Lone Wolf Returns
The forest air was sharp and cool, thick with the scent of pine and distant rain. Twigs snapped beneath Alter's bare, calloused feet as he moved like a wraith through the underbrush, muscles tense, eyes scanning.
His body, though weakened, remembered.
This was how it had begun before—before the mythic titles, the divine armor, the command of hundreds. When survival had been his only goal and hunger his constant companion.
And now… he was back to the beginning.
He crouched low beside a trail of freshly disturbed earth. Small hoof prints. Scratch marks on the bark. A boar. Not a huge one—but big enough for meat, hide, and bones. His fingers brushed the ground, and he tracked it with a quiet determination.
Minutes passed.
Then—
A rustle.
With precision and practiced calm, Alter waited in the shadows, holding a sharpened branch crudely whittled into a spear. The wild boar pushed through the bushes, snorting and grunting, unaware of the predator watching it.
One clean breath.
One silent step.
Then—
Whump—!
The spear plunged through the side of the beast with a wet crunch. It squealed, thrashed—then went still.
Alter exhaled and dropped to his knees, hands bloody, heart steady.
"Got you..."
It wasn't just meat. It was a start. Shelter. Bones for tools. Hide for warmth.
The same tactics that kept him alive back then would serve him again.
Later that night, he sat by a small campfire, the flames reflecting in his hollowed eyes as boar meat roasted over a spit. His makeshift lean-to creaked slightly under the breeze, branches tied together with sinew and bark. Primitive. Ugly.
But it was his.
The crackling silence was disturbed only by the faint chirp of night insects… until Alter looked up and muttered lowly:
"Still World."
No response.
He gritted his teeth.
"Still World!"
Nothing.
He stood up now, eyes twitching.
"STILL WORLD!!"
Ding.
[Access Denied: Level Requirement Not Met. Minimum Required Level: 500]
"…What?!"
His scream echoed through the forest as he hurled the status screen away like it had personally betrayed him.
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"
"WHAT LEVEL FIVE HUNDRED BULLSH—"
"DID THAT LONG-HAIRED SHINY BASTARD REALLY?!"
Scene Shift: Divine Realm – Above the Mortal Veil
Amid floating marble terraces and endless skies laced with stars, a thunderous ACHOO!! exploded through the Divine Realm like a cannon.
The clouds rippled from the impact. Angels scattered like startled birds.
Solien Astridane, radiant and godlike in celestial robes, rubbed his nose with a lace handkerchief far too elegant for the job.
"...Hm. Strange."
Another ACHOO!! cracked the air, followed by a localized shockwave that shattered a crystal teacup.
At a nearby sunlit table, Seraphina, now in a translucent starlit gown, covered her ears. Her wings quivered from the shockwave. Her golden hair was dimmer than before, her aura faint, but her presence remained ever divine.
"That's the fourth time in five minutes. Are you—catching something?"
Solien blinked at her, confused.
"Gods don't get sick."
He sniffed. His expression remained immaculate—eyebrows sharp like blades, his eyes swirling with golden galaxies—but a faint twitch betrayed his annoyance.
"But now my ears are burning. And something's tugging at my threads."
Seraphina crossed her arms and gave him the kind of glare only a little sister—or a divine caretaker—could pull off.
"Maybe someone's cursing your name."
He tilted his head.
"Alter?"
She rolled her eyes.
"Who else do you think has lungs and a vendetta loud enough to pierce the Realms?"
Another sneeze came like a divine cannon blast.
Solien braced himself against a pillar. Several nearby angels dropped their trays of ambrosia and scrambled.
Seraphina gave him a glare that only a cosmic daughter could deliver to a cosmic father.
Another ACHOO!! erupted, and this time a small tremor ran through the terrace floor.
"For the stars' sake, go see the God of Medicine!"
Seraphina gave him a glare that only a cosmic daughter could deliver to a cosmic father.
"Seriously. Go see the God of Medicine."
"Gods don't get sick."
"Then go see him for a divine misalignment. Or a karmic allergy."
Solien, stunned, looked like a scolded father. He straightened with a sigh and turned to walk away, golden wings flaring.
"Fine. But I'm telling you, gods don't get si—ACHOO!!"
A nearby celestial fountain shattered. Seraphina groaned and buried her face in her hands. After he left Solien's voice spoke in the air.
"He'll be fine, Seraphina," he said, softer now. "Your connection may be gone, but his will… it's awake. I felt it stir when I sealed him."
