The smell of roasted vegetables and thick stew greeted them as they stepped into the inn's modest dining hall. Vergil's stomach growled in response.
"Smells better after a day of suffering," he muttered, sliding into his seat. Eleanor chuckled, her face still slightly flushed from stabilizing her second circle.
They ate in quiet companionship, both too tired to talk much. The innkeeper's stew was simple—potatoes, wild herbs, chunks of meat, and a savory broth—but after an entire day of channeling mana and freezing his fingers off, it tasted like a royal feast.
As the plates emptied and the last sips of tea were taken, Eleanor leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "So… you're going to keep going even after that Ice training?"
Vergil stood up and stretched his arms, his joints cracking. "Body's not gonna train itself, and i can still go."
"You're insane," she muttered, shaking her head with a smile.
"Maybe," he said, already walking toward the door, "but insanity builds muscle."
---
Later That Night – Behind the Inn
Under the moonlight, Vergil faced the empty training yard behind the inn, illuminated faintly by lanterns hanging from wooden posts. The air was crisp, each breath misting in front of him.
He dropped to the ground and began push-ups—slow, steady, and focused. Each repetition sent a small jolt through his trembling arms, the day's weariness making every movement feel like lifting stone.
Once he hit 15, he switched to plank holds, tightening his core, keeping his body straight, resisting the urge to collapse.
From there, he moved into squat jumps, launching upward with all the strength in his legs and landing silently like a hunter. He repeated it until his thighs burned.
Lastly, he ended with shadow footwork drills—swift, sharp dashes and side-steps, maintaining precision and speed, mimicking movement patterns he'd seen from the brawler. The motions were imperfect, but getting smoother. He practised each skill
By the time he was done, his shirt was soaked again, and his arms hung like dead weight.
But beneath the fatigue, his body felt alive.
The System chimed in his mind:
---
[User has gained the following stats]
Strength +0.04
Dexterity +0.03
Constitution +0.06
---
Vergil wiped the sweat from his brow, catching his breath as he looked up at the stars.
"Still weak," he muttered. "But at least I'm getting better."
He headed back toward the inn, the sound of distant crickets and the creaking of old wood filling the quiet night.
Eleanor was already asleep when he returned. He didn't disturb her—just lay down on his side of the bed, closed his eyes, and let exhaustion pull him under.
The next day was the same routine but Vergil also headed to the adventures guild to claim his 15 silver for the subjugation request from the orcs after handing in the Astralyth crystals
Sure! Here's a shortened version with a clean time skip up to the third evening:
---
Sure! Here's a shortened version with a clean time skip up to the third evening:
---
3 Days Later – Evening | Behind the Inn
The past three days blurred together—morning runs, harsh spell training with Elvira, and relentless martial drills at night. Sweat, pain, and repetition had become his daily rhythm.
Now, on the third evening, Vergil collapsed to the ground behind the inn, soaked in sweat, muscles twitching.
[Progress summary – 3 Days]
Strength: +0.15
Constitution: +0.12
Dexterity: +0.11
Martial Arts Proficiency F+ 90%
All Spells: F 100% (limit for 1st circle spells)
Icebind Thread: F 47%
---
[Looks like someone's ready for payback.]
Vergil exhaled hard, arms spread out on the cold dirt.
"Hell yeah…"
[Go get them, girl.]
"…Okay, no, never do that shit again."
He stared up at the fading sky, grin faint but real.
Tomorrow—it was time
Vaelmont Inn
Vergil dragged himself up from the ground, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His shirt clung to him, soaked through, and every muscle in his body protested each step as he made his way inside the inn.
The warm light of the hearth greeted him, the gentle murmur of other guests drifting from the dining hall. Upstairs, the hallway was quiet. He pushed open the door to their shared room, where Eleanor sat cross-legged on her bed, eyes closed, calmly meditating.
She opened one eye when she heard him.
"You're back later than usual."
