The Mantis roared and lunged for the final blow. Luke moved purely on reflex. His kukris came up in a desperate block—instantly knocked from his hands by the sheer force behind the strike. He stumbled back, fingers already flicking the magnetic return. The blades snapped back toward him as he dove for the hole. The Mantis's scythe-arms came down with terrifying speed. Air split around him, the wind of the strike grazing his face—close enough to burn.

Blades stabbed into the entrance behind him, gouging stone, shaking the earth. The creature shrieked in frustration, stabbing again and again, blindly hacking at the tunnel. Luke crawled backwards, slipping deeper into the passage by inches, breathing ragged, body screaming. He collapsed. Cold. Bleeding. Silent.

His chest plate was shredded, pierced in more places than he could count. Every nerve fired pain. Every muscle felt frayed, barely holding together.

"...Shit..." The word barely made it out.

Blood bubbled up as he coughed, splattering the cave floor. His hand fumbled through the inventory. One potion. His last. The glass hit his lips. He drank. The liquid burned going down, searing like acid, stitching flesh back together while setting every wound on fire.

But even as his body fought to recover, his mind drifted. Lying there on the cold stone, back against the wall, Luke stared up at the cavern ceiling. The pain became distant. Muted. Like it was happening to someone else. His breathing slowed.

Yeah... he was strong. Strong enough to take down orc captains. Strong enough to survive the Wild Zone. Strong enough to cheat death more times than any sane person should. But not strong enough for this.

The Mantis wasn't like the others. Even with all the levels, all the upgrades, all the skills... it wasn't enough. The problem wasn't power. It was speed. Every move came too fast. Too sharp. The monster's strikes didn't just land before Luke could block—they landed before his brain even registered they were coming.

It was a gap stats couldn't brute-force. Agility. Insane, impossible, broken Agility.

His teeth clenched. Frustration burned in his chest harder than any wound. Eyes shut tight.

"This is it..." His voice was barely a whisper. "I'm gonna die here."

His hand reached out, fingers dragging across the dirt until they brushed something smooth and cold. The potion bottle. Empty. His thumb nudged it. With a hollow, almost mechanical motion, he flicked it aside. The sound of glass tapping stone echoed through the cave... then faded.

The silence that followed swallowed everything.

Luke didn't fight it. He lay still. Breathing. Waiting. Even if he somehow gained a few more levels down here, it wouldn't change anything. One mistake. One hit. One puncture. And he'd bleed out with nothing left to stop it.

No potions. No failsafes. No margin for error.

A pressure sat heavy on his chest—not physical. Mental. Suffocating.

But slowly... he let it go. The rush. The panic. The desperate clawing for some magic solution that wasn't coming. He accepted it. This was where he was. This was reality. He might never get out.

His eyes drifted shut.

Wings fluttered.

A sound. Light. Gentle.

His hands snapped toward the kukris by reflex, every muscle tense—ready for a fight. But when he opened his eyes... it wasn't the Mantis.

Bats.

A cluster of them gliding above, weaving through the cave with effortless grace. Silent wings cutting through the dark.

Luke exhaled, tension draining. Fingers loosened. The kukris slipped from his hands, falling softly to the damp ground. His gaze followed the bats.

They flew almost in straight lines... but not quite. Always veering at the last moment. Dodging stalactites. Banking around curves in the tunnel. Never crashing. Never faltering. Even in pitch-black darkness.

A cold shiver slid up his spine. The way they moved... it was the same. The same thing he'd felt when the Mantis dodged his ambush mid-air, as if it had eyes in the back of its head.

It wasn't instinct. It wasn't reaction speed. It was something else.

His lips parted. The word slipped out before he even realized it. "...Echolocation."

But he shook his head. No. That wasn't it. Not exactly. Not the way it worked for them.

And then—something sparked. A faint ember deep in his mind, old and almost forgotten. An instinct. A pull. A quiet thread of thought tugging him somewhere he hadn't looked before.

Luke slowly pushed himself upright, eyes never leaving the bats' flight path. He didn't know why. But he had to keep watching.

Then, from somewhere deep—deeper than conscious thought—a word surfaced. Quiet. Heavy.

"Perception."

It felt like standing on the edge of something vast. Something that had always been there. Always within reach. But never fully understood. A sense beyond sight. Beyond sound. Beyond what he thought belonged only to monsters.

It wasn't. It was his too.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

And though he couldn't explain why... his feet started moving. Step by step. Into the dark. Eyes tracking the bats. Studying every shift, every turn, every correction in their movement. Trying to understand. Trying to see what had always been invisible.

Learning.

***

Erza Grimhart was having her breakfast in Bastion.

In front of her, a plate of soft eggs, crispy toast, and perfectly golden slices of bacon. She cut a piece with almost surgical precision and brought it to her mouth, savoring the heat and salt spreading across her tongue. Through the window of her room, she watched the well-kept gardens and the busy farmlands within the fortress.

