The transition was like being dunked into a vat of ice water.
Narin’s eyes focused.
The gray screen hovering before him stabilized, its surface smooth and emotionless, yet heavy with intent.
[ Challenge: 1 ]
The title alone carried weight.
Below it, the description unfolded line by line.
[ Description: You are in a prison. The iron door to the surface is locked. You must hunt an Iron Rat. Within the teeth is the door code required for escape. ]
[ Mission to complete challenge: Escape the prison. ]
“…I see,” Narin murmured.
His voice echoed faintly, swallowed quickly by the space around him.
Before his eyes could fully adjust to his surroundings, his nose had already delivered the verdict.
The stench hit him like a physical blow.
The air had a texture. It was a thick, suffocating blanket of old blood mixed with damp stone and something sour—organic, long-decayed, layered over itself again and again.
Narin’s brows knit together as he inhaled sharply, then immediately regretted it.
“Ugh…”
He turned his face slightly, breathing through his mouth now, chest rising and falling more deliberately.
“It’s no wonder people give up the moment they can,” he muttered quietly.
The prison revealed itself slowly as his eyes tracked the space.
Rough stone walls slick with moisture. Rusted iron bars embedded into the masonry, bent in places as if something had once tried—desperately—to claw its way out. The floor was uneven, stained dark in patches he didn’t care to identify.
Chains lay coiled near one corner, their metal eaten away by time and neglect.
No immediate movement. No sudden threats.
After a careful, methodical scan—head turning slightly, shoulders loose but ready—Narin confirmed one thing.
For now, he was safe.
A new notification chimed into existence.
[ Your Starter Pack has arrived. ]
[ Open your inventory to receive the items and proceed with the challenge. ]
Narin let out a short, dry laugh.
“Of course it has.”
With a practiced thought, he opened his inventory.
Light shimmered beside him as the items materialized.
He reached first for the Omni-Goggles.
The frame was lighter than he expected. Sleek. Practical. He slid them on, the lenses settling comfortably over his eyes as a faint hum vibrated through his skull.
Next, the Mana Ring.
Cool metal brushed against his skin as he slipped it onto his right hand. It fit perfectly, snug without constriction, as if it had been made with him in mind.
He flexed his fingers once.
“…I look like a middle-aged man trying too hard at a tech convention,” he said under his breath, lips twitching. “But if it works, it works.”
Then his expression sharpened.
“More importantly—”
His voice rose slightly, firm with intent.
“Status window.”
The world shimmered.
A translucent panel unfolded before him, text crisp and unmistakable.
Name: Narin Wong-sura
Age: 42
Class: –
Level: 1
Physical Stats:
Strength (STR): 13
Agility (AGI): 10
Endurance (END): 18
Vitality (VIT): 15
Mental Stats:
Mana (MP): 17
Willpower (WILL): 18
Luck (LUK): 10
Remaining Points: 0
Passive Skills (P): –
Active Skills (A): –
Narin studied the screen carefully.
His gaze moved slowly, deliberately, from top to bottom.
Then he exhaled.
“…Good,” he said quietly.
At least my stats aren’t terrible.
His thoughts organized themselves automatically, the way they always did when faced with new information.
Average starting stats were ten.
Twenty was considered exceptional at the beginning.
STR, END, VIT—all above average.
That’s probably from keeping myself fit all these years.
A small, genuine smile appeared.
He rolled up one sleeve and flexed his arm, lean muscle tightening beneath the skin—not bulky, but dense, disciplined.
“Hah,” he murmured with quiet satisfaction.
Not a disappointment after all those morning sessions.
He rolled the sleeve back down and continued reviewing.
AGI and LUK were average.
They were acceptable.
The mental stats, though…
MP at 17.
WILL at 18.
Better than he’d expected.
He recalled the definitions instinctively.
Strength—raw muscle force.
Agility—speed, reflexes, balance.
Endurance—the ability to withstand fatigue, injury, and environmental debuffs like heat or cold.
