Sera had barely recovered from their harrowing encounter when he approached the fallen silverback's massive form. Crimson rivulets still traced paths down his muscled frame like war paint, but his eyes burned with an anticipation that could ignite forests. With practiced precision honed through countless battles, he harvested the beast's core—a magnificent orb that pulsed with silver light tinged with an ethereal blue hue, like captured moonlight bleeding into starfire.
He turned to his party, the precious core cradled in his palm like a fragment of heaven itself. The question hung unspoken in the air, heavy as storm clouds, until one by one his companions nodded their approval. The silence shattered as Sera crushed the core between his teeth without hesitation, savoring the surge of raw power that flooded through his body like molten lightning in his veins.
The familiar chime echoed in his mind, but what followed made his heart thunder against his ribs like a caged beast.
[Ding!]
[You have consumed the core of a beast with an innate skill] [Your skill Plunderer is now taking effect] [You have acquired the skill Apex Instinct C] [Apex Instinct C - When the user is under intense stress (low HP, cornered, or outnumbered), their primal instincts kick in, temporarily boosting strength, reflexes, and sensory awareness.] [Activation Trigger - HP drops below 35%, or immediate threat is detected] [Boost - +20% to strength, speed, and reflexes for 10 seconds] [Cooldown - Once every 60 seconds]
"Jackpot!" Sera screamed internally, his soul ablaze with elation that threatened to burst from his chest. Though his Ogre Chief blessing wielded devastating power, its ten-day cooldown had always gnawed at him like an infected wound. Now he possessed a backup plan—a trump card that could activate when death itself came knocking.
The group had struck gold and survived a deadly encounter that should have claimed them all. They began their journey home, supporting their wounded comrades as shadows lengthened across the forest floor like grasping fingers of approaching night.
---
Sarion sat upon his chief's throne, an imposing seat carved from the bones of ancient enemies, his chin resting on interlocked fingers as he absorbed reports from his twelve seats. The Crimson Clan's governing council bore the crushing weight of decisions that could damn or deliver their people, especially when their chief was absent from the village like a shepherd away from his flock.
"Hmmm... I see. Thank you for the briefing, Veryan." Sarion's voice carried the bone-deep weariness of leadership that aged souls faster than years. "So we have approximately forty younglings in this settlement, thirty of whom fall within the critical age range of ten to fifteen. They'll need a trainer, and I see no one more qualified than him."
The tension in the council chamber crackled like electricity before a lightning strike. Many of the seats opposed their chief's unspoken decision, though none dared voice it directly—not if they valued their tongues.
"My Chief," Kragnul spoke with the careful respect of a man walking on blade's edge, "Grimjaw may not be the best candidate for molding young minds."
"Indeed, my Chief," another seat interjected, sweat beading on his brow, "we also have girls among them."
Sarion shook his head, exhaustion bleeding into his voice from the constant political warfare that never ceased. "Enough! Grimjaw will handle the boys while Venna takes charge of the girls. I expect no further opposition to this command."
The seats grudgingly accepted their chief's decree like bitter medicine, and the meeting dissolved into an uneasy silence that pressed against their chests.
The decision had been forged in grim necessity—to secure combat education for the tribe's youth. With war looming on the horizon like storm clouds pregnant with destruction, and the ever-present possibility of attacks when the adults were away, the young ones would need to survive on their own or perish like lambs before wolves.
---
When Sera returned that evening, Sarion informed him of the upcoming training program scheduled to begin at sunrise. The young master of the ogre village went to bed that night, his mind buzzing with thoughts of the day's incredible gains, unaware that tomorrow would test him in ways he couldn't imagine.
Dawn broke crisp and clear, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold. Sera stood alongside Grimbold in a forest clearing, accompanied by ten other young ogres, all waiting for their unknown instructor. The air thrummed with nervous energy and anticipation so thick you could taste copper on your tongue.
Suddenly, leaves began cascading from above like autumn snow touched by death's breath. Looking up, they spotted a figure descending through the canopy—an ogre unlike any they had ever witnessed. Where their kind typically possessed bulky, imposing frames built like siege engines, this one moved with liquid grace, his lean form cutting through the air with the predatory elegance of a hunting panther.
He landed without disturbing even a single fallen leaf, his boots touching earth as softly as whispered prayers. His calculating gaze swept left, then right, sizing up each young ogre with the cold precision of a master executioner appraising his next victims. When his eyes locked onto Grimbold standing beside Sera, the very air seemed to recoil in terror.
In the span of a heartbeat that stretched like eternity, the instructor vanished.
