The moment Ethan stepped past the last of the obsidian-barked trees and into the Gloomwood proper, the atmosphere changed.
The warmth of the twin suns vanished, choked out by a dense, overlapping canopy of crystalline leaves that cast the forest floor in a perpetual, eerie twilight.
The air grew heavy and cold, carrying the scent of rot and damp soil.
The nervous chatter of the waypoint faded behind him, replaced by an unnerving silence broken only by the drip of moisture from unseen branches and the scuttling of things in the undergrowth.
A stark, blood-red notification flashed in his vision, a final warning.
[You have entered the Gloomwood.]
[The Protection Period does not prevent conflict between Participants in this area. Be vigilant.]
"Charming," Ethan muttered, his grip tightening on his sword.
So, not only did he have to worry about monsters with a taste for human flesh, but also any of the 99,999 other terrified lottery winners who decided his sword looked better in their hands.
The thought didn't scare him as much as it focused him.
Other players were just high-level monsters with better loot tables.
He moved slowly, his senses on high alert.
He was putting his theory to the test: that overwhelming power was the only real safety in this world.
But theory was one thing; a pincer through the sternum was another.
He wasn't going to be the next Marcus Lee.
He used his [Scrutiny] skill constantly, scanning everything.
The trees, the rocks, the strange, glowing fungi.
Most were mundane, but the skill gave him a new layer of perception, a faint hum of information that made the world feel less random, more… solvable.
After ten minutes of careful stalking, he found his first target.
It was hunched over a pile of what looked like cracked bones, tearing at them with a sharp beak.
A Stonehide Cockatrice.
It was a grotesque fusion of a featherless, scaly chicken and a komodo dragon, its hide the colour and texture of rough granite. Its beady, malevolent eyes scanned its surroundings as it ate.
Ethan dropped into a crouch behind a moss-covered log, his heart starting to beat a little faster.
He ran [Scrutiny] on the creature.
[Stonehide Cockatrice]
[Level: 1]
[Rank: Iron]
[HP: 150/150]
[Attack: 15]
[Defense: 10]
[A territorial creature known for its incredibly tough hide. Its beak and talons can shred unprotected flesh with ease. Weakness: The softer flesh at its neck and joints.]
150 HP. 10 Defense. His base attack was 10, plus 30 from his sword, for a total of 40.
With its 10 Defense, each of his hits would do 30 damage.
Five clean hits to kill it. Less, if the Corrosive Wound triggered.
His own HP was 100, his defense a laughable 5.
Its 15 Attack meant each of its hits would deal 10 damage to him.
He could take ten hits. In theory.
"Okay, Graves," he breathed, his voice a low whisper.
"Don't be an idiot. Don't be Marcus."
He waited. Patience.
The Cockatrice finished its meal and let out a guttural squawk, turning its head.
That was his moment. The patch of scaly flesh on its neck was exposed.
He exploded from his cover.
The soft moss absorbed the sound of his footsteps.
He closed the ten yards between them in a flash, the world narrowing to a single point: the vulnerable spot on the monster's neck.
He put all his weight behind the swing, the wind shrieking past his ears as he brought the evolved blade around in a vicious arc.
CLANG!
A spray of sparks erupted as the sword connected, but not with flesh.
The Cockatrice had moved at the last second, and his blade had glanced off the stone-like plates on its back.
The impact jarred his arm to the shoulder, and a red [-5 Durability] tag flashed over his sword's icon.
The monster let out an enraged shriek that echoed through the twilight woods.
It spun around, its movements shockingly fast for its size, and lunged.
Ethan barely had time to throw himself backward, landing clumsily in the dirt as razor-sharp talons raked the air where his chest had been.
The ground trembled as the beast charged again. There was no time for finesse.
Ethan scrambled to his feet, adrenaline singing in his veins.
This wasn't a clean, calculated assassination anymore. It was a brawl.
The Cockatrice swiped with its beak, a hammering blow meant to crush his skull.
Ethan ducked under it, the wind of its passage ruffling his hair.
He stabbed forward, aiming for the creature's leg joint.
BOOM!
This time, the blade hit home. There was no clang, only the satisfying, wet tear of metal parting flesh.
The sword punched through the softer scales, and a system notification flared in his vision, a beautiful sight.
[Critical Hit! You have dealt 60 damage!]
[Corrosive Wound has been applied!]
[-5 HP] [-5 HP] [-5 HP]
The Cockatrice howled in pain and fury, a bubbling green acid now sizzling on its leg, eating away at its flesh.
Its HP bar was dropping steadily. 150… 90… 85… 80…
It went berserk. It forgot defense, forgot tactics, and just threw itself at him, a whirlwind of beak, talons, and stony hide.
Ethan was forced onto the defensive, backpedaling and weaving, his evolved sword now just a tool to parry and deflect.
A sharp talon caught his arm, tearing through his hoodie and drawing a line of fire across his skin.
[-10 HP]
The pain was sharp, real.
It wasn't a red number on a screen; it was a hot, searing agony that made his arm spasm.
He grit his teeth. His HP was 90/100. The poison was still ticking away on the monster. 75… 70… 65…
He needed to end it.
He saw his opening. The creature, enraged and clumsy, overextended with another beak strike.
Ethan didn't dodge back.
He lunged forward, ducking under the attack and thrusting his sword with every ounce of his strength straight up into the monster's exposed underbelly.
The shriek of wind from his lunge was cut short by a sickening, wet CRUNCH.
The steel blade plunged deep into the Cockatrice's torso.
It shuddered, its limbs locking up.
A final, gurgling squawk escaped its beak before it crashed to the ground, twitching once before going still.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Ethan stood panting, his arm screaming in pain, his body slick with a mixture of sweat and monster blood.
He had done it. His first kill. The relief was so profound it almost buckled his knees.
Then, the chime of the System, the sweetest sound he had ever heard.
[You have slain a Level 1 Stonehide Cockatrice!]
[You have earned 10 EXP.]
[Your talent, Maximum Evolution, has extracted the target's life force. You have earned 3 Primal Essence.]
A small, glowing orb of light floated up from the corpse and shot into his chest, replenishing his spent energy.
His Primal Essence was now 102. It wasn't much, but it was earned. It was proof that his method worked.
Then came the final notification.
[You have obtained a loot drop: Crude Linen Robe.]
A flimsy, beige-coloured robe materialized on top of the corpse, looking utterly pathetic.
Ethan picked it up, a grim smile spreading across his face.
[Crude Linen Robe]
[Rank: Crude]
[Defense: +2]
[Durability: 20/20]
[It's better than being naked. Barely.]
To anyone else, it was vendor trash. A joke.
But to Ethan, looking at the tattered cloth, it was the key to the next stage of his ascent. It was another target. Another evolution.
"From a hoodie to hobo chic," he chuckled, the dark humor a welcome release.
"Time for another upgrade."
He was no longer just a survivor. He was a hunter. And the Gloomwood was his hunting ground.