Vitality—wound regeneration speed, bone and muscle density.
Then the mental side.
Mana—the spiritual energy fueling skills.
Willpower—the strength of the mind, resistance against domination and mental interference.
Luck—the invisible factor influencing success rates: rare drops, critical hits, last-second escapes.
“…At least none of them are below average,” he said softly.
That alone was a blessing.
Narin lowered the screen with a thought and slowly shrugged his backpack off, letting it rest against the cold stone floor.
I’m not really that strong physically. He admitted to himself.
Not crazy strong.
But it was good enough.
His gaze drifted inward, analytical.
I don’t know if having good MP at the start will really help me.
The theory was clear.
Mana was linked to the soul.
Exhaust it completely, and you die.
And beyond that, both spells and magic drained willpower heavily.
He frowned slightly.
What’s the difference again…?
He recalled it clearly.
Spells were structured—pre-calculated sequences designed to synchronize the caster's breath with the mana flow. It was the language of precision: powerful and reliable, but unforgivingly slow. A single misstep in the sequence meant a failed calculation, or worse, a feedback loop.
Magic, on the other hand, was raw.
Direct manipulation of mana through will and imagination.
Flexible. Adaptive. Dangerous.
A fireball spell had a fixed trajectory, power, and shape.
But magic?
You could bend it. Twist it. Change its pace, its force, its direction mid-action.
The price was steep.
Massive mana consumption and severe mental strain.
Using it recklessly could shatter your focus—or worse.
Still…
Narin’s eyes narrowed slightly.
It’s not completely useless at an early stage like this.
Decision made, he reached into his pack and retrieved one of the kitchen knives. The familiar weight grounded him instantly.
He closed the backpack, hoisted it onto his shoulders, and tightened the straps.
The knife settled naturally into his right hand.
His posture shifted—not aggressive, but ready.
“Alright,” Narin said softly to himself.
A small encouragement.
A promise.
“Let’s go.”
Narin descended slowly, every step measured, every breath kept shallow on purpose.
The prison opened up and tightened unpredictably, like some enormous beast inhaling and exhaling around him. One moment the corridor widened into a hall with a ceiling so high his Omni-Goggles struggled to read its edges, the next it strangled him into narrow stone passages where his shoulders nearly brushed the damp walls. Moss clung to the cracks like old scars, and rusty chains hung slack, swaying slightly though there was no wind.
Yeah. Baseball bat would’ve been suicide here.
He adjusted his grip on the kitchen knife, blade angled down, wrist loose but ready. His posture changed without him consciously deciding—knees bent, weight rolling softly from heel to toe. Years of commuting crowds, tight elevators, and late-night city walks had trained his body more than he ever gave himself credit for.
Then the thought hit him.
It’d be good if I could switch weapons freely and quickly…
The inventory sensation brushed against his mind, faint but present, like a pressure behind the eyes.
“Oh. Right.”
He froze mid-step, then winced.
“…I’m really not ready for this. Forty-two and learning fantasy survival basics.”
He retreated back toward the entrance chamber, movements quick but controlled, shoulders tight with embarrassment even though no one was there to see it.
The stone floor was colder here, the air less foul—still rotten, but not actively hostile.
Narin knelt and shrugged off the heavy backpack with a muted thud. He exhaled, rolled his shoulders once, then opened his inventory fully.
A translucent grid unfolded in his mind—clean, clinical. Fifty slots.
“Okay… let’s organize you properly.”
One by one, he stored his equipment. Knives first—three kitchen knives slid into the first slots, followed by the baseball bat. The sensation of the items leaving his hands wasn’t physical so much as conceptual, like letting go of an idea. Then the rest: sedatives, painkillers, ammonia, rope, notebook and pen, mirror, LifeStraw, deodorant spray, first aid box, pocket watch, power banks, backpack, phone.
15 slots occupied.
“…That’s actually not bad.”
He rubbed his palms together, the sound faint in the cavernous room.
