The morning began like an inhale before a storm — too still, too clean, as if the air itself held its breath in anticipation.
A faint frost clung to the wooden walls of Wolf's house, and the smoke from his small hearth drifted upward in thin, twisting streams that vanished before reaching the ceiling.
Wolf woke before dawn, eyes opening not from rest but from habit — the kind that comes from months of calculation, waiting, and the quiet friction of restrained intent. His breath clouded faintly in the air as he rose. He showered in silence, the cold water biting against his skin, sharp enough to keep his thoughts aligned.
He dressed with deliberate precision — a gray shirt first, smooth and tightly fit; then the long black coat, its hem brushing his knees like a shadow with weight. The black, thick pants followed, tucked into worn boots. His hands moved to his waist, fastening the belt that held both saber and wakizashi — twin edges that whispered familiarity against his side.
In his right pocket, his fingers brushed over the Talisman of the First Breath.
Finally, he pulled on his slick black leather gauntlets, flexing his fingers, feeling the soft groan of leather stretching. His reflection in the faint windowlight was pale and sharp — eyes that gleamed a shade too calm for what was about to happen.
Outside, the camp was half-awake. Smoke rose from cooking fires. The air was crisp and gray, the clouds still heavy with the memory of dawn.
Wolf stood before his house for a brief moment — eyes trailing up the simple walls, the faint marks on the doorframe, the quiet emptiness that lingered inside.
A flicker of something unreadable passed his face, but he looked away before it could settle.
Then, he started walking — long, unhurried strides toward the center of camp.
The sound of gravel crunched beneath his boots. A few soldiers, half-dressed and still groggy, looked up at him from their morning routines. Wolf stopped in the middle of the square, turned toward the crowd, and let his voice rip through the air.
"Hey!" His voice thundered across the cold stillness.
"If you want to rescue Leo—" he paused, a faint grin cutting the corner of his mouth, "—then come to the deep forest. I'll be waiting for you all."
The words sliced through the morning like a blade through fog.
Murmurs rose instantly — confusion, fear, and the shuffling of half-awake men suddenly alert. A
few dropped their tools; one man cursed under his breath.
Wolf didn't stay to watch.
He turned, coat swaying sharply behind him, and strode through the narrow path toward Klion's quarters. The air around him seemed to thicken — a strange, deliberate quiet as if the camp itself understood what was about to unfold.
He reached the door and knocked — once, twice. Hard, enough to rattle the hinges.
It opened almost immediately. Klion stood there, already awake, his expression carved from irritation and fatigue. His dark hair was tied back loosely, eyes bloodshot, his voice rough but cutting.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded, his tone sharp, raw with restrained hostility.
Wolf's lips curved slightly — not into a smile, but something colder.
"Well," he said softly, his voice smooth like steel drawn halfway from its sheath, "I came to reveal the secret you've been dying to know."
Klion's jaw tightened.
"What secret?"
Wolf leaned slightly closer, his gaze steady, unreadable.
"That secret," he said, voice dropping low, "is that only those who stay within the statue's area will move on to the next stage."
Klion froze.
His eyes widened, just slightly — shock flickering beneath the weight of his composure.
But before he could react, before his instincts caught up with his thoughts, Wolf had already turned around, stepped back, and pulled the door shut with a click.The sound echoed through the wooden walls.
Klion's voice followed, half-shouted through clenched teeth.
"Is that really—ah, fuck it doesn't matter now…"
He stood there, running a hand down his face, breathing through his nose.
"Damn it, Wolf," he muttered. "What the hell are you planning?"
But Wolf was already gone — boots striking the dirt path, moving fast, steady, purposeful. His breath steamed in the cold air as the trees began to rise around him — the line between camp and forest blurring into silence and shadow. The air grew heavy with moss and old bark.
He passed through the deeper woods where the light was thin and green, until he reached the clearing — the place of the statue, where Lamentia had been sealed. The ancient stone figure stood silent.
Mist curled faintly at its base like restless ghosts.
Wolf stopped before it and gave a single nod toward the statue — to her — the faintest acknowledgment of what had been set in motion.
Then came the sound of quick steps — light, sharp, familiar. He turned slightly.