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she looked up toward the mortal plane—toward the wilderness, the stars, and that one flicker of soul trudging forward in rags.
"…He better be."
Back in the mortal realm, Alter sneezed.
"What the hell was that?"
He paused.
"No… wait. That was my sneeze?"
He shook it off and sat down again, chewing on a strip of roasted meat. His hands were blistered. His body was sore.
But he was alive.
And he was leveling up.
Slowly.
Surely.
Alone.
Sparks Without Fire – The Struggle for Magic and Strategy
The shelter was humble, yet sturdy—a slanted roof of lashed branches layered with boar hide and moss, raised slightly above the mud on woven roots. Around the perimeter, Alter had laid down simple but effective traps—pitfalls disguised with leaves, tripwire snare loops, sharpened stakes hidden near entry angles. Every measure came from memory—training long past, from the days before divine weapons and dungeon gods.
Now he was back at the start.
No Vastbane.
No divine armor.
No titles, no acclaim, no one calling him "Commander."
Only dirt beneath his nails and a half-roasted leg of boar held over the fire with a stick.
He finished eating, wiped his hands on a cloth made from bark fibers, then sat cross-legged in front of the fire.
"Status."
The translucent panel shimmered in his vision.
[STATUS – ALTER]
Level: 2
Class: —
Title: —
HP: 62 / 62 | MP: 21 / 21
Strength: 9 | Agility: 7 | Intelligence: 11 | Vitality: 8 | Willpower: 10 | Luck: 5
Magic Affinities: Fire, Ice, Water, Wind, Earth, Light, Dark, Nature, Lightning(Unlocked – Inactive)
Draconic Traits: — [Locked]
Skill Tree: [Sealed]
Unique Class: [Primordial Architect – Locked]
Titles: [Sealed]
World Rule Affinities: [Sealed]
"Level two…" Alter muttered.
He leaned back against the shelter wall and let out a sigh so long, a squirrel peeking from the trees paused, confused.
"No system voice to narrate my journey. No inner voice to mock me. Not even a passive-aggressive tooltip."
He stood, grabbed a length of bark-twine from his belt, and headed into the woods again.
Survival was different now.
He didn't rush into battles. He stalked, flanked, set bait.
He learned the patrol paths of woodland beasts. The signs of night birds before a storm. The slight droop of vines that marked a wild pig den.
He even began etching basic strategies into bark panels, like a primitive journal.
Three boars on patrol. One dominant. Flank from east. Use fire to scatter.
Rabbit snare: success x3. Need better trip tension.
Avoid wolves until at least level 5. Or maybe invent exploding traps.
He caught squirrels, lizards, and the occasional unlucky deer. His shelter grew in complexity—now with a raised storage area, smoke chimney, and even a miniature alarm bell trap made from a cracked goblin helmet and pebbles.
But still…
Magic refused him.
One evening, after hours of hunting, he sat by the fire. His body was bruised, yet still eager.
He extended his hand.
"Let's try lightning this time."
He focused, breathing deeply.
"Feel the charge. Flow the current. Turn thought into spark. Come on… just one zap."
He narrowed his eyes and pictured a bolt forming.
Nothing.
He gritted his teeth.
"Nature then—vines, roots—anything!"
He grunted, forcing his hand forward. A shimmer of mana pulsed…
…then fizzled.
"Tch."
He tried Fire. Then Ice.
Nothing.
He looked at his palm. "I have the affinities. I should be able to use them. I understand the structure. I know the spells by theory…"
His fingers twitched.
Still nothing.
A sudden gust of wind rustled the trees.
[Notice: Skill Unlock Conditions Not Met]
[Advanced Magic Requires Conceptual Theory and System-Level Permission]
[Magic Use: Locked until reaching Level 20]
He froze.
And then, he erupted.
"TWENTY!? TWENTY!?"
He stood up and hurled his stick at the tree.
"You cosmic level feathered decree-dumping six-winged temple groomer! You moon-polishing law-engraving unflavored pudding excuse for a divine! You—YOU—!"
His voice echoed through the trees.
High above, an owl blinked. A fox scurried into its den.
"…Your ancestors too! Every generation of War God that wore gold armor and flexed in mirrors—I CURSE YOU!"
He sat back down, panting.
The embers crackled as if chuckling with him.