“Alright. Let’s try it.”
Narin focused.
Inventory.
The knife appeared in his hand instantly—no weight shift, no delay. He blinked, then willed the bat instead.
For a split second, his hand was empty.
His heart jumped.
Then the bat slammed into his grip.
“…That timing is awful.”
He tested it again. Knife to bat. Bat to knife. Each switch left a heartbeat of vulnerability, a moment where his hand was nothing but flesh and instinct.
His jaw tightened.
“Okay. So—rule one.”
He lifted the knife, then released it deliberately, letting it drop—not to the floor, but straight into the inventory. At the same time, his right hand reached.
The bat snapped into place.
His eyes widened.
“…Oh. That’s better.”
He practiced again. Release. Reach. Catch. Over and over.
His muscle memory formed quickly, sweat gathering at his temples despite the cold.
He refined the rhythm until it became one continuous motion—drop and grab, empty and full collapsing into a single beat.
This might actually save my life.
Satisfied—as satisfied as one could be in a death-prison—he stored the bat once more, then drew it again, this time keeping it in hand.
“Alright. No more stalling.”
With the bat resting against his shoulder and his knife a thought away, Narin resumed his descent.
The deeper he went, the worse the smell became. Rot layered over rust, waste over decay. His nose burned, eyes stinging, breath shallow. He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to gag.
“No wonder people give up,” he muttered under his breath. “This place alone could kill you.”
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The prison darkened until even his goggles struggled—but then the thermal overlay kicked in. The world reassembled itself in shades of red, orange, and sickly yellow. Cold stone bled blue. His own hands glowed faintly.
Suddenly, Narin froze, his heart slamming against his ribs.
"You've got to be kidding me," he hissed, a rare curse word almost escaping his lips.
Heat signatures—humanoid. Multiple.
He eased forward until the corridor opened into a larger space.
What he saw made the word slip out before he could stop it.
“…Shit.”
Skeletons.
Not bare, rattling bones—but armored. Rusted breastplates fused to rib cages, helmets cracked but still intact. Their joints creaked as they moved, patrolling with an eerie, methodical rhythm. Old wardens, by the look of their insignia—symbols worn down by time but unmistakably authoritative.
Narin’s teeth ground together.
“So it’s not just rats. Of course it’s not just rats.”
He slowly crouched, keeping his silhouette low, then reached into his inventory and pulled out his empty grimoire and pen. His hands shook slightly as he began to write, eyes flicking constantly between page and patrol routes.
Skeleton Warden.
– Humanoid undead
– Armored
– Movement: Slow, consistent patrol patterns
– Awareness: Unknown
“This system,” he whispered angrily, pen scratching harder than necessary, “is really trying to kill me, isn’t it?”
His breathing steadied as he forced himself to observe instead of panic.
Information first. Survival second.
He finished his notes, then leaned back against the cold wall, eyes closing for just a second.
“…I should’ve paid more attention to the stories,” he murmured. “They always said the first challenge tells you everything about how the rest will go.”
A memory surfaced faintly—warnings about grimoires, about information only being valid if personally discovered. No shortcuts. No borrowed knowledge.
“Anti-cheat mechanics,” he scoffed quietly. “Unbelievable.”
Carefully, painstakingly, Narin slipped past the skeleton wardens one by one, timing his movements to their patrols, holding his breath whenever bone scraped metal.
Minutes passed. Maybe more.
No iron rats.
But then—
A staircase.
Stone steps spiraling downward, vanishing into deeper darkness.
Narin stopped at its edge, bat resting against his shoulder, goggles glowing faintly.
“…Lower floor,” he muttered.
And that’s where he stood.
Narin stood motionless at the foot of the staircase.
His breathing slowed, shoulders subtly rising and falling as he let the noise of the prison fade into the background. The drip of moisture from somewhere above. The distant scrape of bone on stone. The faint hum of the system’s presence, like an itch behind the eyes.
