The cavern didn’t just get hot; it became an oven.

  The air shimmered around Krotak, distorting the grim reality of the cave. The massive Kobold stood like a monolith of scarred scales and grief, the glowing symbol on his arm pulsing with a dangerous, rhythmic light. In his hand, a massive iron mace—crusted with dried blood and rust—scraped against the stone floor.

  "You..." Krotak’s voice was a low rumble, wet with the tears that still streamed down his snout. "You have no heart beat for them. You kill... like you drink water."

  Artham stood his ground, though every instinct screamed at him to run. The [Nightcrawler] ability buzzed under his skin, flooding him with adrenaline, but even that supernatural strength felt fragile against the sheer density of the heat radiating from the Chieftain.

  "I did what I had to do," Artham said, his grip tightening on his daggers. "It’s survival."

  Krotak roared—a sound of pure, unadulterated heartbreak.

  "Survival is fighting!" Krotak bellowed. "Survival is fear! You... you have nothing!"

  Artham parried the first strike, crossing his daggers to deflect the blow, but the impact was like stopping a falling boulder. Worse was the heat—intense, blistering heat radiating from the mace that scorched his hands through his leather gloves.

  He winced, the smell of singed leather filling his nose, and dodged the second blow by leaping back several paces. The mace smashed into the ground where he had stood, pulverizing the stone and leaving a crater of molten slag.

  Artham noticed something critical: Krotak was controlling the destruction. The Chieftain was keeping his back to the small, headless corpse of the child, ensuring the shockwaves only traveled toward Artham and away from his fallen kin.

  Krotak stood amidst the dust, the markings on his arm flaring brighter, turning the air around him into a shimmering haze.

  “Fire of wrath, devour my enemy…” the kobold hissed, its voice barely above a whisper as the glowing essence symbol on its arm surged with blinding energy.

  Artham knew he had to end the fight quickly. He reached for the last of his goblin axes at his belt.

  One shot. Surprise him.

  He hurled the axe, aiming for the kobold’s head. But the creature was faster than he had anticipated. With a swift motion, Krotak deflected the axe with his burning mace.

  Krotak’s eyes locked onto Artham, burning with hate.

  “Until nothing remains but ashes… 「Energy of Fire: Fire Burst」!”

  A red thread of energy shot from the symbol on its arm to its palm. He slammed his palm into the ground.

  A fiery shockwave erupted from the earth, rushing toward Artham in a blazing wave of heat and destruction. Artham barely had time to raise his arms. The flames struck him with full force, throwing him back like a ragdoll against a thick wooden pillar on the far side of the cavern.

  Agonizing pain coursed through his body. The fire scorched his skin and burned through his leather armor, but the child’s body—safely behind Krotak’s line of fire—remained untouched.

  Artham slid to the ground, coughing smoke. [Nightcrawler] triggered instantly, his cells screaming as they tried to knit flesh back together even as it blistered.

  “So, it’s you,” Krotak said coldly. The monster reached down, yanking Artham’s throwing dagger from where it had lodged earlier. “You’re the one who slaughtered my scouts earlier. And now, I see your plan—using a goblin weapon to frame them for this massacre.”

  Artham glanced around. Flames from the blast had spread to the wooden supports and dry roots lining the cave walls. The exits were blocked by curtains of heat.

  Krotak sneered, raising the heavy mace, the metal head now glowing cherry-red. “There’s no way out for you, human. How does it feel to be cornered by death?”

  Artham didn’t respond. His cold gaze remained locked on the kobold.

  Fear is the enemy. Focus.

  The kobold growled in frustration. “What are you waiting for? Do you really think you can win?”

  [Master,] Mire’s voice cut through the roar of the fire, cool and analytical. [Direct combat probability of success is less than 12%. The target's thermal output is overwhelming your regeneration.]

  'I know, Mire. Give me a solution.'

  [Analysis: The target is emotionally compromised. Notice his positioning. He is shielding the biomass located at coordinates 33-North—the corpse of the juvenile Kobold.]

  Artham’s eyes flickered to the small, headless body lying in the dirt behind Krotak.

  [Suggestion: Use the biomass as a tactical diversion. The target will prioritize the integrity of his kin over his own defense. It is... the most efficient path to victory.]

  It was a monstrous suggestion. Cold. Calculating.

  It was perfect.

  Artham closed his eyes for a brief moment. The heat on his skin, the roar of the fire, the throbbing of his burns—he pushed it all away.

  He reached back into his memories. Not of Arthanis, but of himself.

  He remembered the tournaments. The blinding stage lights. The screaming crowds. The immense pressure of millions of people watching his every move on the screen. He remembered how he used to deal with it.

  Disconnect.

  He shut down his emotions. He turned off the fear, the anxiety, the noise. He became a machine. A machine that simply inputted commands and outputted victory.

