The forest arena was a labyrinth of primal menace, its ancient trees towering like silent judges, their gnarled branches knitting a canopy that dimmed the moonlight to a spectral silver. The air was heavy with the scent of damp moss, rotting leaves, and the acrid tang of the Seven-Headed Demon Goat's decayed corpse, a foul brew of blood, acid, and unnatural mana that clung to Edwyn's clothes.
He stood over the beast's skeletal remains, his lean frame silhouetted against the bones, his sharp blue eyes glinting with a mix of caution and triumph. In his hand pulsed the Synthetic Beast Core, an oversized, neuron-like orb, its thick blood vessels sealed into a self-contained network, throbbing with an eerie, parasitic life. It wasn't an organ, it was a living artifact, its dark mana humming like a heartbeat from another world.
"Well, damn, aren't you a creepy little freak?" Edwyn muttered, as he turned the core in his hands, its surface slick with residual ichor. The Infinite Forge whispered its potential: [Low-Grade Synthetic Beast Core Creation] for 15 Spiritforce, a ticket to crafting abominations like the goat. Tempting, but his last extraction had left him unconscious, a sitting duck in Black Forest's frozen fields.
"No way, pal," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not passing out in this death trap. You're staying on ice till I've got a safe spot to play mad scientist."
He tucked the core into his pouch, its weight a secret weapon beside his Mana Stones, and rifled through the beast's remains. The corpse had rotted to brittle bones in minutes, its blackened skeleton crumbling under his touch, but a glint of cloth caught his eye. He pulled out a staff, half a meter long, light as a feather, crafted from black wood that seemed to drink the moonlight, topped with a fist-sized crystal that pulsed faintly with red mana. Probing it with his spiritual sense, a message flared in his mind, clear as a whisper from its creator: [This staff is inscribed with Lesser Fireball. Recharge time: 3 minutes. No auto-recharge. Each use consumes one-third of a standard Mana Stone.]
Edwyn whistled, twirling the staff with a flourish, its balance perfect in his grip. "Well, hello, hot stuff," he drawled. "Talking gear? That's new. Academy's got some fancy toys." The intuitive message was arcane tech at its finest, like the airship's runes or his Ice Spike ring. He swung the staff experimentally, its crystal glinting like a blood-red star. "Lesser Fireball, huh? One-third of a Mana Stone per boom, three-minute cooldown? Pricey compared to my ice spikes, but you're packing heat for beasts."
The Ice Spike ring, looted from the noble girl, was his go-to, low-cost, instant, perfect for squishy Apprentices who crumpled under a single hit. Fireballs were overkill for most, but against Arcane Beasts like the goat? A one-shot wonder. "Greedy bastard," he muttered, chuckling at himself as he tucked the staff into his belt. "Can't say no to a boom stick." He recast Silence Field, the spell muting his presence like a cloak of shadows, and slipped into the forest. The beast's rampage had been louder than a dragon's tantrum, scavengers would be sniffing around soon. Time to ghost.
Sure enough, minutes after he vanished, three Apprentices crept into the clearing, their patched tunics ragged, their eyes darting like hunted prey. "We're too late," one growled, kicking a bone, his voice thick with frustration. "Someone cleaned house."
"What now? Walk away empty-handed?" another snapped, her staff glowing faintly, her hands trembling. They turned to their leader, a bald man with a scarred face, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the bones.
Before he could speak, a shadow loomed from the trees. A massive figure, nearly two meters tall, built like a war machine in battered chainmail, leapt into the clearing, his greatsword gleaming, his other hand clutching a bloodied Apprentice by the neck, barely alive. Seven pouches dangled from his waist, clinking with looted orbs and vials. "No need to think, scavengers," he boomed, his voice cold as a grave. "You're all dead."
Screams erupted, cut short by the greatsword's arc, as Edwyn, over a kilometer away, moved silently through the forest, unaware of the slaughter behind him.
...
As Edwyn trekked through a clearing, a figure emerged from the underbrush, a wiry girl, her tunic torn and bloodstained, clutching a notched short sword. Her green eyes were sharp but weary, a single pouch hanging from her belt. She froze, eyeing Edwyn's staff and dagger, but didn't raise her blade. "You heading to the pillar?" she asked, her voice hoarse.
Edwyn paused, his Ice Spike ring ready but his grin easy. "Yeah, that's the plan, lady. Name's Edwyn. You look like you've been through a meat grinder. Wanna swap stories?"
She hesitated, then lowered her sword slightly. "Mira," she said. "Got jumped by a Knight Squire yesterday. Barely got away with my orb. You… you're the guy who took down that beast, right? Word's spreading."
Edwyn's grin widened, his chest puffing out mockingly. "Guilty as charged. Seven-Headed Demon Goat, meet my ice spikes. What's the gossip?"