He grabbed a leaf-wrapped piece of roasted meat and bit into it with rage-fueled resolve.
"Fine. No magic. No Still World. No shortcuts."
"Then I'll just walk the road to godhood. Step. By. Step."
He tossed another log into the fire.
The flames rose.
So did he.
Tomorrow would be another hunt.
Another day.
One closer to level 20… and one step closer to the throne that once rejected him.
Divine Diagnosis – The War God's Embarrassing Appointment
Far above the mortal realm, in the endless radiance of the Divine Cloudspires, a pristine temple floated gently on a shimmering sea of aurora light. Inside, a long corridor of crystal arches led to a chamber brimming with alchemical scent and divine herbs glowing in orbs of golden stasis.
Seated reluctantly on a gleaming marble examination slab was none other than Solien Astridane, the Radiant Sovereign, his six wings folded neatly behind his back, armor spotless, golden brows furrowed.
Before him stood the one deity he wished to avoid—
The God of Medicine, Alzanther the Infinite Dose.
Draped in flowing green robes embroidered with silver spirals of healing runes, Alzanther held a glimmering staff shaped like a blooming lotus. A monocle flickered with analyzing arrays over his left eye as he scribbled into a levitating tablet.
"Let me get this straight…" Alzanther spoke, voice laced with scholarly superiority. "You—Solien Astridane, Lord of Celestial Flame and Keeper of the Sixth Flame—are here because your ears are ringing and you keep sneezing?"
Solien crossed his arms, staring off with dignified silence. "It is… nothing. I was only curious."
Alzanther arched a brow. "Curious enough to barge into my temple without appointment, interrupting my 3,000-year detoxification ritual for the God of Alcoholism, just to ask if your nostrils are cursed?"
Solien frowned. "I am simply experiencing… feedback."
Alzanther chuckled in disbelief and paced. "Gods don't get sick. We transcend immunology. I've been practicing medicine since the First Age of Bone. I healed the lungs of the Fire Titan who inhaled a volcano! I realigned the soul of a love god who was turned into a slime! I—"
A massive sneeze erupted from Solien.
"AH-CHHOOOO!"
The entire temple trembled.
A shockwave blasted outward from Solien's nose, hurling scrolls across the room. Bottles exploded in a colorful burst of medicinal glitter. Racks of healing crystals crashed to the floor like divine dominos. Alzanther's monocle spun off his face and pinged against the wall.
Silence.
Alzanther stood still—arms slack, beard slightly smoking, hair blown backward like he'd just flown through a hurricane.
His divine tablet floated down, slowly, like the last leaf of a proud tree in autumn.
"…You sneezed in my exam room," he muttered, voice cracking.
Solien blinked once.
"I warned you."
Alzanther's face twitched. Black lines of existential despair trailed down his forehead. "You… you've single-handedly disproven the entire divine medical doctrine…"
Solien coughed lightly and stood. "If you need to rewrite your research, I can sign the scrolls."
"GET OUT!"
Alzanther hurled a pillow with the force of a comet.
Solien phased through it casually, lifting a hand in farewell as he opened a golden portal. "Thank you, Alzanther. I'll send a blessing for your next thesis."
"You're a walking contradiction!" the God of Medicine shouted as papers fluttered in all directions. "Don't come back without a mask!"
As Solien stepped through the portal with regal composure, another sneeze began to build in his chest.
Back in the mortal realm, a town three hundred miles away reported sudden thunder and a sky split by radiant wind.
The Return of the Lone Wolf
Six months had passed.
The land had not changed, but the man walking its path was no longer the same.
Dust crunched beneath his boots as he approached the stone steps of the adventurers' guild. His presence, though quiet, drew gazes without effort. Not because of fame. Not because of power. But because of presence—like a blade sheathed in silence.
A brown pelt wrapped around his shoulders, rough and thick. The hide of a dire wolf, its savage head worn like a hood over his own. Its snout jutted just above his brow, its fangs curled around his temples, shadowing the upper part of his face.
Underneath the pelt, he wore stitched leather armor, primitive yet resilient—formed from beast hide and claw, hardened by countless days in the wild. No ornamentation. No crests. No symbols of status.
Two fangs glinted at his waist—twin daggers, blackened bone-white with jagged edges. The left was slightly curved, the right straighter, like mirrored shadows.
Yin and Yang.
Names given not for balance, but for contrast. One to cut through light, the other to bite into shadow.
