The standoff was absolute. At one end of the clearing, the Level 3 Weeping Shadow, a flowing, dripping mass of black ooze and raw, chaotic power. At the other, Dev, Level 4, his new black sword held steady, his soul-form leaking a steady, calm, blue mist.
The last time they had met, Dev's [Spatial Awareness] was a screaming, primitive siren of terror.
Now, at (SPI: 25), it was a crystal-clear, high-fidelity analytical tool. The terror was gone, replaced by pure, cold data. He read the creature. He could feel the thrum of its AGI, dangerously high, far faster than his own. But he could also feel its core—its (STR) and (CON) were paper-thin. They were pathetically weak, far weaker than the Level 3 Punisher he had already killed.
This wasn't a warrior. It was a glass cannon. An assassin that preyed on the weak.
The Shadow, as the established apex predator of these woods, did not tolerate a challenge. It shrieked—a high-pitched, psychic wail that scraped against Dev's "Indomitable" (RES) stat and slid off harmlessly. It moved.
It didn't charge. It flowed. Its body elongated, a black, fluid tendril that bridged the twenty-meter gap in less than a second, its (AGI) stat making it a blur to the naked eye. It was the same move that had instantly deleted the Gloom Stalker.
But Dev's (SPI: 25) saw it coming. His enhanced mind didn't just see the attack; it predicted its trajectory. He didn't have the (AGI) to out-speed it. He didn't need to.
He stood his ground, his (STR: 9) and (CON: 8) anchoring him. As the shadow-limb, sharpened to a spear-point, aimed for his chest, he didn't dodge.
He parried.
He moved his [Ebonguard Initiate's Sword] in a short, precise, brutal arc.
SHLICK.
The sound was wet, and final.
His Faction-grade blade, humming with his own strength, met the shadow-limb. There was no contest. The black steel, forged by the Ebonguard, sheared through the shadowy appendage as if it were gel.
A spray of black ooze erupted. The Weeping Shadow recoiled, its entire form spasming. It let out a high-pitched, piercing, psychic scream—not of rage, but of pain and shock.
This was new. This was a sensation it had never felt. It was a predator of the weak, a creature that killed Level 0s and 1s. Nothing in these woods fought back. Nothing hurt it.
The Shadow panicked.
Its entire, terrifying, apex-predator persona dissolved in an instant. It was a coward. It's one and only tactic—a high-speed ambush—had failed, and it had lost a limb. Its form destabilized, and it turned, its (AGI) now used for a single purpose: to flee. It flowed desperately back toward the dark, twisted trees, seeking the safety of the deep woods.
Dev looked at his Essence bar. [380/400].
He wasn't letting it go.
This wasn't a duel. It was a culling. He wasn't fighting; he was harvesting.
"No." The word was a cold puff of mist.
He pushed off the ground, his (AGI: 9) and (STR: 9) exploding in a burst of controlled power. He was a blue-misted blur, his new sword held low. He was chasing the Level 3 monster.
The Shadow was fast, but it was panicked. Its movements were erratic, desperate. Dev's (SPI: 25) read its every juke, every turn. It was predictable.
It flowed left, trying to get behind a large, bleeding tree. Dev was already there, cutting it off.
It recoiled, lashing out with its one remaining arm in a wild, clumsy swipe. Dev ducked under it, his motion fluid, and closed the distance. He was inside its guard, his body pressing against its cold, viscous form.
The monster's single red eye widened, a perfect circle of dawning horror.
Dev raised his black sword with both hands, his (STR: 9) giving him effortless power. He plunged it, hilt-deep, directly into the burning crimson eye, shattering the creature's core.
The Shadow froze. The red light died. The high-pitched, psychic wail cut off into a deafening silence.
It didn't just fall. It imploded, dissolving into a massive, violent spray of black mist, which was instantly, hungrily, drawn into Dev's soul-form.
A flood of power, far greater than any Level 1 kill, washed over him. It was warm, intoxicating, and overwhelming.
[+150 Lesser Soul-Essence]
[Lesser Soul-Essence: 530/400]
[SOUL-ESSENCE THRESHOLD MET. LEVEL UP!]
[HOST STATUS: UPDATED]
[Name: Dev]
[Level: 5]
[Faction: Ebonguard (Initiate)]
[Title: 'Indomitable']
[Sync Rate: 5.0%]
[STR: 11 (+2)] [CON: 10 (+2)]
[AGI: 11 (+2)] [SPI: 29 (+4)]
[RES: 28 (+4)]
[Nexus Shards: 14]
[Lesser Soul-Essence: 130/500]
The feeling of the level-up was immense, a shockwave of pure strength settling into his very being. He had done it. He had conquered the nursery.
