Omen walked ahead, his long strides almost silent. The coordinates burned faintly in his mind—a guiding thread only he could see.
At eight feet two inches tall, his shadow stretched unnaturally long under the Firestar's dim morning light. Behind him trailed Maloch, barely reaching his shoulder, his smaller frame almost swallowed by the giant trees around them.
The two looked like mismatched figures—a demon and his anxious scribe.
Omen moved without hurry and without fear.
If the man behind him wanted to attack, he wouldn't need to look back; it would be as easy as crushing an ant.
Maloch, meanwhile, had entirely different thoughts. Man, being strong must feel amazing, he mused. You don't even have to worry about being stabbed in the back.
The forest creaked softly, heavy with damp mist and old qi. Every few steps, Omen's boots sank slightly into the soil.
"What is your name?" Omen asked suddenly, his tone flat—more like a command than a question.
"Why do you ask?" Maloch shot back. "Tell me your name first."
"Omen," he replied simply. His voice was cold and detached, the way his grandfather used to sound—only he didn't realize it.
"Maloch," the smaller man said after a pause. "Never heard your name in any mercenary circle before."
"I'm no mercenary," Omen said. "Just follow me."
He picked up his pace, long strides eating the ground.
After some time, they reached an area where the trees thinned out. The place felt too normal—the trunks smaller, the air oddly quiet. In a jungle like this, that kind of normalcy was the most unnatural thing of all.
"This doesn't look right," Maloch muttered, moving closer to Omen's side.
"How much gold do you make from these trips?" Omen asked casually, eyes still scanning ahead. The system's coordinates glowed faintly in his mind—the treasure was twenty feet away.
"One, maybe two gold coins at most," Maloch said. "Why?"
"Nothing. Just follow me."
He crouched low, moving with the silence of a shadow. Maloch did the same, eyes darting everywhere.
Then, just as they neared the spot, Maloch tugged Omen's sleeve sharply.
Omen turned, his crimson eyes narrowing. Maloch didn't speak—he only pointed with his chin.
Omen followed his gaze.
And froze.
Not twenty feet away, a massive snake lay coiled, camouflaged perfectly against the terrain. Its scales shimmered faintly, blending into the moss and soil. Its breathing was slow and heavy. It hadn't noticed them—yet.
Omen's instincts sharpened. Status.
Name: Randi
Age: 1 year
Rank: Level 14 (Sentry) 69%
Species: Chameleon 30% + Lizard 20% + Rattlesnake 25% + Green Snake 25%
[Update Status Panel to see more]
Before Omen could move, Maloch flicked his wrist.
A white chain flew out from his palm, glowing faintly with spiritual qi. In an instant, it wrapped around the snake's body. The chain tightened—and before the creature could even open its eyes, the sound of bones shattering echoed through the clearing.
Crunch!
The snake was ground into chunks of meat.
Omen blinked behind his mask, red eyes glinting through the slits. His face was unreadable, but the disappointment was clear in the way his aura shifted—a faint ripple of annoyance.
He was an assassin by nature.
Attacks were meant to be silent, unseen, and efficient.
This brute method… it grated on him.
"Ehehe," Maloch chuckled awkwardly. "It was just a small snake. Can I keep the corpse?"
Omen's jaw tightened beneath the mask. This motherfucker…
But he said nothing. The danger was gone, and the coordinates pulsed again—the treasure was right ahead.
He stepped forward, brushing past the scattered gore.
"Dig here," Omen said, his voice cold and commanding.
"Here? Okay." Maloch didn't argue.
The corpse of the snake alone was worth a fortune—two hundred silver coins, maybe more. Omen didn't even seem to care.
He started digging with a thick branch. The soil was dense, but with his Protector-level strength, he worked quickly. Dirt flew in every direction. Then—clank!—something solid.
The branch splintered.
"There's something here!" Maloch said, excitement breaking through his nervousness.
"Pull it out," Omen replied smoothly. "One of my ancestors left it here for me."
He said it with such calm certainty that Maloch didn't even question it.
Who else would know exactly where to dig in a jungle like this? Maloch thought. A descendant of a rich, powerful, and probably ancient family. It makes sense. Look at his clothes. His tone. His mask.
Maloch jumped into the pit without hesitation. Dirt covered his hands and clothes, but he didn't care. Moments later, he heaved out a black, rectangular box. It was small but heavy—impossibly heavy.
Omen took it from him without a word.
Maloch climbed out, grinning, brushing dirt from his hair. He waited, curious.
The moment Omen opened the box, the firelight caught something—a gleam so bright that even through his mask, Omen's eyes reflected gold.
Maloch gasped and stepped closer.
Rows upon rows of coins shimmered inside, stacked neatly.
"Three hundred gold coins," Omen said casually. "As expected from my ancestors."
Maloch's jaw dropped.
"YOU—WHAT THE FUCK!?" he yelled, nearly falling over. Never in his life had he seen such wealth in one place. His brain struggled to count it.
Omen ignored him. "Be quiet. Do you know where we're standing? Let's get back to my campfire."
With that, he spread his black wings. They unfurled silently, massive and dark, swallowing the morning light.
He lifted off, the box clutched in his hands.
Maloch stared upward, dumbfounded. Then greed snapped him back to reality. He abandoned the snake corpse—it suddenly seemed worthless—and sprinted after Omen through the trees.
By the time he reached the campfire, Omen was already seated again, calm and composed.
Maloch was trembling with excitement, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Faster! Faster—show me!" he blurted out, unable to contain himself.
Omen looked at him blankly. Then, at his own pace, he opened the box.
The coins gleamed again—hundreds of them, brighter than sunlight. The glow of gold reflected faintly on Omen's white mask, turning it momentarily golden.
Even he couldn't hide the small spark in his chest—the rush of power, the thrill of wealth.
In the still air of the cursed jungle, the flames crackled, gold shimmered, and somewhere deep in the distance… something large stirred awake.