  The pain is just a status effect. The fire is just a particle effect. The enemy is just code to be dismantled.

  Enter the Flow State.

  When he opened his eyes, the panic was gone. His crimson irises glowed with a terrifying, absolute calm. His breathing slowed. The chaotic world seemed to quiet around him.

  Krotak, sensing the shift in Artham’s demeanor—the sudden, unnatural lack of fear—roared.

  “Die!”

  The Kobold King charged, swinging its flaming mace with reckless fury, intending to crush Artham into paste.

  Artham didn't dodge away this time. He moved into the danger.

  He exploited the one thing Krotak had that he didn't: Attachment.

  As the mace descended in a crushing arc, Artham slid across the floor, positioning himself directly beside the headless corpse of the child. With a calculated flick of his boot, he kicked the small body into the air, directly into the path of Krotak’s swing.

  Krotak’s eyes widened. The rage in them shattered into panic.

  "NO!"

  He twisted his body violently mid-charge, wrenching his arms back to stop the mace from pulverizing his son's remains. The massive weapon crashed harmlessly into the dirt inches from the child's body, the momentum throwing Krotak completely off balance.

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  Win condition identified.

  That was all Artham needed.

  Artham flowed like smoke. He leaped onto Krotak’s extended arm, ran up the massive shoulder, and drove his sword down into the soft flesh of the creature's neck—right where the scales met the jaw.

  Black blood sprayed, hot and reeking of ozone. Krotak gurgled, dropping the flaming mace with a heavy clang.

  But the beast was not dead yet.

  With a final surge of strength, Krotak reached up. His massive, scorching hand clamped onto Artham’s face. The heat was unbearable, sizzling against Artham’s skin, but there was something strangely gentle in the touch—a moment of pity amidst the violence.

  Krotak turned his head, his vision fading. He looked at Artham one last time. There was no more anger in those eyes. Only pity.

  "You..." Krotak wheezed, blood bubbling past his lips. "You... poor... thing."

  Then, the grip tightened. Krotak tried to throw him, muscles bunching to hurl Artham across the cavern.

  "RAAAHH!"

  Artham shouted, letting out all his strength. He didn't let go. He twisted the blade deeper, pouring every ounce of his supernatural power into his arms until he felt the resistance give way. With a sickening crack, the spinal column severed.

  Krotak went limp.

  Arthanis stood over the fallen beast, breathing heavily, his muscles burning with exhaustion. Blood dripped from his sword as he surveyed the aftermath—the charred remains of the kobold camp, the blackened trees, and the heavy silence that now hung over the forest like a suffocating shroud.

  Relief washed over him, but it was short-lived.

  The pain of his burns and injuries quickly returned with a vengeance. He groaned in agony, the sharp sting of his wounds pulling him back into the harsh reality of his situation. Every movement felt like fire against his skin, and his legs finally gave out. He collapsed onto his knees, crawling through the dirt and blood toward the corpse of the defeated kobold.

  There was no dignity left. Only hunger. Only survival.

  Without hesitation, he placed his hand on the chieftain's shoulder and activated his skill.

  "Feed."

  Slowly, he felt the familiar sensation of his wounds knitting back together. His scorched skin began to regenerate, the blisters fading as the essence of the fire-wielder flooded his veins. The excruciating pain eased into a dull throb, then vanished entirely. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as the healing process took hold.

  But before he could fully relish the relief, Mire's voice pierced through the quiet, cutting into his thoughts.

  [You have consumed the blood of the lowest-stage awakened kobold. Your life countdown has increased by +34 hours 8 minutes 56 seconds. Congratulations, sir!]

  Artham stared at the blue text, then at the withered husk of the creature that had just tried to kill him.

  "Mire," Artham said, his voice cracking slightly. “Am I the monster here?"

  A pause stretched in the darkness. For the first time, the blue interface flickered, uncertain.

  [Error: Query contains undefined variable 'Monster'. System recognizes only: Survival or Death.]

  [Action was successful. Survival ensured.]

  Artham stared at the text. The machine didn't understand. It couldn't absolve him.

  "Yeah," Artham whispered to the silence. "That's what I thought."

  The notification continued to scroll, blue text flickering against the darkness of the cave, but Artham tuned out the details. His focus shifted inward, past the adrenaline and the bloodlust, into the cold void where his humanity used to be.

  The added time—+34 hours—felt like a temporary reprieve, a brief escape from the looming shadow of death that constantly hovered over him. But gratitude was a fleeting feeling, quickly replaced by something darker, heavier.

  Hatred.

  Deep down, a burning resentment festered—not for the kobolds, not for the world, but for the cursed god, Sinahtra. The "Cosmic Entrepreneur" who had turned his life into a game and then laughed as Artham was forced to butcher a father mourning his son just to buy another day of breath.

  He clenched his fists, glaring at the ticking timer in the corner of his vision.

