He leaned back against the damp earth, breath steadying, the hollow pressing close around him. A cave of soil, not of stone — shallow, blind, and yet it felt ancient.
A thought tugged at him, half bitter, half amused.
So this is what it takes… to end up in Plato's cave. Except here, the shadows don't lie. They bite.
He let the irony fade, the silence thickening again. Was it time to crawl out? Time to step into the firelight, or to stay hidden where the walls still gave him cover?
The world above waited with teeth.
Nameless shifted, pulling himself from the hollow, boots scraping against loose soil. The slope breathed wide again, carrying the chill of the west. Smoke was gone, drowned in dusk. Only the ridges remained, jagged and black.
The west of Montanum. He could almost laugh at the cruelty of it. Not a landmark, not a border — a verdict. East meant fields. South meant rivers. West meant death.
He moved carefully, eyes narrowing.
He edged up within the hollow, peering over the lip. Below, the wolves' bodies were no longer still. Something in the dark had them — dragging, worrying, bones rasping on stone. The sound of teeth carried up the slope: wet, heavy bites, patient and loud.
He watched the ground, not the void; the turf told the rest. Prints pressed deep, wider than his hand, spaced far apart. Too heavy for wolves, too long in stride. He didn't need a number to read the truth.
Whatever owned those jaws wasn't a fight for Level 2.
He eased back into the earth.
Even in silence, the west whispered the same law: here, every step was an oath signed in advance. The spawn tables weren't balanced for mercy. They were written for blood.
Nameless straightened, gaze flicking toward the horizon.
Each direction in Devir was more than a map. It was a sentence. And he had landed in the one where that sentence came early.
He lingered in the hollow a little longer, listening to the slope breathe itself back into silence.
That was the other law of Devir — the numbers. The climb wasn't only blood and bone, but arithmetic. And that arithmetic had no pity.
He flexed his hand, still damp with dirt, the stone's edge faintly red. A flicker pulsed across the overlay.
[Fist Weapons Proficiency +7]
[Fist Weapons Proficiency 7/10,000]
He almost laughed. Out of ten thousand. A fraction carved out by one strike, against a beast he hadn't even killed with his fists. Progress, yes — but progress measured in dust.
That was levelling here. Brutal. Relentless. A cliff face, not a slope. The higher you climbed, the heavier every step became, until the air itself was too thin for most to breathe. People would curse it. Call it unfair, broken. But fairness was never part of the script.
He drew a breath, closing his eyes, and let the system open. Not outward, but inward — as if the game was written beneath his ribs. The numbers surfaced, faint as breath on glass:
Emperor - Level 2:
Strength (STR): 1
Dexterity (DEX): 1
Constitution (CON): 1
Stamina (STA): 1
Intelligence (INT): 5
Wisdom (WIS): 4
Willpower (WIL): 3
Perception (PER): 2
Charisma (CHA): 1
Providence (PRV): 2
HP (Life): 55
IP (Image Points): 46
Breath (Stamina): 23
Status Points: 4+
Skill Points: 1+
The script of his body. Sparse. Lopsided. Intelligence and wisdom pulled high, the rest skeletal. Not a warrior's spread. Not a survivor's. Now it read like a draft—unfinished by design.
But he had written these numbers, once. He knew what they meant.
He distanced himself a little from himself, and said a few words into the air:
Plato said the chains were on the wrists. Turns out they're numbers. Know them, and the shadows stop lying.
Strength snapped bones. Stamina carried the long marches. Constitution decided whether poison killed you quick or slow. Those were visible things, things the others would cling to.
But intelligence, wisdom, will, providence — those move slower, quieter. They don't win fights; they end wars before the first blade leaves the sheath.
One step. Level 2. A handful of points in fists. And a thousand rungs yet to climb.
The west stretched silent before him. A land meant to grind men down until only bone and dust remained.
He exhaled once, sharp, steady.
Yes... I just got to know the west. Death.
The words drifted into the dark, a confession, a warning, and a vow.
He slid lower into the hollow, letting the damp press close and the earth take his scent. The west teaches one courtesy above all: be smaller than the thing that's eating.
Let's not wait for the Banquet, he said, dry. Not my seat. Not yet.
He let the sheet rise again inside the skull, columns like cold pillars. Four lights hovered.
He placed them without hurry.
[INT +1] [WIS +1] [STR +1][PER +1]
The numbers shifted where they needed to, quiet as a heartbeat.
INT 6 · WIS 5 · STR 2 · PER 3(DEX 1 · CON 1 · STA 1 · WIL 3 · CHA 1 · PRV 2)
He left the rest untouched.
Long game, always. You don't buy speed when the road is a cliff; you buy sight, you buy weather, you buy the hand that writes the plan. Muscle is for opening doors. Mind is for choosing which house survives the fire.
One light remained, the lone Skill Point pulsing like a coin he refused to spend.
He let it hang.
"Masters here are scattered", he murmured to the dirt. "Some won't take disciples for months. Some only for coin. Some only if they like your face." A brief, humourless smile. "Best to save the tuition. Found my own school when the ground's ready."
He stilled again, counting the breaths between the heavy bites below until they thinned, then ceased. The ridge listened back. Only then did he lift his head, the world a touch sharper at the edges, and begin to plan the line that would take him out of reach without leaving a trail.