Mira's eyes flicked to his pouch, where the Mana Stones' faint pulse glowed. "They say you're a Mage with a death wish. Killed Ramsay, a noble girl, and now a beast. Some think you're a knight in disguise. Others… they're scared you'll hunt them next."
Edwyn laughed, a loud bark. "Love the fan club! Tell you what, Mira, I'm no hunter, unless you're a creep like Ramsay. You got your orb, I got mine. Keep moving, and maybe we'll both make it to the pillar for a victory dance."
Mira nodded, a faint smile breaking through her exhaustion. "Watch your back, Edwyn. There's a knight out there, big guy, red hair, greatsword. He's collecting pouches like trophies. Stay clear."
Edwyn's grin turned sharp, his hand brushing the staff. "Thanks for the heads-up. If that guy wants a dance, I've got a fireball with his name on it." He waved and vanished into the trees, Mira's warning echoing as he trekked on.
...
Dawn broke, the sun's golden rays piercing the canopy in jagged slants, casting the forest in a deceptive calm. Edwyn emerged from a pile of dry leaves, his body aching from a day of sprinting and a night of dodging death. Meditation had refreshed his mind, its Sea of Souls dive sharper than sleep, but his muscles groaned with fatigue. "Ugh, this exam's a worse workout than the Black Forest's harvest," he grumbled, stretching with a theatrical yawn, his red hair a messy blaze in the light. He uncorked a nutrient potion, grimacing at its vile taste, like fermented grass juice mixed with vinegar, but its warmth fueled him, banishing hunger.
"Academy chefs need a firing squad," he muttered, wiping his mouth.
The beast's rampage had carved paths through the underbrush, jagged trails of trampled earth and scorched trees, saving him effort. With Feather Foot active, his steps were light and swift, covering twice the ground as he neared the pillar of light, its beam a dazzling beacon in the distance. The forest grew denser, its air thick with mana, and Edwyn spotted more Apprentices, lone survivors or small groups, their pouches bulging with looted gear, their crystal orbs flashing as proof of their kills. Most nodded warily and moved on, their eyes haunted but sharp.
Blood on their hands, same as me, Edwyn thought. Nobody's dumb enough to pick a fight this close to the goal.
That night, he buried himself in leaves again, Silence Field cloaking him as he settled beneath a gnarled oak. Meditation beckoned, but focus eluded him, an itch crawled up his spine, like eyes boring into his back.
Someone's tailing me, he thought. Better stay frosty. Unseen, a hulking figure crouched in a tree thirty meters away, his triangular eyes glinting in the moonlight.
Saban Chavez, a knight from the Northern Empire, was a walking fortress, chainmail battered but unbreached, a greatsword as long as Edwyn was tall, and ten pouches strapped to his waist, each a trophy of a slain Apprentice. He'd tracked Edwyn since the beast's death, expecting a warrior, maybe a knight. But Edwyn's cautious pace and avoidance of fights screamed cowardice.
"This guy's a nobody," Saban muttered, his scar-twisted face sneering. "How'd he kill a beast? He's hiding something."
Suddenly, Edwyn's eyes snapped open, his instincts screaming. A sharp whistle cut the air, and he rolled aside, leaves scattering as a wooden spear, meter-long, thick as his arm, its point wickedly sharp, slammed into the ground where he'd been, its shaft quivering. "Well, damn!" Edwyn yelped, his grin sharp as he grabbed the Lesser Fireball staff, its crystal glowing faintly. That's no amateur.
He scanned the shadows, his heart pounding but his voice mocking. "Yo, spear-chucker! You got a beef, or is this just your way of saying hi?" The spear's force screamed knight, or a killer Arcane Artifact. Either way, trouble.
A deep laugh echoed from the trees, and Saban stepped into view, his two-meter frame looming like a war god, his red hair a fiery halo in the moonlight. His chainmail clinked, his greatsword gleamed, and a scar ran from his nose to his eye corners, giving him a demonic glare.
"Not bad, kid," he boomed, his voice cold as steel. "You dodged. Guess you're not completely useless. Name's Saban Chavez, Northern Empire. Who're you?"
Edwyn stood, gripping the staff, his grin cold and defiant. "Edwyn, just a guy who likes his beauty sleep," he said, his tone dripping with mockery. "Ten pouches, huh? Bit overkill for a test where one kill's enough, murder hobo. What's your deal, collecting scalps for fun?"
Saban's eyes narrowed, his grin twisting. "Murder hobo? Cute. I collect trophies. You killed that beast, so you're worth adding to my belt. No name? No matter. I'll carve it on your grave."
He charged, his greatsword raised, the blade whistling as it cleaved the air. Edwyn's staff glowed red, its crystal flaring with mana.
"Eat my fireball, dumbass!" he shouted, unleashing a Lesser Fireball. The orb of flame streaked forward, lighting the forest in a crimson blaze, aimed straight for Saban's chest.