  [Status Condition: Life until 65:31:12 remaining]

  It wasn't a gift. It was a leash.

  The battle had bought him time, but time was always running out. Every second slipping away meant he was one step closer to death unless he continued to kill. The weight of it crushed him, even as he stood victorious over his enemy.

  There was no time to celebrate. No time to rest. No time to mourn the piece of his soul he had just left on the cavern floor.

  With his body still aching, Artham forced himself to his feet. He couldn’t afford to linger—every moment spent here was another moment of vulnerability. He turned his back on the carnage and started running, his breath labored, his mind replaying the wet thud of the child’s body hitting the dirt over and over again.

  He ran until the smell of ozone and burnt flesh faded, replaced by the damp, earthy scent of the deep woods.

  Suddenly, Mire buzzed again, breaking through the silence of his thoughts with a notification that flashed urgent red.

  [WARNING: An unknown neural signal detected.] [An unknown voice has been detected in Master's mind.]

  Artham’s brows furrowed in confusion. He skidded to a halt, his hand instinctively tightening around the hilt of his sword. Another trick? A spell?

  He scanned the tree line, his enhanced eyes piercing the shadows. "Who's there?"

  Then, faint and unfamiliar, a whisper echoed directly into his skull.

  "Behind you."

  The voice was calm, noble even—a stark contrast to Mire’s cold, mechanical tone or the guttural rasps of the goblins. It sounded ancient.

  Artham whipped around, instincts taking over.

  A stray kobold—likely a scout who had missed the massacre—leaped from a high branch, a glittering dagger clutched in its hand. It was a desperate, silent ambush.

  But Artham was no longer the prey.

  He didn't even blink. His sword met the kobold’s attack with a deafening clash, blocking the blow with casual strength. Before the creature could recover, Artham delivered a swift kick to its chest, sending the creature stumbling back into the dirt.

  With fluid precision, he followed up. There was no hesitation, no thought. Just the muscle memory of a killer. He slashed his blade across the kobold’s throat.

  The creature collapsed in a heap, blood spraying across the forest floor.

  Artham stared down at it. He felt nothing. No fear. No thrill. It was just... maintenance.

  [You have consumed the blood of a kobold.] [Your life countdown has increased by +1 hour 12 minutes 26 seconds.]

  "Damn it... how did I miss that one?" Artham muttered to himself, wiping the blood from his cheek.

  He knelt and quickly searched the body. His fingers brushed against something cold—an onyx gem necklace hanging around the creature's neck. It looked valuable, perhaps stolen from a traveler. He pocketed it without a second thought.

  "Mire, track the source of that voice. Was it the kobold?"

  [Negative. The neural signal persists. It is... omnipresent.]

  Artham frowned. He couldn’t waste more time in the open.

  After several minutes of sprinting, he stumbled upon a small, secluded cave hidden beneath a cluster of dense root systems. It seemed undisturbed—safe. Exhausted, he entered and struck a spark to some dry wood, watching as the flames flickered and crackled in the darkness.

  The warmth offered a brief comfort, but his guard remained up. Mire hovered nearby, displaying the same cryptic notification.

  [An unknown voice has been detected in Master's mind.]

  "Who are you?" Artham asked aloud, his voice low and cautious. The firelight danced in his crimson eyes as he scanned the cave walls, searching for the source.

  The voice returned, softer now, resonating not from the air, but from the marrow of his bones.

  "I am the voice of the forest."

  Artham froze. "The voice of the forest?" he repeated skeptically.

  "Yes," the voice replied, calm and patient. "I have been watching you for some time now. You are different from the others who tread these woods. You possess a bond with nature—something ancient and forgotten."

  "A bond with nature?" Artham let out a dry, humorless laugh. He was a Dhampir. A parasite. He defied nature just by existing. "I think you have the wrong person. I just burned a campsite to the ground."

  "Destruction is part of nature, just as creation is," the voice countered smoothly. "Because of this bond—this raw capacity for survival—you can hear me. I have a request for you. A favor."

  Artham’s eyes narrowed. In this world, nothing came free.

  "In return," the voice continued, dropping its tone to a conspiratorial whisper, "I will offer you something precious. Something that could take you beyond your current limits."

  Artham’s grip on his sword loosened slightly. Beyond my limits.

  The promise of power... of ensuring he never had to rely on a cheap trick or a child's corpse to survive again... it was too enticing to ignore.

  "How long have you been watching me?" he asked warily. "Since when?"

  There was a brief pause, as though the voice was considering how much truth he could handle.

  "Since the moment you entered the forest. You’ve been watched by more than just me."

  A chill ran down Artham’s spine. He had always known this world was dangerous, but the idea that he was being observed—audited by unseen forces—added a new layer of threat to his situation.

  Still, the hunger for power was louder than the fear.

  He stared into the dying embers of his fire, his face hardening.

  "So, what do you want?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.