He stared at the translucent screen hovering in front of him.
[ Challenge: 1 ]
[ Description: You are in a prison. The iron door to the surface is locked. You must hunt an Iron Rat. Within the teeth is the door code required for escape. ]
[ Mission to complete challenge: Escape the prison. ]
“…Iron Rat,” he murmured under his breath, voice barely louder than air moving through his teeth.
Not the Iron Rat.
His jaw tightened.
“That wording is deliberate,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. So it’s a species, not a unique entity. Or at least… something that's replaceable.”
Another thought followed immediately, unwelcome and sharp.
I can't even know if the first one I kill will have the correct code.
His gaze drifted down, unfocused, fingers flexing once around the handle of his bat before relaxing again. His stomach gave a hollow, empty twist.
“…And I still don’t have food.”
Silence answered him.
His mind kept moving anyway—trained, stubborn, unwilling to stop even when fear tried to seize the wheel.
Option one: stay on this floor where the skeletons roamed. He could stay. He could grind for levels. Get stronger. Safer.
Option two: descend into unknown terrain. unknown enemies. Unknown risk.
He glanced back over his shoulder.
Up there, the halls twisted like the insides of a ribcage—stone corridors and collapsed guard paths where skeletons wandered in slow, habitual loops. Predictable. Almost… manageable.
Then he turned back toward the staircase.
Downward, the stone steps vanished into shadow and torchlight.
“…No,” he said quietly.
His fingers brushed the edge of the grimoire inside his inventory—more a mental sensation than a physical one. The weight of it lingered in his awareness, heavy with rules and limitations.
“I should believe in this,” he whispered.
“I shouldn’t linger for death.”
The words were firm, spoken like a verdict.
Narin stepped forward.
The staircase spiraled downward, narrower than the one above. Stone worn smooth by centuries of footsteps—boots, chains, dragged bodies. Torches burned along the walls at regular intervals, their flames low and steady, casting a dim, reddish glow that made the stone look perpetually stained.
He stepped out into what could only be described as a Torture Chamber.
The air changed as he descended.
Thicker. Warmer. Carrying a faint metallic tang that settled at the back of his tongue.
By the time his foot touched the final step, his nose already knew.
“…Great,” he muttered.
The floor opened up into a wide chamber.
Torchlight revealed it all at once—and his breath hitched before he could stop it.
Prison cells lined the walls, iron bars warped and scarred, some bent outward, others inward. Inside them lay tools.
Not random but intentional.
Hooks with delicate filigree handles. Needles arranged like surgical instruments. Gears and clamps polished to a sheen that spoke of care—almost affection. Other implements were crude and brutal: spiked wheels, bladed restraints, heavy mallets stained dark brown.
Some looked… beautiful.
That disturbed him more than the ugly ones.
“…Torture chamber,” Narin breathed, voice hollow.
His shoulders stiffened instinctively, spine straightening as if trying to put distance between himself and the room’s history. The goggles’ lenses flickered softly as they adjusted, thermal outlines blooming across his vision.
Then—
A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision—a presence far more alive than the dry click of bone.
A heat signature, faint but unmistakably alive.
His body reacted before thought caught up.
Narin dropped into cover behind a broken stone pillar, breath held tight in his chest. The bat came up without a sound, knuckles whitening as his grip tightened.
Too fast, his mind scolded. You didn’t even identify it.
His heart thudded, loud enough that he was certain—certain—it would give him away.
At the edge of his vision, his hands trembled.
“…Tch.”
He stared at them, irritation cutting through the fear.
“So that is it?” he whispered bitterly. “Living monsters feel different, huh?”
The skeletons were just animated dust.
This—whatever this was—existed. I can hear it breathing.
He swallowed, jaw clenching as he forced his grip steady.
“Get it together,” he murmured. “You’re already this old. No excuse to fall apart now.”
A slow breath in.
Slower breath out.
“You get through this,” he told himself, voice low but firm. “Then you go back. Normal life. That’s it.”
