INT is higher than the target, there is a high chance of gaining one point.
A low laugh escaped him—quiet, but edged with rising excitement.
"This is exponential growth… it's literally qualitative growth."
He leaned forward slightly, voice deepening with quiet amusement.
"Hahaha… haehha…"
He ran a hand through his hair, still grinning. His reflection shimmered faintly against the translucent pane.
"I guess I should expect this much from a title given directly by a god."
He paused—his grin fading to a thoughtful line.
"…Though, seeing the requirement kind of makes me a bit uncertain, haha."
He exhaled through his nose and rubbed his jaw with a thumb, the faint glint of curiosity still burning in his eyes.
"But that's not what I should be worried about right now."
He straightened up, flexing his hand once before flicking his fingers to dismiss the window.
The golden light dimmed—leaving only his faint smile lingering in the half-dark room.
Wolf's gaze dropped to his arm.
He spoke softly, half to himself.
"With Relentless Hunter—the one I earned from killing ten thousand monsters… and Thousand-Kill Toll, that came after I passed the stat requirements for strength and endurance… five hundred kills without rest…"
He tilted his head, recalling the sensation—the exhaustion, the manic rhythm, the raw repetition that almost blurred into trance.
"Its effect doubles my strength and speed into a single strike. And if the target dies, I recover stamina and heal minor wounds."
He tapped his temple lightly with one finger.
"Then there's Kinetic Accumulation—the other active skill. Passing strength and stamina requirement, five thousand swings."
His tone turned faintly amused, almost admiring his own persistence.
"The more I hit the same target, the more power builds… a chain that keeps stacking until it breaks everything in front of me."
He fell silent then, eyes gleaming faintly in the darkness. The quiet hum of the people outside filled the gap between his breaths.
"…With all of this, I'll be able to grow even faster. And further."
He leaned back, head tilting slightly upward toward the ceiling—his voice quiet now, smooth, cold.
"There's no ceiling this year."
The corners of his mouth curled again—subtle, almost invisible in the dark—like the smile of someone who already knew how the end of the story would taste.
The mountain path to Turigavit Field stretched before Wolf like a spine of stone, winding upward beside the roaring blue cascade of the waterfall.
The air was clean here—sharp, biting even—and every step along the moss-slick stairway carried the crisp scent of mineral and mist. His boots left faint imprints on the wet stone. From below, the endless rumble of the falls mingled with the distant calls of unseen beasts.
He reached the upper ledge and stopped, eyes narrowing as he gazed across the terraced slope ahead. The monster field unfolded like a valley of movement—creatures with horned heads, thick-furred quadrupeds.
He murmured under his breath, almost rhythmically, "Level ten…seven… nine… six."
"Good enough." His voice was calm—quiet, yet laced with anticipation. His gaze sharpened; the muscles along his jawline twitched slightly as the familiar heat of battle-lust pulsed through him.
He dropped from the ledge with a soft thud, landing amid the dew-damp grass. The first creature turned—and let out a low growl.
Wolf's lips curved faintly. "You'll do nicely."
What followed was a precise storm of movement. The Thousand-Kill Toll ignited, his body accelerating as a faint crimson shimmer traced along his limbs. Every strike was economical, merciless—his blade cutting arcs that cracked bone and scattered dust. The mountain echoed with roars and then silence, broken only by his steady breathing and the faint clatter of falling bodies.
When the field fell still, Wolf exhaled and raised his wrist. "Exploration Team Three," he said to one of them that guard near the stairway, his tone clipped.
"Clean-up. Take the corpse."
He lingered only a moment longer, surveying the bodies that littered the slope. The faint steam rising from them painted the field in a strange, serene fog. Progress, he thought. Clean, necessary progress.
The next day, his path led him back to the Hornmaw Field—his very first hunting ground. The air here was lighter.
The Hornmaws stirred the air with guttural snorts the moment he entered.
He clicked his tongue.
"Still aggressive, I see."
They came at him in a rush. His movements were fluid now—less like a man fighting, more like a rhythm being followed. Each swing of his blade struck with deliberate pacing, almost measured in breath. Dust rose, the air rippled, and the red shimmer of Kinetic Accumulation built with each successive impact. His arms burned, but his grin only widened.
