The creature—the Graah-Bull—stomped the ground with a burning rage.
Its body was massive like a living rock; its breath was a snort that shook the dead leaves of the forest.
From its mouth dripped a thick, black liquid like poison.
Astryan could only stare, his legs trembling, his body still reeling from the new memories forcing their way into his head.
His blood felt heavier than the world.
The creature crouched…
readied its horns…
and then charged.
"ASTRYAN, STAND DOWN!"
The voice came from behind him—heavy, cold, oppressive.
The old man finally moved.
Eras Vargast.
He stepped forward unhurriedly, the old wooden staff in his hand changing shape—tiny cracks of light running along the shaft, like wind sharpening a blade.
In an instant, the sky seemed to be sliced open.
SSSHHHH—RAAAAK!
Eras swung his staff as if slashing weeds.
But the wind broke with the movement, forming a thin line—sharp, elongated—that split the forest into two lines of dead air.
The wind slash struck the Graah-Bull.
One second, the creature was still running.
In the next…
Its body was torn apart.
From horns to belly.
From belly to tail.
It was as if the world had split it in a perfectly straight line.
There was no scream.
Only the thump of the now-separated body falling, spewing black blood that was immediately absorbed by the red earth.
The wind fell silent again.
The forest was dark again.
And the Graah-Bull—the creature that had nearly finished Astryan off—lay as two rotting, nameless pieces of meat.
Eras didn't look at the carcass.
He simply snorted at Astryan.
His tone was filled with impatience, sarcasm, and… a hint of disgust.
"Hmph. Just a second-tier monster."
"Why are you having trouble? Do you want to die a fool?"
Astryan fell silent, swallowing air that felt like daggers.
His body was still shaking.
His head throbbed from the collision of two worlds—his old world, and the memories of the original Astryan that poured in like a black flood without a door.
"I… I'm not used to it," he whispered, trying to keep himself from falling to his knees.
Eras twirled his staff, staring at him with pitiless eyes.
"Not used to it?"
"Then get used to it quickly. This world doesn't wait for the weak."
He took a step closer.
His breath was cold like the mist of the death season.
"Astryan should have been able to kill three Graah-Bulls alone."
"So what are you? His shadow? A remnant of himself?"
Astryan fell silent.
He wasn't Astryan.
But this body was Astryan.
And those memories—that world—were forcing him to become someone he wasn't.
Eras slapped Astryan hard on the shoulder, making him stagger.
> "Get up. The training isn't over yet."
"Don't make me regret saving you."
The old man walked away without looking back.
The wind fluttered the hem of his robe like the wings of a raven preparing to take flight.
Astryan stared at the perfectly severed monster carcass.
One slash.
One gust.
One wind technique.
If Eras had been a second slower… he would have been reduced to shards of bone.
This world…
is crueler than any nightmare.
Astryan clenched his fists—slowly, unsteadily, but full of determination born of fear.
> "If I must live as Astryan…"
"Then I must learn to be someone even monsters fear to approach."
He followed Eras's footsteps, entering the forest that resembled the jaws of an ancient creature.