He exhaled through his nose, then reached into his inventory.
The baseball bat vanished.
The grimoire and pen appeared in his hands.
The familiar weight grounded him.
Narin leaned just enough to peer past cover.
What he saw made his pen hesitate.
“…Chimeras.”
They were hauntingly human in silhouette, but as they moved into the red light, the horror became clear. One had a human face stretched over a jaw that unhinged like a snake's; another had limbs replaced by jagged, serrated blades of bone and iron. Some wandered aimlessly, their eyes milky and vacant, while others huddled in the cells, twitching with a horrific, mindless energy.
One had an arm replaced by a scaled limb ending in talons, dragging against the floor with a wet scrape. Another’s spine arched unnaturally, vertebrae protruding beneath stretched skin, a mane of coarse fur sprouting along it. One sat slumped against a wall, breathing shallowly, eyes unfocused—alive, but absent.
Some didn’t move at all. Some did.
The patterns emerged as he watched—slow, repetitive movements. Turning toward cells. Pausing. Touching bars. Shuddering.
“Not all conscious,” he whispered, scribbling quickly. “Motor function varies… some reactive, some dormant.”
His handwriting wavered once, then steadied.
He waited. Counted steps and timed breaths.
When a chimera turned away, he moved.
Slow and controlled. Every footstep placed deliberately, weight rolling from heel to toe to minimize sound. His shoulders stayed low, posture tight, eyes flicking constantly between shadows and heat signatures.
He passed cells one by one, the tools inside seeming to watch him as he went.
The smell grew worse.
Iron. Old blood. Rot.
His eyes scanned every corner, every crack along the floor, searching for small, fast-moving heat signatures.
“…Still nothing,” he murmured.
Another staircase revealed itself at the far end of the chamber, descending even deeper.
Narin stopped at the edge of its shadow.
No iron rats.
Not even one.
His pen hovered above the page, then slowly lowered as his grip tightened.
“…Figures,” he muttered.
The staircase waited, silent and patient, leading further down into the prison’s depths.
And still—
the iron rats were nowhere to be seen.
Narin didn’t hesitate this time.
The moment his body leaned forward, decision already made, he went down the staircase at a brisk pace—no second glances, no backward thoughts clawing at him. Stone steps echoed softly under his boots, the sound swallowed quickly by the depth below.
As his left foot touched the next floor—
The smell hit him.
a wave of nauseating rust and the metallic tang of dried, ancient bloodstains wafted into his nostrils.
His nose wrinkled instinctively, breath catching for half a second before he forced himself to inhale shallowly through his mouth instead.
“…This place,” he murmured.
He straightened, shoulders squared, eyes scanning slowly from left to right as the Omni-Goggles adjusted. Thermal vision bloomed—and then… nothing.
No heat signatures.
No flickers of mana.
No presence pressing against his skin.
Empty.
That alone unsettled him more than any monster so far.
The chamber was wide, rectangular, and unnervingly clean—not clean in reality, but clean in intention. Rows of prison cells lined both sides, iron bars intact, locks rusted shut from the outside. Chains hung slack from the walls, untouched, as if waiting for prisoners who never returned.
Narin took a slow step forward.
“This place… had order,” he whispered.
His gaze lingered on the locks. Locked from the outside. Uniform. Deliberate.
Most of them didn’t even get a chance, his thoughts echoed grimly. When this prison fell… they were still inside.
A faint chill crawled up his spine.
“If there are no monsters…” he muttered, eyes narrowing, “…then it has to be traps.”
Almost on cue, the goggles pulsed softly.
A warning outline flared beneath his feet—faint lines traced along the stone floor, converging toward a square section slightly darker than the rest.
Narin froze mid-step.
“…Found you.”
He crouched, heart thudding, and leaned closer—careful not to cross the boundary. The illusion peeled away under enhanced vision, revealing a collapse mechanism beneath the stone. Below it: a pit dense with iron spikes, angled upward like the teeth of a buried beast.