Most of the younglings could barely track the blur of movement, their eyes struggling to follow the impossible speed that defied mortal comprehension. But Sera's enhanced perception caught every fluid motion, every precise step of the deadly dance unfolding before them like a symphony of violence.
The instructor materialized directly in front of Grimbold, his massive fist stopping mere inches from the terrified ogre's face. The displaced air from his strike ruffled Grimbold's hair like death's caress. Grimbold's eyes widened to impossible proportions, terror flooding his features as sweat poured down his face like a waterfall of fear. He stared directly into the abyss, and the abyss stared back with predatory interest.
But the instructor's attention had shifted to Sera, dangerous intrigue flickering in his eyes like flames behind glass. Unlike the others who trembled like leaves in a hurricane, this young ogre hadn't even flinched. Not even a muscle had twitched.
"Well," the instructor said, scratching his head with deceptive casualness that somehow made him more terrifying, "we could call that your first lesson."
He straightened, addressing the group with an authority that commanded absolute attention and brooked no defiance. "I am Grimjaw. For the next two weeks, we will forge you into something resembling warriors—or you will break trying. Our training begins with a simple exercise—we will run the perimeter of the Crimson settlement, extending to the outer borders."
The announcement struck the younglings like a thunderclap from clear skies. Panicked voices erupted from the group like a chorus of the damned.
"Not the outer borders!" one ogre cried out, his voice cracking with primal terror. "Dangerous monsters roam those lands! They feast on the bones of the unprepared!"
Even Sera's experienced group, fresh from their encounter with the silverback crazy-eyed ape, exchanged worried glances heavy with dread. The outer borders were a death sentence wrapped in beautiful scenery—a graveyard for the foolish and unprepared.
Grimjaw's laughter cut through their protests like a blade through silk, cold and sharp enough to draw blood. "Wonderful! I can see you're all properly motivated. Let's begin running, then."
---
The group had circled the settlement twice now, and most had become sluggish shadows of their former selves. This drew little to no sympathy from Grimjaw, who would brandish a wicked dagger every time one of them dared to stop, the blade gleaming with promises of pain.
"Hey you! Seems like you want to die," Grimjaw said with a smile that could make angels weep and demons flee.
The ogres had endured a week of training now, running circles around the village until their legs felt like jelly and their lungs burned like forge fires. Grimjaw felt satisfied that their stamina had been built up enough for what he was about to unleash upon them.
"Okay, okay! That's enough. Stop running for now."
The instructor approached them before halting with predatory grace. He turned to address the group, his voice carrying the weight of ancient knowledge. "There are energies in our world that the gods have blessed every living being with, and the one that resonates with we ogres is spiritual energy."
Grimjaw stretched every part of his body like a great cat preparing to pounce, then began his display. He opened his palm, and upon it, a dark flame bloomed like a flower of destruction. He shrouded his entire body in the otherworldly fire, and instead of being consumed, it was as though he became the flame itself—a living embodiment of elemental fury.
He snapped his fingers, and fire erupted from the ground like hellish geysers. The flame burned red like fresh blood, yet the grass beneath remained untouched. Another snap, and the flame shifted to blue like frozen screams. A third snap brought forth black fire that seemed to devour light itself. Finally, he snapped once more, and the flames began to consume the grass with ravenous hunger.
"This is my spirit gift—Flame Wraith. It transforms me into a near-elemental being of fire, but I can only command the flames while in this form."
Grimjaw was special in his twisted way. He loathed using his spirit gift because of his nature—he loved using blades to carve through enemies like an artist through clay, and he couldn't properly butcher anyone if they were reduced to charred crisps.
"Spirit gifts vary in types," he continued, his voice taking on the cadence of a dark sermon. "There are elementals—gifts born from one of the four fundamental elements. There are also weapon types, which are weapons bound to your very soul, extensions of your being. Finally, we have the special types—these can be anything from physical prowess to natural or reality-bending abilities. A perfect example is the chief of our tribe. His spirit ability is called God of War—he grows stronger with every blow he lands, retaining the effect even if he loses his connection to the power."
Hearing this revelation, the young ogres couldn't help but be struck with awe at the terrifying power of their chief and the potential they were about to be taught. Even Sera felt his pulse quicken with anticipation.
'I see, so spiritual energy is more of an active skill type, unlike mana which has more passive effects. This could prove invaluable—I need to absorb every word,'
Sera thought, recognizing spiritual energy as another weapon to add to his growing arsenal.
Grimjaw noticed that his entire class now hung on his every word, their attention sharp as freshly forged blades. He prepared himself to teach them how to awaken their spiritual energy—and either ascend to new heights or shatter completely in the attempt.