Lenmi ran toward him, her movements small but controlled, her short dress fluttering faintly in the wind. Her eyes were bright with obedience, almost too bright. She stopped a few steps before him and bowed her head slightly.
"Follow my order," Wolf said, his tone even, but his gaze unwavering.
"Understood, master," Lenmi replied softly, her voice steady, almost emotionless — yet beneath it, there was a kind of trembling, like a restrained wire ready to hum.
Behind her, the air shimmered faintly — four large homunculus emerging from the trees, their forms half-flesh, half-metal, their movements too smooth to be natural. The fifth, smaller and lighter, hovered in the air like a strange winged creature — somewhere between a bird and a dog, its eyes glowing faint blue.
Wolf brushed a hand through his hair — a small gesture to steady himself. Then he drew a long breath and pulled his saber from his side. The blade caught the morning light, cold and bright.
He smiled faintly, eyes narrowing.
"So," he murmured, almost to himself, "it's finally buffet time."
That thought — the words Silent Partner — rose unbidden in his mind, a label, a whisper, something both distant and intimate.
He liked the sound of it.
The smile lingered on his face as he opened his status window one last time.
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
Level: 27
Stats:
STR: 37 (+1) | SPD: 26 | AGI: 25 | STA: 24 | END: 20 (+3) | POW: 27 | LUCK: 16
Mental Stats:
INT: 23 (+13) | CHA: 20 (+13) | FORTITUDE: 20 | EVILNESS: 20 (+14)
Alignment: Evil
Active Skills: Red Tide, Thousand-Kill Toll, Kinetic Accumulation, I-SCS, Mind Erosion
Passive Skills: Adaptive Nutrition, Artisan's Instinct, Analytic Sight, Flawless Strike
He exhaled slowly. "Hmm…"His eyes scanned the floating text. "Fatemaker's Logic effect…" he muttered.
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.
High chance my ass…
He let out a short laugh.
"I've been hunting every damn day and got only ten points. Maybe my luck really is shit. Although at least the point that I gain from it can be put in mental stats…"
His thumb flicked through the rest — I-SCS, Integrated survival combat system level one, Thousand-Kill Toll and Kinetic Accumulation both level two now. "At least those are improving," he murmured. "Ether cost down, efficiency up. Analytic Sight… level two now. No more re-reveals, that's nice."
Then he looked at the last one — Flawless Strike. He smiled wider, more genuine this time.
"Million swings for one skill. Worth it." He muttered it under his breath as if repeating an old mantra. The memory of training flickered behind his eyes — breath control, perfect rhythm, suppressing intent until the blade became invisible even in motion.
Every movement, every word now was lined with stillness — the kind before collapse.
He heard footsteps — several, slow and cautious — drawing nearer. Then a faint metallic flutter. The small flying homunculus landed beside him, its limbs folding as it looked up.
Wolf turned his head slightly toward it, voice calm.
"Get behind the statue."
The creature gave a quick nod, wings flickering once before it darted back, circling Lenmi as she stood ready, already half-hidden in the mist. Her hands moved subtly, fingers twitching in small, intricate gestures as the homunculus around her adjusted their stance.
The sound of approach grew clearer — heavy steps breaking through fallen leaves.
Wolf's eyes lifted toward the treeline. Shadows began to form — figures moving through the mist.
The first was Klion, his expression set in cold resolve, his coat fluttering faintly with his stride.
Beside him walked Teddy, jaw tight, hand hovering over his weapon. Behind them followed others — the remnants of their little resistance, drawn by pride, fear, and the illusion of justice.
Wolf exhaled once, steady.
He tilted his head slightly — like a man greeting guests he'd long been expecting.
"Before something happens… I must ask you this."
He leaned forward fractionally, his gaze sweeping over the ring of faces, each one reflecting a mix of hostility and creeping dread. Then Wolf's tone changed. Small, dry.
"Are you ready to die?"
Silence was the only reply—a profound, suffocating void punctuated only by the subtle clink of shifting armor and the ragged intakes of panicked breath.
Wolf did not wait for answers. He let out a long, theatrical sigh as though this were the last thing on the morning's agenda.
He straightened his back, and the unsettling smile returned, wider now, yet colder.