“One wrong step,” he whispered, swallowing, “and that’s it.”
He backed away slowly, every muscle tight, committing the trap’s location to memory.
For the first time since entering this prison, he moved through an entire section without seeing a single monster.
And yet—
His unease only grew.
There’s no way, he thought grimly. A place like this wouldn’t be empty.
His steps eventually carried him to the far end of the floor—where the final staircase descended even deeper.
And there—
He stopped.
Floating silently before the staircase was a figure wreathed in pale, wavering light.
A spirit.
It wore the faded outline of armor long since rusted away, translucent plates barely holding shape. In one hand, it carried a spirit lamp, its flame a cold blue-white that flickered without heat. The spirit did not move, did not wander—only hovered, perfectly aligned with the staircase behind it.
Guarding.
Narin’s breath slowed.
“…A guardian spirit,” he whispered, eyes fixed. “Still clinging to duty.”
The lamp’s glow pulsed once, faint but deliberate.
That was enough.
Narin took a careful step back.
Then another.
Only when he was several meters away did he finally exhale—long and heavy, like air dragged out of his lungs by force.
“…Guarding the staircase like that,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “That’s definitely a boss monster.”
His lips pressed into a thin line.
“No way I’m killing that. Not now. Not even with the grimoire.”
The thought made his heart stutter painfully in his chest.
Do I really have to go back… and level up first?
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe.
“My resources are limited,” he reminded himself quietly. “Food. Weapons. Mana.”
Slowly, deliberately, Narin lowered himself to the stone floor, sitting with his back against a cold cell wall. One hand came up to stroke his chin, fingers moving mechanically as his mind raced.
“This floor should be safe,” he murmured. “That spirit only cares about the staircase.”
His eyes sharpened.
“…Which means I have time.”
A plan began to form.
“I’ll practice spells,” he decided softly. “Then go back up. Kill as many chimeras as I can.”
The grimoire was clear—one effective use per monster. Inefficient against mobs… but devastating against bosses.
“Traps,” he said. “That’s the answer.”
Narin closed his eyes and focused.
At his fingertips, something stirred.
At first, it was barely a sensation—like warmth returning to numb fingers. Then it thickened, coalesced, responding to his will.
“Yes,” he breathed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “That’s mana.”
Carefully, he raised his hand and began to draw in the air.
A triangle formed—lines trembling slightly but holding.
Inside it, he inscribed three words, one by one, each written with intent rather than ink:
Ice.
Shoot.
Sharp.
He lifted his fingers—a silent signal of completion.
The spell activated.
A shrill crack split the air.
An ice shard erupted forward at terrifying speed, slamming into the far wall and exploding it into shards of stone and frost.
“…Oh,” Narin exclaimed, eyes wide before he could stop himself. “—Ohh.”
He stared at the destruction, breath hitching in disbelief.
“That’s… that’s exactly the ice spear I imagined.”
A slow grin spread across his face.
“Alright. Good.”
He kept going.
Different shapes. Different intentions.
By the fifth attempt, his movements grew smoother—but his control slipped. Instead of a triangle or circle, he instinctively drew a square.
The mana responded differently.
He stopped at the seventh attempt, a wave of dizziness washing over him as his mana reserves dipped noticeably.
“…Enough,” he muttered, sitting back down heavily.
He wiped sweat from his brow and gathered his thoughts.
"Triangle for attack... Circle for defense... Square for installation." he concluded.
He raked his fingers through his hair, frustration flickering across his face.
“My limit is five prison cells,” he sighed. “That’s all I can cover.”
After a moment, his expression hardened again.
“Then I’ll install traps,” he said firmly. “Lure them in.”
He covered his mouth briefly with his left hand, eyes burning with resolve.
“There’s no point hesitating,” he whispered. “The path is clear.”
Narin stood—and ran.
Up the staircase.
Back to the floor above.
