Ming couldn't sleep. His body ached from the trial, each breath tugging against the stitches across his ribs, but pain wasn't what kept him awake.
It was the quest.
> [Quest: Forge Your Weapon.]
[Time remaining: 86 hours.]
The words burned into his skull. No matter how he shifted, the reminder pulsed inside his thoughts. His bare hands were no longer enough.
The cavern was cold, the floor damp beneath him. Shadows clung to the jagged walls, unmoving. He exhaled slowly, pressing his palm against the rough stone floor as he forced himself upright.
His body protested. Pain flared along his side, a reminder of how close he'd come to death. But standing still was worse. He had less than four days before the next trial, and resting wasn't going to conjure a blade out of thin air.
With a faint grunt, he stepped out of the cavern.
The forest greeted him like an enemy. The air was damp, thick with the smell of soil and rot. Mist curled low around the roots of ancient trees, making every shape look alive. He tightened his bandages, pulled his ragged tunic tighter, and began moving.
Food first. A weapon was useless if he collapsed from hunger.
He searched in silence, senses sharp. A mutated boar darted through the underbrush, but his reflexes lagged—the Soul Step pulled at him instinctively, yet his ribs screamed when he tried to lunge. The boar slipped into the shadows, gone.
"Tch." He leaned against a tree, catching his breath. His body could take more damage than before, but recovery was far from complete.
He pressed two fingers to his temple. "Soul Sense."
The world shifted. His surroundings slowed, faint outlines blooming at the edges of his vision. Every heartbeat—his own, and the faint thrum of animals hidden in the bush—echoed in his head. He tried pairing it with a flicker of Soul Step, vanishing two paces forward. The move was clumsy, unbalanced, and he nearly collapsed against a tree.
But it worked. The two abilities fed into each other—one sharpened his awareness, the other pushed his body through space itself. If he could refine them, he wouldn't just dodge attacks; he'd predict and outmaneuver them before they came.
A grin tugged at his lips despite the pain. "Raw, but promising."
He kept moving. Every rustle made him cautious. In this world, it was eat or be eaten. And right now, he leaned closer to the second.
Hours passed before he stumbled upon a clearing. The remnants of an old camp lay scattered across the ground—burned-out firewood, broken stakes, and scraps of rusted metal left behind by someone who hadn't survived long enough to pack them.
Ming crouched and sifted through the debris. A dull knife. A broken pan. Rusted nails. Nothing sharp enough to butcher, but enough to spark an idea.
He turned the dull knife in his hand. "If scraps like these are lying around, there has to be something better hidden deeper."
The system chimed.
> [Quest Update: Rare materials required to forge a weapon capable of synchronization.]
[Sub-Quest Generated: Raid the Forgotten Dungeon.]
[Objective: Acquire forging material strong enough to pierce divine essence.]
[Warning: Dungeon difficulty – lethal.]
Ming froze. A dungeon. Not just scavenging, not scraps from dead men. The system was pointing him toward something deliberate.
He muttered under his breath, "So it's time to earn a blade that can kill a god."
The words left a weight in his chest. He hadn't seen a god yet, not face-to-face. But the thought of steel that could cut them—it was the kind of weapon his vengeance demanded.
He tightened his grip on the dull blade, as if to promise himself. "Then I'll raid your damn dungeon."
The path to the dungeon wasn't marked, but his instincts carried him. The forest grew denser as he walked, the air heavier, until he found a dungeon mouth hidden between gnarled roots. The stone reeked of death, and faint claw marks scarred the entrance.
He stepped inside.
The dungeon air was colder than outside, biting his skin. Each breath misted before him, vanishing into the pitch. The walls were slick with condensation, every droplet falling with an echo too loud, like time dripping away. His footsteps sank into dust and old bones, crunching faintly. The deeper he moved, the more oppressive the silence grew—until even his heartbeat felt too loud.
Shadows shifted along the walls as though alive. The dungeon pulsed faintly, as if it had veins, its breath seeping into him. It felt less like a ruin and more like a beast's gullet, waiting to close.
The first monster appeared silently—an eyeless beast, its body pale and stretched thin, claws scraping against stone. It hissed and lunged.
Ming activated Soul Sense. The world slowed. He saw the twitch of its claws before it moved. He vanished a step to the right with Soul Step, stumbling slightly, but enough to avoid the strike. His fist slammed into its skull. Bone cracked, but the monster shrieked and slashed again, tearing at his shoulder.
Blood sprayed. His body screamed at him to stop. But Ming gritted his teeth, grabbed the dull blade, and jammed it into the beast's neck. Warmth gushed over his hands as the creature collapsed, twitching until it stilled.
He pulled the blade free, panting, blood dripping from both the monster and himself. His wound stung sharply, but he was alive.
> [Quest Progress: 6%.]
Ming stared at the system. I have a long way to go before I get the materials. But such rare materials should be guarded. I hope it's not a monster I can't handle.
He pressed forward.
The dungeon seemed to tighten around him. Corridors narrowed into jagged stone hallways that bent in strange angles, twisting like they'd been grown instead of carved. Sometimes, he thought he heard whispers—soft, broken syllables echoing through the walls. When he turned, there was nothing. Only the scrape of his own breath and the sting of damp air in his lungs.
One monster became two. Then four. Their bodies dragged against the ground, shrieking when they caught his scent. His movements grew rougher, but his rhythm sharpened. Soul Step carried him just enough to dodge fatal strikes. Soul Sense whispered to him just enough to read an attack before it came.
Each kill left behind fragments of material, shimmering faintly before fading into his hands. Each kill also drained him further. His arms grew heavy, his shoulder burned where claws had ripped through flesh, and blood caked across his forearm.
But he kept going.
The deeper he went, the worse the atmosphere grew. The dungeon was no longer silent—it groaned. Stone shifted as though breathing, low rumblings vibrating in his chest. The torches on the walls weren't torches at all, but veins of glowing fungus, their sickly green light bending shadows until they looked like figures watching from the corners.
Hours later, Ming collapsed against the dungeon wall, chest heaving. His clothes were torn, his body covered in cuts. Around him, several pale corpses dissolved into ash.
> [Quest Progress: Incomplete. 30%.]
[Time remaining: 74 hours.]
Ming clenched his fist. Only 30 percent. His knuckles tightened until blood welled from his split skin.
Three days were already shrinking. He would need far more than scraps, far more. The system wouldn't hand him this blade; it demanded he carve it out of blood and exhaustion.
His eyes burned with focus. His body was weak, but his path was sharpening.
The weapon that would carry his vengeance wasn't waiting for him.
He would carve it from the world itself.