Vergil gave a tired shrug and dropped into the chair by the window. "Had to make sure I was ready."
Eleanor's gaze lingered on him for a moment, noticing the soreness in his limbs, the bruises across his forearms. "…Your pushing yourself too much."
"I know ," he said with a grin. "But it paid off."
She closed her eyes again, but a small smile tugged at her lips. "So… tomorrow."
"Yeah," Vergil said, leaning forward. "We head back to the forest. Back to those ruins."
Eleanor nodded slowly, her voice steady. "You think we'll run into that demon again?"
"I'm counting on it.No, im betting on it." Vergil said, eyes sharpening.
Silence fell between them for a few moments before Eleanor finally said, "Then we better sleep early. We'll need everything we've got."
Vergil stood and stretched, wincing slightly. "Yeah. Get some rest. I'll wake you before sunrise."
As he turned toward the bed, Eleanor opened her eyes again, watching him for a second.
"…Vergil," she said.
He paused, glancing back.
"I'll make sure I'm strong enough to have your back."
Vergil smiled, more genuinely this time. "I know."
Vergil lay in bed, the ceiling fading into darkness as the firelight flickered low. His body was sore, but beneath the ache was a simmering sense of progress.
"System," he muttered, eyes half-lidded, "show me my progress."
A familiar translucent blue screen shimmered into view above him.
---
[Vergil – Physical Status]
Strength: 42 [+0.12]
Constitution: 44 [+0.15]
Dexterity: 43 [+0.11]
The Lowest Form, the Highest Peak: (F+) 90%
Spell Proficiency:
Flame Spark – F+
Frost Touch- F+
Icebind Thread – F
'2 of my skills have reached the max they could reach, they wouldn't go any further, combining them would be inefficient as well'
Vergil exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling with the calm rhythm of exhaustion. The numbers on the translucent screen faded gently, but their meaning lingered in his mind.
The growth was modest—but it was real. Measurable. Hard-earned.
"Just as I thought…" he muttered, eyes narrowing slightly. "My martial arts proficiency didn't go up much."
He let his head sink deeper into the pillow, eyes fixed on the wooden ceiling above.
'System care to enlighten me'
[Zzzzzzz]
'Fucking useless system, sleeping on the job'
"I can draw two conclusions," he murmured thoughtfully. "One—proficiency increases more rapidly in real combat… especially when I mimic techniques from others. Or two—I haven't learned enough different martial styles or I haven't developed my current arts enough for the system to register true progress."
Either way, the path forward was clear.
"But just a little more," he whispered, a tired grin flickering on his lips. "A little more…"
His hand dropped limply to his side as the screen dissolved into nothing. The weariness wrapped around him like a heavy blanket, pulling him into rest. Outside the window, the wind rustled softly through the trees of Vaelmont, the peaceful hum of a quiet village cradling the inn in silence.
Tomorrow, he would return to the forest.
Not as a target.
Not as someone desperate to survive.
But as someone ready.
Prepared—for the reckoning.
---
Deep in the Ashwood Forest
The Ashwood Forest groaned beneath the weight of something unnatural.
Ancient trees stood like skeletal giants, their bark charred black, their leaves long since withered to ash. The forest floor was littered with the decaying bones of beasts, shattered weapons, and the rotting remains of a stone outpost—now nothing more than broken ruins and creeping vines.
And at the heart of it all: a crimson crystal, jagged and pulsing with a sickly red light. It was embedded in a cracked pedestal, surrounded by the torn corpses of five adventurers—limbs twisted, eyes hollow.
The crystal drank greedily from the blood soaked into the dirt, tendrils of crimson light growing stronger with each death.
A lone hunter stumbled through the ruins, barely alive.
His cloak was half-ripped. His boots slick with blood. His eyes wild with terror. He couldn't scream—his throat was a shredded mess, slashed open by claws moments after they'd pulled that man from a pit beneath the ruins.