He moved fast now, purpose driving him. He identified a section where chimeras clustered loosely, their patrol paths overlapping. Nearby—a prison cell with enough space.
Perfect.
He slipped past them, breath held, and entered the cell. Mana traced into the walls as he drew trap spells—quick, precise. Twice he had to duck back under the bed, body pressed flat as footsteps dragged past inches away.
Two… three passes.
Done.
Narin burst out of hiding and sprinted down the corridor.
“HEY!” he shouted, voice cracking loud in the stone halls. “OVER HERE!”
It worked immediately.
Growls. Shuffling. Wet footsteps slapping stone.
Every conscious chimera turned toward him—eyes snapping to focus like animals scenting prey.
“…Shit,” he breathed—and ran.
They chased him like rabid dogs.
One lunged, tentacles whipping forward—too close.
His heart slammed so hard it felt like it skipped a beat.
“—!”
Narin burst into the prison cell like a man diving into shelter under gunfire.
The moment his heel crossed the threshold, he threw his weight forward and slid across the filthy stone floor, back scraping hard against grit and dried stains. His breath tore out of his throat in a sharp grunt as he slammed one palm down.
“—Now!”
Mana surged.
The trap responded instantly.
The etched lines on the prison wall ignited, blazing white-blue before twisting violently inward. A huge spiral of fire and condensed mana erupted from the sigils, roaring outward like a living cyclone. Heat slammed into Narin’s face, drying sweat on his skin in an instant.
The chimeras chasing him were too close.
Too fast. Too doomed.
The first wave didn’t even have time to scream.
Their bodies were engulfed in the spiral—flesh blackening, fur igniting, mutated limbs tearing apart as the spell chewed through them. Bone cracked. Metal grafts glowed red-hot before warping. In less than two seconds, they collapsed into smoldering heaps.
Behind them, the second group reacted.
Shrieks of panic. Hooves scraping stone. Tentacles recoiling violently as their owners twisted away, instincts finally screaming danger. Some tried to retreat—only to slam straight into other chimeras, their movements tangled and desperate.
“Get—back—!” one croaked in a ruined, half-human voice before being shoved forward by another body.
The spiral clipped them—burning, not killing. Flesh blistered. Limbs charred. They stumbled, howling, crashing into walls.
The third group—furthest away, circling wide—saw it.
They stopped.
For a heartbeat, the entire floor froze.
Then they scattered.
Narin lay there, chest heaving, eyes wide as he watched it all unfold. The spell spiraled for a few more seconds—then dimmed, collapsing inward as he severed the mana connection.
Silence rushed in, thick and ringing.
Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.
“…It worked,” he whispered hoarsely.
Before relief could settle—
A translucent screen snapped into existence in front of his face.
[ Your soul has reached its limit. ]
[ You can now level up. ]
Narin’s breath hitched.
“…Ah. That.”
His head lolled back against the stone, eyes half-lidded as memory surged forward.
Soul density.
Not the experience.
Everything—everything—contained soul residue. When one being killed another, that residue didn’t vanish. It compressed, accumulated and sank into the soul like sediment.
When the soul reached capacity, refinement was required.
Leveling up.
“Deep meditation…” he muttered, voice strained.
But it wasn’t free.
it wasn't safe either.
If the mind wasn’t stable, the soul wouldn’t refine. And if density exceeded the soul’s limit—
“…It crushes you,” he breathed. “Eventually kills you.”
His eyes snapped open.
Another chimera staggered toward him, burned but alive, dragging a ruined leg behind it.
Narin’s thoughts sharpened instantly.
I can’t keep killing them.
His jaw clenched.
“I have to cripple,” he whispered. “And leave them alive.”
His hand closed around the baseball bat, palm slick with sweat. His heart hammered so violently it felt like it was shaking his ribs loose.
“Even now…” he hissed, teeth grinding, “…I can feel it.”
The pressure.
It was like a massive weight pressing inward from every direction—not on his body, but through it. His soul felt bloated, unstable, like glass stretched too thin.