When the last Hornmaw fell, he straightened, panting lightly.
The dense forest canopy above hid the sun, leaving the world dim and damp.
But his eyes shifted toward the lair.
He approached carefully, lowering his weapon as he felt the faint tremor of old blood in the air.
No roar greeted him. No movement.
Just silence.
He stood before the empty nest—nothing but dried scales, fragments of bone, and the faint scent of decay.
A quiet exhale slipped through his lips.
"…So it wasn't a lie after all." His tone carried something unreadable—fatigue, perhaps, or resignation.
"Perhaps this is the only truth left," he murmured, half to himself, half to the empty air.
Then, shaking his head once, he turned back toward the forest. "No use dwelling on it."
By dusk, he was at the edge of the Deep Forest, the air thick with twilight vapors.
Lamentia waited there—an otherworldly calm radiating from her pale form, her eyes reflecting the dime silver.
"You return sooner than I expected," she said, her voice soft, melodic.
"I don't waste time." Wolf's answer was curt, but his tone carried a hint of respect.
"Teach me more."
And so she did. Under the cold light filtering through the canopy, her words wove a map of this world's strange nature—its days, its months, its twisted sense of time. Wolf stood silently, absorbing every detail, every deviation from the logic of his old world.
"So a month is sixty days now…" He murmured, scratching the back of his neck.
"At least you kept the twelve. Could've been worse, I guess."
She smiled faintly, tilting her head.
"You adapt quickly."
"It's that or die slow," he replied with a faint grin, the line between jest and truth blurred.
When the lesson ended, he bid her a brief farewell and set off toward the ore mines, entering the cavernous passage that led to the iron door room—the hidden room where Leo worked.
The air inside was heavy with metallic tangs and chemical residue.
Leo was there, sleeves rolled, eyes gleaming with a mix of exhaustion and manic focus.
Wolf stepped closer, his tone even. "You've been making progress."
Leo turned, smiling faintly. "Ah—Mister Wolf. Yes, yes! I've managed to refine the grafting ratio by three percent this week! It's still unstable but—"
Wolf raised a hand, silencing him.
"Good. Keep it that way for now. I'll have you continue alone from tomorrow. Let Lenmi assist you more in future."
"Alone?" Leo blinked, unsure.
"Yes. I want you to think without interference. Shape your results freely," Wolf said, voice low, almost soothing.
"And Leo…"
"Yes?"
Wolf's gaze sharpened, his tone a whisper edged with authority.
"Stop bringing up Teddy in your reports. Focus on your work."
Leo froze.
"Ah, I—sorry, I just—he reminds me of—"
"Doesn't matter," Wolf interrupted, his smile faint but unreadable.
"Keep your mind clear. You'll find it easier to create that way."
He could see the hesitation flicker in Leo's eyes—confusion, discomfort, faint fear.
But Wolf said nothing more, simply resting a hand on Leo's shoulder before turning to leave. The touch lingered just long enough to assert control.
That night, as he returned with Leo and the others, the camp was quiet.
He made his way to meeting tent, where the man sat over a map strewn with markers and notes.
"So?," Wolf said, stepping in.
Klion looked up, startled at first, then sighed.
"We lost two hunters to infection last week. The others are restless."
Wolf folded his arms, studying him. "How are you handling it?"
Klion's eyes flickered. "Doing what I can."
Wolf's gaze traced every movement—the man's fidgeting hand, the slight tension in his shoulders, the fleeting glance at the map as if to avoid eye contact.
He's tired. Hesitant. But still obedient enough, Wolf thought silently.
He nodded once.
"You're doing fine. Keep them stable like that."
As he left, the night wind pressed against his back, cool and whispering. He crossed the silent paths toward his quarters, opened the door, and let the darkness settle around him.
His thoughts flickered with faint amusement.
A year of this… planning, observing, shaping.
He lay down at last, one arm resting across his forehead. The faint hum of the base outside faded into the quiet rhythm of his breathing.
Yes, he thought, eyes half-closing. I can work with this.
I'll keep molding them… until they're perfect.
And thus began his quiet, methodical year-long routine—of hunting, learning, and shaping every person around him into instruments of his own making.