They thought they'd saved him.
He'd limped, coughed, even smiled. Said his name was Kael. That's what the hunter remembered—Kael. Kind eyes. Weak, but grateful.
And then… slaughter.
It wasn't a man. It wasn't even close.
The hunter's thoughts were fading fast, his vision blurry, legs heavy like stone. He collapsed beside a pile of bloodied armor, gasping silently.
Behind him, something walked.
Slow, deliberate steps crunched the gravel underfoot.
"Such a waste," came the voice—familiar, yet wrong. Too smooth. Too calm. "Your friend begged so sweetly. Thought you'd be spared if he offered himself first."
Morvax approached, still cloaked in the illusion of the man they had saved—his features pleasant, even human. But now, his smile was carved too deep. His eyes shimmered with faint crimson embers.
"You should be honored," Morvax whispered. "Your deaths feed something far greater."
The hunter clawed at the ground, trying to crawl, dragging himself an inch at a time. But he didn't get far.
Morvax stepped on his back, pinning him down. The hunter tried to scream again—but only a wheeze came out, blood bubbling from his neck.
"Don't struggle," Morvax said with mock comfort, crouching down. "Just embrace it."
With one hand, he grabbed the hunter by the jaw—clenching it shut—and with the other, he drove his clawed fingers into the hunter's spine. A wet, grisly crunch echoed through the forest as flesh tore and bone snapped.
The hunter's body spasmed violently.
Then, in a single brutal motion, Morvax ripped the spine free from his back. Blood arced into the air like a fountain, painting the ruins in fresh crimson. The hunter's eyes bulged, and life left him in a final twitch.
Morvax held the spine aloft, blood dripping from each vertebrae, before letting it fall beside the body with a dull crack.
The crimson crystal pulsed, brighter than before.
Tendrils of red mist slithered from the hunter's wounds, drawn into the crystal like whispers into a void. The pedestal glowed, its energy swelling—hungry, ravenous, alive.
Morvax's eyes narrowed.
"Not much more now, our reckoning is at hand…"
He stepped closer to the pedestal, watching the light coil up and around him like breath from a sleeping beast.
"One more. Maybe two," he muttered, a grin creeping across his lips. "The gate is almost ready to open."
The wind blew softly through the forest. But it carried no life.
Only silence.
And something beneath the ruins began to stir.
Morvax stood slowly, blood dripping from his claws, staining the cracked stone beneath his feet. The crimson mist curled upward, drawn into the pulsing red crystal embedded within the ruined pedestal. With each drop of blood, each death absorbed, the crystal glowed brighter… more alive.
Morvax exhaled softly through his teeth, wiping a smear of red across his cheek. He turned his gaze upward, the illusion of his human form flickering slightly under the glow of the artifact. For a moment, his demonic nature bled through— His eyes turned red as his veins became black.
And then… silence.
The forest held its breath.
Morvax's eyes narrowed, and he looked toward the distant horizon, the direction of Vaelmont. His expression twisted into something caught between irritation and intrigue.
"Will he come back?"
His voice dropped low, as if speaking to something deeper, buried within the crystal or perhaps the forest itself.
"That boy…"
He raised his bloodied hand, recalling the flash of movement—the burst of energy—the sheer tenacity of the one who escaped.
"He wasn't strong. Not then. But he resisted. That kind of will… I wonder what it would look like when i break him."
A cruel smile played on his lips.
"His memory is fresh…I remember the feeling. The defiance. The fire behind his eyes when he realized what I was."
Morvax stepped toward the crystal, placing a clawed hand against its glowing surface. A faint whisper echoed from within, like countless voices trapped inside.
"You're growing stronger too, aren't you?"
He turned away, eyes gleaming.
The wind howled through the ruins, scattering ash like snow. Behind him, the corpses of the hunter's party lay twisted and lifeless, their blood long since offered to the crystal. The earth rumbled ever so slightly—almost like it was breathing.