Alter's body bore no excess. He was lean, corded with survival-honed muscle. His steps were deliberate, like a predator unbothered by terrain. And when he passed through the massive doors of the guild, he did so without pausing.
The hall quieted.
Not entirely. Just enough to notice something… unfamiliar.
A few adventurers glanced up. Some scoffed—ragged cloak, wild look, no visible guild emblem. A nobody, perhaps. A newcomer.
But the veterans, the real ones—the few who'd tasted fear and lived through it—froze mid-breath. Their instincts screamed something ancient: predator.
No words left Alter's mouth.
He moved to the board. Examined it with a stillness more akin to a statue than a man. His hood still low. Eyes unseen. The carved wolf head of Varyth giving the illusion of a beast staring at the world.
Behind him, a few whispers stirred.
"Who is that…?"
"Never seen him before."
"Wait… I think I've heard that coat described somewhere. The Lone Wolf—?"
But no one dared approach.
Not yet.
For the first time in six months, Alter stood not as a survivor of grief…
…but as a hunter returning to civilization.
The guild hall buzzed with its usual mid-morning rhythm—adventurers trading stories, taking missions, and bickering over contracts—but it quieted slightly when the heavy wooden doors creaked open again.
Alter stepped through.
He carried no aura. No announcement. Just the solid, rhythmic thud of boots and the slight sway of a bulging sack made from monster hide slung over one shoulder. Each step was unhurried, like someone with no need to rush—but every movement precise, practiced.
He walked straight toward the main counter, where a row of attendants were stationed behind polished oak desks.
A young woman with bright eyes and a short, cheerful ponytail looked up from her paperwork. Unlike many in the room, she didn't tense or flinch when she saw him approach. Her smile was natural, unforced.
"Good morning, sir!" she said with a hint of playfulness. "How can I help you today?"
Alter reached into a side pouch and pulled out a weathered scroll—a mid-tier herb collection request—and placed it on the counter. Then, with a subtle shift of his shoulder, he dropped the monster hide sack with a soft thump, careful not to damage the wood.
From within it, he retrieved two smaller bags, one tightly bundled and sealed with twine, the other loosely tied.
He placed the sealed one first.
"Herbs. For the mission."
Then the second.
"Spare materials. Bones, fangs, meat. Dire wolf and forest bear types. Good quality."
The attendant blinked once, then nodded with a professional beam.
"Understood. I'll get started on the mission verification." She picked up the scroll and scanned it quickly, fingers moving in smooth familiarity. "Collection deadline… field type… yes, this matches. Please give me just a moment."
Without waiting for a response, she turned to her terminal—an enchanted crystal slab—and began processing the quest.
As she worked, she waved over another attendant.
"Hey, Mina! Can you help assess monster parts?"
A shorter girl with round glasses perked up and rushed over. "Yes! Right away!"
The second attendant reached for the loosely tied bag. When she opened it, the distinct scent of preserved monster meat and bone wafted out. Not foul—just earthy, fresh, and cleanly packed. Her eyes widened at the quality.
"These are… dire wolf fangs? They're still sharp," she muttered, then blinked at a claw fragment with intact marrow. "And this looks like apex forest bear material—what kind of knife did he use to carve these?"
Alter, still silent, simply shifted the twin daggers at his hips—Yin and Yang, curved and clean, resting with quiet menace in their sheaths.
The first attendant smiled again as she slid the completed quest form back toward him. "Mission complete. You collected more than required, so there's a bonus from the alchemy association. Please give me a moment to tally your materials for sale."
She glanced toward her colleague. "Mina?"
The girl gave a quick nod, holding up one of the fangs.
"These are definitely worth something. He cleaned them perfectly—no decay. I'll do a full assessment now."
As the two worked efficiently behind the counter, whispering between numbers and appraising value, Alter stepped back and folded his arms.
For once, the guild atmosphere remained unbothered by his presence. Adventurers passed by, some giving curious glances, but no one panicked or whispered.
Not like before.
The wooden doors of the guild creaked as Alter stepped out into the early morning light, the thick pelt of the dire wolf shifting across his shoulders like a shadow that had taken root. The twin daggers at his waist—Yin and Yang—jingled faintly against the leather armor he'd fashioned himself.
Behind him, the perky young receptionist exhaled as if she'd been holding her breath from sheer awe rather than fear.
"He's always like that… doesn't say much, but…" she whispered aloud.