The chimera lunged.
Narin moved.
Bat swung hard—crack—colliding with the creature’s knee. Bone shattered sideways. The chimera collapsed with a shriek.
He dropped the bat mid-motion—inventory swallowing it—and a knife flashed into his hand.
Slash.
Wrist.
Lower arm.
Eye socket—he turned his face away at the last second, blade punching deep.
He didn’t stop.
Another came.
Bat.
Knife.
Bat again.
He targeted instinctively now, anatomy flowing through his mind like a checklist:
Knees. Clavicle. Shoulder joint. Mid abdomen. Intercostal ribs.
When they surged too hard—when numbers overwhelmed him—
He triggered the trap again.
Fire flared.
Screams echoed.
Again and again.
Each time he cut the mana connection early. Each time he left survivors—broken, burning, but alive.
Still, the pressure kept building.
His skin burned.
Not from heat—
from within.
“…Hah… hah…” His breath came ragged now, sweat pouring off him. His body felt like a furnace. His vision swam.
Cracks appeared along his forearm.
Thin lines of light, splitting skin like fractured porcelain.
“What—” His voice shook. “Already…?”
His legs stumbled. His swing went wide.
For a horrifying second, his body didn’t respond at all.
Then—
A system window slammed into view, vibrating violently, glowing red.
[ WARNING: Soul density exceeds maximum. ]
"Not... yet..." he growled.
His arm turned translucent.
Not fading—phasing—like reality was losing its grip on him. Then his stomach flickered, the outline of his ribs visible through half-formed flesh. His toes followed, vanishing and reappearing with each shaky step.
He forced himself onward.
Bat.
Knife.
Trap.
Again.
At last—
Silence.
Every remaining chimera lay scattered across the floor—breathing, twitching, mutilated beyond recovery. None could move. None could fight.
Narin didn’t wait.
He ran.
His steps were sloppy now, body betraying him, feet slipping as sensation came and went. He nearly fell twice, catching himself on the wall, leaving smeared handprints of blood and sweat behind.
“Just—hold—together—” he gasped.
Narin staggered forward, then collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he hit the ground hard.
“Hah… hah… hah…”
His chest felt like it was tearing itself apart.
His mind raced faster than his breath.
I need to level up now.
But my body—my mind—this state—
“I don’t know… how long I can hold…” he whispered.
His fingers fumbled into the inventory. A pocket watch clinked onto the floor. He stared at it, vision blurring, forcing himself to count the seconds.
“…Two minutes,” he murmured. “Just… two.”
He closed his eyes.
Opened them again.
“…Alright.”
As the final second ticked by, Narin sat upright with effort, legs crossed shakily, back against the wall. His breathing slowed—forced, uneven, but controlled.
He entered deep meditation.
The world faded.
Sound dissolved first. Then smell. Then touch.
It felt like sinking into a dark ocean—pressure closing in from all sides. His body went numb, awareness peeling away layer by layer until even pain became distant.
Then—
He saw it.
His soul floated in the void.
It was like a small, pebble-like core of energy, wrapped thickly in gray smoke, unstable and bloated. It trembled as if under immense strain.
Without hesitation, Narin acted.
He compressed it.
Pressure slammed inward.
It felt like being crushed from every direction—like his soul was placed on an anvil of white-hot iron while a colossal hammer descended again and again.
The pain was absolute.
But he didn’t stop.
The smoke ignited.
Gray turned to flame—impurities burning away in violent flashes. Each strike made the core denser, smaller, more defined.
The fragile pebble hardened, its surface smoothing, its glow stabilizing.
The pain changed.
From agony—
to pressure—
to strength.
When it ended, the pebble was purer.
Slightly larger and stable.
The darkness receded.
Sensation flowed back into his body like warmth after winter.
Narin leaned his head against the wall, shoulders sagging, breath finally easing.
A faint, tired smile curved his lips.
“…Phew,” he whispered softly.
“That was really close.”
