Now that the creature has gone… I guess we're free.
Anantawat's thoughts spilled in restless loops as he stood among the dispersing crowd. Faces buzzed with leftover fear, some pale as ashes, others wearing forced bravado like poorly fitted masks. His own chest rose steady, but his mind spun, processing, categorizing, calculating.
No more eyes above us. Just us in this… pitiful forest. So then— his lips tightened, gaze flicking across strangers who now fidgeted with their new "windows," whispering like children fumbling with fire. —which ingredient should I use for this one?
His boots shifted softly against the damp soil, wet moss clinging to his soles. He began to walk, threading through the crowd with deliberate calm, like a predator that need not rush.
Ahead, he caught sight of a familiar figure. Shoulders tense. Eyes sharp, but weary. A pale-faced man in his late twenties, the same loud fool who had earlier flailed and barked about the dangers of showing the status window. The one who revealed weakness without realizing how costly that act was.
Anantawat's voice slipped out, smooth as silk but cutting at the edges."Hello, sir."
The man flinched violently, shoulders jerking up as if struck."Ah! Damn it—why the hell are you sneaking up behind people like that?! What the fuck is wrong with you, man?!"
His anger cracked too easily. it was fear in disguise.
Anantawat did not answer. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze running over the man like a tailor measuring cloth. Same height. Late twenties. Sharp eyes, but they wavered. His complexion tried to feign strength but betrayed him—pale, thin sheen of sweat, the kind that clung to liars and weaklings.
A mask. A weak one. Not worth much in a crowd, but worth plenty in private.
Anantawat's lips curled faintly, warmth entering his voice, though his eyes remained cold."Let's go somewhere else before we get into our business, shall we?"
The man blinked, stuttering. "W-what? Why? What business?"
Anantawat's hand rose, gently but firmly pressing onto the man's shoulder. His tone flowed calm, kind, almost friendly—yet each word coiled with subtle threat."With this many people watching, you wouldn't want them to know you're weak, right?"
The man froze. His face drained of color. The sweat came heavier now, betraying every attempt to mask it. His lips parted but no words came, only a faint, defeated nod.
But Anantawat didn't wait. He had already turned, walking slowly, shoulders relaxed, as though the outcome had been decided long before.
The man followed, shuffling quick to keep up.
They passed beyond the thick clusters of people, the voices thinning into distant murmurs. The air here grew heavier, quieter. Before them loomed a massive tree, its trunk seems wide enough to take at least six men in an embrace. Around it sprouted unnatural brush—tall brown stalks, brittle-looking, yet strangely squashy underfoot. They rustled faintly, releasing a dry, earthy musk.
Anantawat gestured lazily. "Go on. You first."
The man's eyes darted nervously between the foliage and Anantawat's face. "W-what? You serious?"
His hesitation only widened Anantawat's smile. The silence stretched. The pressure of his gaze alone was enough. Finally, the man cursed under his breath and pushed through the odd brushes, their hollow stalks creaking as if complaining.
Minutes passed in the muffled enclosure of the growth until they reached the base of the giant tree. Its bark was dark, coarse, riddled with grooves like scars.
Anantawat stepped in last, brushing past the stalks with unhurried ease, the rustle oddly soft against his arms. He leaned casually, pinning his back against the tree with the calm of someone who knew he had already won.
The man spun toward him, voice pitching high."Hey! Are you trying to get me killed? What if those brushes were poisonous or— or filled with insects? You just—"
"Shut the fuck up."
The words dropped like ice into the air. Anantawat's tone snapped, stripped of warmth, every syllable carrying the weight of command. His eyes narrowed, cold, merciless. The shift in his voice was so sudden, so violent, that the man's protest strangled in his throat. His breathing hitched, chest rising in short, shallow bursts.
Anantawat tilted his head, watching him with patient cruelty. A man who thought his voice mattered. Now, look at him.
His hand slid along the tree bark behind him, fingers tracing the jagged grooves as if sharpening his patience. Then he leaned forward just slightly, enough for the man to feel the pressure, to understand the imbalance between them.
The silence stretched between them, thick as resin dripping from the tree. Anantawat finally exhaled, his voice casual, almost conversational—yet the weight in it made the air heavy.
"Let me see your status window."
Klion blinked, startled, his jaw tightening. He forced a laugh, thin and nervous, scratching the back of his neck."Ha—no way. I can't do that. That's not possibl—"
But before the sentence could finish, Anantawat's hand shot up, fingers snapping shut around his throat like a steel trap.
"—gkhhh!"