From the stairwell, heavy bootsteps echoed.
"Was that him?" came a calm, low voice.
The girl straightened instantly. "Yes, Guild Master Archine."
Guild Master Archine's sharp eyes narrowed as he walked past her to the counter. A tall, weathered man with short salt-gray hair and an air of natural command, he looked out the guild doors where Alter's silhouette faded into the city streets.
"Hm."
"What is it, sir?" the receptionist asked curiously.
Archine didn't answer at first. His gaze lingered too long for it to be just habit. It wasn't the pelt or the twin fangs worn like tribal trophies. It was the feeling—that deep, instinctual shiver you got staring over the edge of a bottomless cliff.
Something about that man… was wrong.
No—not wrong. Vast.
Archine turned slowly and headed for the back room, arms crossed, one brow still raised in thought.
"Strange…" he muttered under his breath. "He felt like a storm caged in silence."
Beneath the shade of a gnarled tree just outside the city walls, Alter leaned against the trunk and exhaled a slow, measured breath. The sun filtered through the leaves above, dappling his worn wolf pelt in flecks of gold. He closed his eyes, opened his hand, and whispered the familiar mental command.
Status.
A translucent blue screen flickered into existence before his eyes, suspended in the air like a whisper of memory.
[STATUS – ALTER]
Level: 16
Class: —
Title: —
HP: 312 / 312 | MP: 78 / 78
Strength: 44 | Agility: 41 | Intelligence: 52 | Vitality: 39 | Willpower: 45 | Luck: 13
Magic Affinities: Fire, Ice, Water, Wind, Earth, Light, Dark, Lightning, Nature
Skill Tree: [Partially Unlocked]
Unique Class: [Primordial Architect – Locked]
Titles: [Sealed]
World Rule Affinities: [Sealed]
Skill Points Gained (per level): 50x
EXP Multiplier: — [Privilege Locked]
Creator Authority: [Sealed]
Still World Access: Locked until Lv. 500
Alter stared at the number beside "Level" for a long moment. Sixteen.
That was it.
He closed the screen with a flick of his fingers and let out a short sigh. The days of rapid leaps through tiers and flashy combat were long behind him.
No shortcuts. No cheat codes.
His Double EXP Privilege—once a subtle yet powerful blessing—had been locked away. A silent punishment. Or perhaps… a safeguard.
But this time, Alter didn't curse Solien.
He didn't want to.
He understood now—true power wasn't in the sprint. It was in the climb. The grit. The struggle. Foundations built too quickly collapse just as fast. And he'd collapsed harder than anyone.
Instead, he welcomed the crawl. Step by step. Kill by kill. Skill by skill.
He raised his hand again, accessing a sub-menu this time.
Skills.
Small, familiar names glowed softly.
Basic Swordplay
Monster Tracking
Quickstep
Minor Healing
Mana Control – Rudimentary
Elemental Spark (Lightning)
Simple. Weak. But real.
What lifted his spirits was another line near the bottom.
Skill Points: 320
Thanks to his remaining privilege—50x Skill Point Multiplier per Level—he had more flexibility than any normal adventurer. That advantage had kept him alive against beasts that should've torn him to shreds. Let others level faster; Alter learned faster.
He tightened the wolf-fang dagger at his hip.
"Maybe I should go dungeon diving again..." he murmured aloud, only for a gust of wind to respond. He thought for a moment.
Then frowned.
Only Hard and Extreme Mode unlocked. That hadn't changed.
A normal adventurer would be proud to reach Hard Mode eligibility. Alter just remembered the last Extreme Mode dungeon—Thornveil Depths. And the disaster that came after.
He looked down at the leather armor on his body. Home-sewn. Sturdy, but far from the divine armor he once wore.
He reached out and ran a thumb over the worn edge of Yin, one of the twin daggers.
"Not yet," he whispered to himself. "I need better gear. Something I forge myself."
No more shortcuts.
His goal now was simple: Level 20. Once there, he'd begin what he had been delaying—crafting.
Forging, tailoring, leatherwork, alchemy—basic now, but all still available. Still within reach.
Alter's gaze narrowed as he looked over the small forge site he'd been constructing with stones and heat-enchanted ore he traded for in town. His fingers itched to work again. To create. Not weapons of world-shattering destruction—but armor that fit his hand. Daggers that responded to instinct. Potions that would carry him through another near-death encounter.