The moment the new stats finalized, a new prompt, stark and red, overrode everything.
[LEVEL 5 DETECTED. INITIATE STATUS CONFIRMED.]
[FACTION PROTOCOL: 11-ALPHA ACTIVATED.]
[YOU ARE RECALLED TO THE EBONGUARD HUB.]
[YOUR NEXT DEPLOYMENT IS READY.]
Before he could even savor the victory, the world tore away. The Weeping Woods, the black ooze, his new sword—all of it vanished as he was yanked, hard, back to the waking world.
Dev woke up with a gasp.
It wasn't a gentle return. It was a jolt, a violent slam, as if his newly-expanded Level 5 soul was being forced into a physical container that was suddenly, painfully, too small.
He felt... wrong. Not in pain. Just... wrong. He felt dense. Heavy. His skin was tight.
He threw his blanket off and stumbled out of bed, a strange, new power thrumming under his skin. He didn't just walk to the mirror. He collided with the reality of his own bathroom, his new (AGI: 11) making his old movements clumsy and oversized. He gripped the sink, his (STR: 11) fingers creaking the porcelain.
He looked up. And he flinched.
The person looking back was not him.
The 4% Sync Rate had healed his bruises.
The 5% Sync Rate had reforged his body.
The skinny, 120-pound, hollow-chested "victim" was gone. Erased.
The stranger in the mirror was an inch, maybe two, taller. His shoulders were broader. His (STR: 11) and (CON: 10) stats, Synced at 5%, had saturated his frame with lean, dense, functional muscle. He wasn't a bodybuilder. He was a predator. Wiry, efficient, and coiled. His old uniform shirt, when he'd put it on, would be tight across the chest, the sleeves too short.
His face was the most profound change. The last traces of "Dev" were gone. The childish roundness, the victim's soft jawline—all of it had been sharpened, hardened. His jaw was clearer, his cheekbones more defined, his eyes... his eyes were the cold, (SPI: 29) windows of the hunter who had just executed a Level 3 monster.
He looked like an older, more dangerous, and completely unfamiliar stranger.
He went to school.
The walk was a revelation. The world felt... small. Slow. He felt the gazes of everyone, his [Spatial Awareness] a constant, humming sphere.
When he walked through the school gates, the chattering crowd felt his presence. It wasn't just his new body. It was his aura. Students unconsciously moved out of his path.
Devis was in class, his arm in a cheap black sling—a pathetic, fake cast to explain away the humiliation of being thrown to the floor. He was laughing, posturing for his crew, until the moment Dev walked into the classroom.
Devis's laughter died in his throat. He paled. He saw Dev—the new, taller, broader, different Dev—and he physically shrank in his seat, turning his head, refusing to make eye contact.
The "Lookism" plot was over. The physical hierarchy of the school had been inverted. The apex predator had been replaced.
Dev sat down, his new frame feeling strange and oversized in the small desk. He ignored the whispers. He ignored the stares. He was just waiting for this "day" part to be over.
The bell rang. He stood, and she was there.
Mina. She'd been waiting. She wasn't at her desk. She was standing in the aisle, blocking his path. She wasn't scared of him. She was rigid with a cold, terrified determination.
"We need to talk," she said, her voice low and shaking.
Dev just looked at her. She was a 'non-hostile.' But she was an 'obstacle.'
"Now," she insisted. She led him, not to a crowded hallway, but to the empty stairwell. The moment they were alone, she turned on him, her back to the wall.
She was holding a crumpled piece of paper. The P.E. printout from yesterday.
"I know," she said, her voice a strained whisper.
Dev just watched her. His (SPI: 29) analyzed her raised heart rate, the tremor in her hands, the absolute, cold certainty in her eyes.
"You're not him," she stated. She held up the paper like a cross. "I checked. Dev was 5'6". He was 120 pounds. He couldn't do one pull-up. He was weak."
Her eyes scanned his new, filled-out frame, the way the shirt pulled tight across his shoulders.
"Look at you," she whispered, a new, frantic terror in her voice. "You're... different. You're taller. You're... strong. You healed in a day. You're not Dev."
She took a shaky breath, her eyes locking on his.
"Who are you?"
Dev looked at the meaningless paper. He looked at her, this terrified, hyper-analytical 'watcher.' He processed the question. He saw no reason to lie, and no reason to tell the truth.
He gave her the only answer that mattered. A cold, ambiguous, and 100% true statement.
"You're right," he said, his voice flat and dead. "He's not."