"Let's start this buffet then."
The last syllable was a whisper that dissolved instantly into a sonic boom of movement.
He was gone.
Wolf moved as if his body were merely a hinge: fluid, economical, without flourish. The saber came up and cut the air.
Chaos answered.
People staggered into motion, panic surfacing like a bad taste. A low, unified moan of terror tore through the group, quickly followed by the ragged, uncoordinated sounds of desperate steel scraping against steel.
"Do Not Panic!"
Klion's shout cracked the air, every syllable sharpened by command. His voice was laced with a desperate, authoritative bellow, thick and solid enough to momentarily pierce the rising hysteria.
"Tighten your grips! We will kill this man and rescue Leo! This man has gone insane! If we do not kill him here, he will be our biggest threat! Kill that man!"
Despite Wolf's instantaneous attack, Klion's sheer willpower managed to stabilize the surrounding perimeter. The elite forces tightened their shield wall, trying to reduce the surface area Wolf could attack.
For a heartbeat it looked like discipline might hold.
But then, the air ruptured.
Before they could even fully process Klion's commands, they felt an unbearable, vice-like constriction across their chests and limbs. Their muscles screamed, their armor felt three times heavier, and their lungs fought against a newly viscous atmosphere.
It was Lementia's doing!
A dense weave of ether condensed and poured across the field, not visible like smoke but thick with the feel of iron and breath. Movement in the mist slowed and thickened the way water slows a falling leaf.
Men blinked, reflexes chewed by the world suddenly heavier. Their limbs obeyed more sluggishly than they had a moment before.
Wolf didn't hesitate. He let the saber flow with great precision. He felt the weak points, the subtle gap where the breastplate met the gorget, the thin webbing of cartilage protecting the kidneys, the soft tissue behind the knee joint.
The crowd responded as terror breeds: some lunged, some froze, some tried to circle.
Those who moved as a unit found themselves losing cohesion under the pressure of Wolf's speed.
The area around him immediately became covered in a dark red haze—a thin, dense fog that seemed to absorb the light, turning the world into a muted, blood-soaked tableau. His expression was completely gone, replaced by a terrifying, porcelain-smooth neutrality. His eyes, however, were not neutral. They shone with a terrifying, primal bright red glow, his pupils reduced to pinpricks.
This was his first active skill: Red Tide!
As he moved, the saber sang a high-pitched, delirious note, a hymn to destruction.
Each swing drew stamina from those it struck and fed it back like a siphon. Panic multiplied — not just fear but illusions, whispers at the edges of sight.
People staggered, voices unspooled into gasps and hoarse prayers. Some fled; others rose and stumbled back into the line — loyal or fearful, it no longer mattered.
Wolf moved through it all with the steady cruelty of a blade through silk. He targeted the fulcrums of defense — a shield arm, a planted foot, men's chest when they overcommitted — aiming to snap formations and stop coordinated responses before they could begin.
Each parry he made felt like the world was yielding a little more to his rhythm. Each successful strike intensified the mist, made the hearts around him pound like trapped animals.
Klion barked again and again, regrouping, attempting to form a containment wedge. Teddy swung with brute force, trying to buy time with impact.
Men collided with one another in the panic, tripping, clutching weapons that no longer seemed like allies but like useless promises.
With every kill, the red tide intensified. The thin, dense fog around him rapidly concentrated, thickening to the point of being almost a viscous liquid that clung to him and his blade.
He tasted the surge of power, the simple arithmetic of leverage and fear.
The collective of his slain foes fueled his stamina, pushing him beyond mortal limits, while the fear, panic, and hallucinations he induced created openings where none should exist. Soldiers screamed, seeing their comrades' faces superimposed onto Wolf's, or witnessing the ground open up beneath them. They began to fight phantom enemies, their self-preservation crumbling into madness.
He felt greedy and clever and hungry.
This was art.
Wolf continued to move with this murderous elegance, ensuring that every enemy fell in a single, devastating strike to their most critical weak point. Bone was shattered, organs were sliced, and bodies were instantly mutilated by the explosive transfer of power. He intended to kill them all in one perfect sequence.
He intended to slaughter a million people in this two minutes!