He muttered under his breath, "Even if it's basic stuff... I'll make gear with my own hands."
The wolves of the forest stirred nearby. The wild had grown familiar now—its patterns, its signs, its predators. Just like when he first arrived in this world… yet he was different. He was reborn now, a craftsman by will and a warrior by necessity.
And when he reached level 20, the reforging would begin.
Reforging the Path – Sparks of the Forgotten Flame
A week passed.
In that time, Alter had hunted, tracked, and survived with methodical precision. His movements were smooth now, practiced. He no longer fought with desperation but with understanding—each engagement was a test, each monster a lesson. And by the time the seventh dawn broke, the System chimed silently in his mind:
[LEVEL UP!]
Level: 20
Skill Tree Expansion Unlocked
Crafting Class Proficiencies: Forging, Tailoring, Leatherwork, Alchemy (Beginner Tier)
Skill Unlocks: [Flame Temper], [Precision Cut], [Basic Enchant Socket], [Herbal Mixture: Vital Tonic]
You have gained: +50 Skill Points
Alter opened his eyes slowly, crouched beside a freshly slain sabre-fang panther. Its deep indigo pelt shimmered slightly in the light of dawn. He exhaled—calm and cold—and wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Finally," he murmured.
A short hike later, Alter stood before the forge site he'd prepared: a cleared patch surrounded by a ring of jagged stones, each inscribed with basic elemental sigils he'd copied from his older notes. A large flat boulder acted as his anvil. A shallow pit of coals—kept alive with a bit of fire affinity and a whole lot of frustration—radiated low heat.
He laid his salvaged supplies before him:
Sabre-fang pelt (x3)
Dire boar hide (x5)
Bone shards (assorted, cleaned)
Monster sinew, claws, tusks, and fangs
Mana-drenched stones (x2)
Vials of harvested forest herbs
One cracked mythril shard—salvaged from an old ruin
He sat cross-legged, inspecting each item.
"This isn't mythic-tier," he muttered. "But it's mine."
He pulled his hair back, tying it with a strip of leather. One by one, he selected tools—improvised hammers, bone-bladed carving knives, stitched leather gloves—and got to work.
Metal rang in the air.
The first item: a pair of reinforced leather vambraces, using sabre-fang hide for flexibility and boar bone plating for impact deflection. They weren't flashy, but they were light, durable, and fit his form.
Next came a hunter's cloak, stitched from layered hides, dyed with a natural black ink brewed from forest sap and crushed beetle shells. He added minor monster-core threading for resilience, sewing with a steadiness only honed through pain.
His hands bled.
He didn't stop.
As the sun set, his camp was scattered with discarded fibers and glimmering scrap. He leaned back against the base of his forge boulder, breathing heavily.
He now wore the cloak, vambraces, and a freshly tailored leather vest lined with bone guards. It wasn't divine armor. It wasn't mythic. But it was his.
[CRAFTING COMPLETE]
You have forged:
— [Cloak of Quiet Hunt] (Uncommon)
— [Direbone Vambraces] (Uncommon)
— [Wilder's Vest] (Uncommon)
Passive Bonuses:
— +10% Agility
— +5% Damage Reduction vs Beasts
— +8% Stealth Movement
Crafting Proficiency increased. Skill Tree Progression unlocked.
Alter exhaled.
He felt something deep stir in him—not power, but craftsmanship. The same joy he once knew long ago when forging Artifact-tier weapons… but now in humble pieces of leather and bone.
He stared at the stars, the last hint of daylight slipping away.
"This... is how it begins again."
A week had passed since Alter reached level 20.
He stood in a secluded clearing near the edge of the forest, where the old remnants of an abandoned hunter's cabin had been repurposed into a makeshift workshop. Logs had been reshaped into workbenches, a dirt pit hollowed out and lined with stone to act as a primitive forge, and animal hides stretched and dried in the shade beneath nearby branches.
Alter exhaled slowly, eyeing the materials he had collected over the past few weeks: hardened boar hide, iron-touched beast bones, wiry sinew, venom glands, and fragments of crystal-infused ore from a wandering elemental beast. Crude ingredients by mythic standards—but to a man reborn, they were a foundation.
His fingers ran over the leather apron tied around his waist. It was worn and stained, just like the pair of gloves resting on the table. He muttered under his breath, "No Creator Authority… no divine forge… no Vastbane… But I've still got hands, and they remember."