It had been two years since she arrived.

Two years stuck in this tedious tutorial.

When she uncovered the truth behind this world — after reading the notification at the ruins of the mission statue — she didn't panic like the others. She didn't collapse into fear like the cowards, the weak, and the mediocre who could barely handle the idea that this was a death trial.

She categorized them exactly as they were. Extras.

Disposable pieces on the stage of the world.

Erza wanted more. She wanted to move on, to carve her path through the Wild Zone with blade and blood. She craved, with an almost religious fervor, the day she could face a Midnight Warden. She wanted to be tested. She wanted to be forged.

She wanted to be the blade that cuts through everything.

But they stopped her.

The voice of one of Lakarion's apostles echoed in her mind the moment she arrived at this place. It came with restrictions. With a command that was absolute and unquestionable: 'Do not interfere'.

And so, she was put on vacation.

She laughed quietly to herself. Vacation, for her, had never meant boring rest. When she was five years old, she was thrown into a forest with nothing but a knife. Her version of vacation was survival. Kill. Return stronger than before.

"Good times," she murmured, smiling at the memory of her first kill. The first time her pulse raced as she sliced someone's throat with surgical precision. The exact moment the victim realized what had happened — too late. The look, the sound, the blood. All of it was art.

But now... she was stuck.

Condemned to luxury and patience.

She bit into a piece of rare meat. The red juices ran down her lips, thick and warm like blood. She licked it clean, savoring the metallic taste.

"What a bore..." she sighed.

"More juice, Lady Erza?" asked a maid, voice soft and careful.

Erza nodded with mild disdain, and the glass was refilled.

At least, one part of her task here still brought her pleasure. Training young women. Selecting, molding, breaking, and rebuilding those who might have the potential to join her circle. Some had come with her from the beginning. Others she had picked out from the fools who still believed this world could be conquered with hope.

Who would have thought I'd run into Princess Allison here...

A crooked smile tugged at her lips. She had crossed paths with a member of one of the rival families within the World Government. Outwardly, all the families maintained cordial appearances. But the truth was simple. Each family represented the interests of a different god, each one fighting to attract more followers. The rise of the System in a universe meant billions of potential new worshippers. Every god hungered to grow their influence, especially in a fresh universe.

Suddenly, she felt it. A presence. Subtle. Hidden in the shadows.

"Leave," she commanded.

The maids hurried out of the room. As soon as the door shut, Erza let out a breath and bowed her head, respectful.

"To what do I owe the honor of a visit from Apostle Siegfried, one of Master Lakarion's personal assistants?"

"Excellent," said a voice that came from nowhere. "How did you notice me?"

"I'm not talking to you," she replied calmly. "I'm talking to the shadow of my glass."

The shadow of the glass stretched across the table, slid up the wall, and from it emerged a young man with long, jet-black hair. His white kimono stood in stark contrast to the darkness swirling around him.

"Well, you noticed it was just bait," he said, amused.

"It's part of any proper assassination. You always let the target believe they've caught their pursuer."

Siegfried clapped softly as he strolled around the room.

"Excellent as always, Priestess Erza."

"To what do I owe your visit? Is my punishment finally being lifted? Can I start killing all the humans here and try completing the mission by myself?"

"No," he answered firmly. "The order remains the same. Wait and observe. The gods are still deciding who will become the pillars of faith. Some of them are... a bit too comfortable."

"If you would just let me act, I could stir up the chaos they need," she tried to argue. But the look Siegfried gave her cut the words from her mouth before they formed.

"How is one of the potential candidates for serving Master Lakarion coming along?" he asked.

"Kruger? He has talent for killing, but he's unstable. The difference between an assassin and a lunatic is the mind. One is cold. The other is just impulsive. Assassination is art. It is precision. It is control."

Siegfried listened silently but didn't wait long before replying.

"Death is death in the end. It doesn't matter if it was brutal or elegant. What matters... is that the target stopped breathing."

"Of course, Apostle. But I don't believe he should be one of the chosen. As a tool? Yes. As a symbol? Never. He doesn't have the charisma to draw new followers to our order."

"I agree," Siegfried said. "But my visit isn't about him. This is something more urgent. My time here is running out. The System will force me out soon. So I'll be direct. Among the participants in this tutorial... there was one we all missed."

Erza frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what you heard. Even the gods didn't notice him. We only discovered his presence because he caused chaos in the orc territory."

"You're telling me... a human managed to hide from the gods?"

"Yes. I was just as surprised. But when we investigated... we found out why. He was using an item. Something as ridiculous as it was effective."

"What kind of item has that kind of power?"

"An item created by a very eccentric entity."

"Who?"

Siegfried smiled. Almost sarcastic. Almost bitter.

"Samael."

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