He lit the forge with a spark of flint. Flames roared to life, licking the edges of the pit as smoke coiled into the air. He placed a curved fang and a shard of bone onto the anvil. It wasn't his Divine Anvil, but he didn't flinch. His grip was steady, his hammer an extension of will.
Each strike echoed with a distinct rhythm—one part memory, one part instinct.
[Crafting Attempt: Beastfang Dagger – Success!]
A thin, curved blade emerged, its surface jagged but sharp, ideal for slicing through wild foliage and soft monster hide. The grip, wrapped in dried sinew, rested snug in his hand. Not elegant. Not divine. But earned.
He didn't stop there.
Using the thickest boar hide and inner scale lining of a forest lizard, Alter began sewing together a new chestpiece. His needle was crude, his thread rough, but each stitch was careful. He reinforced the seams with beast bone, giving it flexibility without compromising defense.
[Crafting Attempt: Reinforced Wildhide Vest – Success!]
He wiped the sweat from his brow. Nightfall came fast, but his hands worked faster. Vials of monster fluids and herbal extracts lined the bench as he turned to alchemy next. Crushed herbs, ground fang, and lizard blood mixed into a smoky green concoction.
[Alchemy Attempt: Minor Healing Potion x3 – Success!]
By the time the moon rose above the treetops, Alter had forged:
Two spare Beastfang Daggers
A Reinforced Wildhide Vest
Boarhide Boots with ankle support
A Hunter's Cloak made from stitched dire wolf fur
Three minor healing potions
A half-burnt pair of gloves he swore were still usable
He finally sat down by the forge, rubbing his tired hands. The air was heavy with smoke and achievement.
"I'm not a god anymore," he whispered to the stars, "but I'm still a creator."
And so, in that clearing of crude tools and firelit ambition, the rebirth of the Lone Wolf began—not as a celestial forger, but as a survivor shaping his own fate one strike at a time.
The soft crackle of firewood echoed through the forest clearing as dusk settled in, painting the sky in fading streaks of crimson and gold. Alter sat by his modest campfire, sharpening one of his dire wolf fang daggers—Yin—with steady, methodical strokes. His expression was quiet, distant, though alert to every sound beyond the treeline. He had survived alone for months now. Survival was routine. Emotions, however… were not.
But tonight, something was different.
A rustle.
Then a frantic crunch of leaves.
He rose in an instant, blades drawn and senses sharpened. That's when two figures burst through the underbrush—one stumbling, the other dragging the first by the hand.
A boy, no older than thirteen, dirt-smeared and panting with terror, turned sharply as a girl, smaller—maybe eleven—nearly tripped behind him.
Their eyes widened when they saw Alter.
The girl gasped and clutched the boy's sleeve. "There's someone here!"
The boy raised his arms defensively, shielding her. "Please—we're not here to steal or fight!"
Alter said nothing. His eyes narrowed, glancing beyond them to the looming shadows in the woods. The faint clanking of armor. Voices. Slavers.
"Tch."
He walked past the children without a word, stepping to the edge of the camp, into the twilight.
Then came the shouting.
"There they are!"
Steel gleamed. Five men emerged—two in light armor, three in heavy cloaks bearing the slave crest of the underground trade syndicate.
"You there!" one of the armored men barked at Alter. "Step aside. Those kids belong to us."
Alter's response was the glint of twin blades drawn in silence.
"No negotiation?" the slaver sneered. "You must not know who we are."
Alter tilted his head once. His voice low, calm.
"I don't care who you are."
What followed was swift. Ruthless.
Like a wolf unleashed.
The first body hit the ground before any of them realized a blade had moved. The second and third collapsed in the same breath, blood fanning the leaves in dark crimson sprays. The fourth tried to retreat but a flicker of steel through the throat silenced him. The last man—an older slaver, trembling—tried to speak.
Alter stepped in.
One clean stab through the chest.
All fell silent.
The forest air, once filled with shouting and panic, was now only pierced by the crackling fire and the soft sobs of the girl, who clung to the boy's hand tightly.
Alter turned around slowly, his blades dripping, the wolf's head of his cloak casting a long shadow in the firelight.
The children backed up instinctively, eyes wide.
"…You're safe now," he said, cleaning his daggers with practiced grace.
The boy gulped. "Y-You killed them."
"I did," Alter replied, kneeling to clean his hands in the nearby creek. "They deserved worse."
The girl trembled but spoke with surprising clarity. "Why did you help us?"
Alter paused. The words didn't come easily. But he answered.
"…Because once… someone tried to save my family too. But they were too late."
He returned to the campfire, tossing more wood onto the flames. "You can stay. Eat. Rest."
The two children exchanged glances. Uncertainty. Then slow, cautious steps forward.
"What's your name?" the boy asked, voice hoarse.
Alter looked into the fire.
"…Call me Lone Wolf."
The girl tilted her head. "That's not a name."
"It is now."
They sat down slowly beside him. Awkward. Hesitant. But grateful.
Alter passed them a piece of roasted meat on a wooden skewer. They hesitated, then devoured it like starving pups.
Under the canopy of stars, a new pact was formed—unspoken, born of blood, fear, and fire.
That night, for the first time in months… Alter watched over something other than himself.
And in the silence of the woods, two children finally slept in peace.
The soft crackling of firewood echoed through the clearing, wrapped in the thin mist of early morning. Emberlight flickered against the walls of the small camp, casting long shadows over a pair of sleeping forms curled in a shared blanket near a makeshift lean-to.
Alter sat cross-legged beside the flame, his expression calm but watchful. The leather pan sizzled atop a flat stone heated by the fire, releasing the mouthwatering aroma of roasted boar strips and wild herbs. He turned the meat with a sharpened stick, eyes briefly glancing at the two children still asleep—faces softened in innocence despite the horrors they'd escaped just a day ago.
The fire was low earlier, but he'd already stoked it back to life with fresh kindling. A habit burned into him from countless days surviving alone. But this time… he wasn't alone.
A yawn broke the stillness.
The boy stirred first, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand before sitting up and sniffing the air like a hungry wolf. His hair was messy, and his clothes still bore the dirt and torn threads of their escape, but a bit of color had returned to his cheeks.
"Is that… meat?" he asked, voice cautious but hopeful.
The girl blinked awake next, smaller and slower, her bright hazel eyes peeking out from behind a tangled curtain of hair. She clutched the blanket tightly before cautiously glancing at Alter.
He didn't respond immediately. He merely motioned toward the two wooden bowls near the fire.
"Eat first," he said, his tone neither cold nor gentle—just... steady.
The boy looked at the girl, then scrambled forward, picking up the bowl with shaking hands. The girl followed, more hesitant, kneeling beside her companion.
A few quiet moments passed as they ate. The boy chewed ravenously, but the girl kept stealing glances at Alter between bites. It was only after finishing that she spoke, voice soft.
"…Thank you, mister."
The boy set his bowl down, swallowing hard. "I'm Finn," he said. "She's Mira. We don't have a last name. Never did."
Alter gave a slow nod.
Finn continued, his voice growing steadier, as if hoping to prove something. "We weren't always running. I used to work in a blacksmith's shop… until the owner sold me. Said I was costing him too much."
Mira tugged on her sleeves. "I… was taken from a burned village. I ran, but they caught me eventually. Finn found me when we were in the same caravan. He helped me escape."
Finn scratched his cheek. "I thought we'd keep running, but… we got lucky. You were there."
Silence followed. Only the wind rustling through the leaves and the occasional crackle of fire broke it. Then Alter stood, casting a long shadow over the two.
He stared down at them, expression unreadable, then finally spoke.
"You're both still alive. That means something."
They looked up at him, eyes wide.
"I won't let you die in a ditch," he said. "But if you're staying, you'll train. Fight. Survive."
Mira looked uncertain, but Finn's eyes lit up with determination.
"Yes! I want to learn!"
Alter turned away, walking toward the nearby trees. "Good. From now on, you're my students. The thirteenth and fourteenth."
"Th-thirteenth and fourteenth?" Mira echoed, stumbling to her feet.
He paused briefly. "The others are far away now… or gone."
The weight in his voice silenced any further questions.
Finn clenched his fists. "Then we'll honor them, sir. I promise."
Alter didn't turn around, but something in his stance eased. He pointed to a nearby flat clearing with a few fallen logs.
"Training begins after breakfast. You'll hate it."
Finn grinned, puffing up. "I already hate running."
Mira muttered with a groan, "…That's not encouraging."
And so, beneath the gentle morning sun, in a forgotten part of the world, the Lone Wolf's camp transformed—not just into a shelter, but into a beginning.
A legacy reborn.
One boar roast and two stubborn kids at a time.