Klion's eyes bulged wide, veins straining against pale skin. Instinct roared—both his hands flew up, clawing, prying, desperate to break free. His nails scraped uselessly against Anantawat's wrist, the tendons there taut like woven iron.
His voice rasped, barely a whisper between strangled gasps. "Y-you… bastard…"
Anantawat's brows drew together faintly, irritation flashing like flint behind his dark eyes. He leaned in, the shadow of his long hair streaked with gray falling across his face, lips curling downward. His tone had lost its warmth now, sharpened into something closer to a blade.
"Although we have plenty of time, it's still better not to waste it. Don't you know that?"
His grip tightened, pressing deeper into Klion's windpipe. Klion's chest heaved, eyes watering, legs kicking lightly against the earth.
"You see—" Anantawat's voice dropped lower, almost intimate in its coldness. "My strength stat is twenty. So you'd better be wise about your choice now, my man."
The words seeped into Klion's ears like poison. His mind raced frantically behind the growing darkness of strangulation. Twenty?! He's maxed at the starter cap… That explains this grip—feels like my throat's in a vise. Panic bled into his eyes. His hands faltered, strength draining, replaced by trembling compliance.
Finally, choked by force and by dread, Klion submitted. The permission flowed.
A flicker of blue light shimmered between them—the system responding.
Name: Klion Vermont
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Age: 29
Height: 175cm
Class: —
Title: —
Lv. 1
Stats:
STR: 10 | SPD: 10 | AGI: 15 | STA: 7 | END: 9 | POW: 14 | LUCK: 16
Mental Stats: Hidden
Active Skills: —
Passive Skills: —
Anantawat's eyes scanned swiftly, and then—he chuckled. A soft sound at first, then growing into a low laugh that dripped with mockery.
"Oh? Vermont? So you're from the USA then, huh." His head tilted back slightly, grin widening. "And your power stat's higher than mine. Hm. Maybe you can randomly pull out some magic tricks if you try. Hahaha."
But even as the laugh left his lips, his hand still clamped firmly on Klion's neck. The cruel contrast made Klion's stomach twist.
Fuck—he's laughing, but he won't let go. This bastard's playing with me…
Anantawat's inner thoughts flickered sharp. Although it's just a difference of four… he can still resist, even if just a little? Absurd. Still, I understand now—the gap between numbers and reality. Stats can bend bodies like this.
Finally, after a long moment, he released. His fingers slid away, slow and deliberate, as if granting mercy by choice, not necessity.
Klion staggered back, coughing violently, hands clutching at his raw throat."Cough—khh—cough! Haaahh…"
His glare lifted, watery and burning. "I hope… this better not be the 'business' you were talking about."
Anantawat's lips curled into something between amusement and disdain. His eyes half-lidded, studying Klion's weak posture."Oh, you're more desperate than I thought. Or is it… hope?"
He laughed once, short, humorless. "Haha. It's the same coin anyway."
Klion's jaw clenched, the words grinding out. "Fuck… I know that, alright. We're basically cavemen right now. Strength, speed—you can show those without proof. But stats like mine? Agility, luck? Who the hell's gonna believe it without show my status window?"
His inner voice seethed beneath the words. Sooner or later, they'll band together. They'll form some fake unity, some bullshit speeches about survival. And me? What then? Even if I speak the truth, they'll laugh. I'm dead weight in their eyes.
He dropped his gaze for a moment, fists shaking faintly. This is shit. This is complete fucking shit.
Anatwat tilted his head, watching the turmoil paint across Klion's features. His tone grew almost mocking, conversational again."Listen, Klion—your stats aren't terrible. But they aren't good either. Aside from Agility and Luck, nothing breaks fifteen."
Klion blinked up, confusion breaking through. "Why fifteen? Why does it have to be fifteen?"
Anantawat's grin stretched, his teeth showing this time. His eyes glimmered with the thrill of control."It's very clear, isn't it? Anyone with a stat above fifteen is basically in the top group. Fortunately, you've got two. Unfortunately, stats you can't easily prove aren't worth much. Even if people believed you, what could you really do with them?"
He leaned in closer, whispering now, breath brushing against Klion's ear."Maybe with both your agility and luck… you can be a good baiter. Hahaha. And Power? Who knows how that works yet? For now, you're basically nothing."
Klion's face twisted, rage mixing with helplessness. He wanted to scream, to strike—but the phantom memory of that hand on his throat froze him. His thoughts spiraled bitter and raw. Baiter. That's all I am to him. To everyone. Just a fucking decoy to throw at danger.
Then—slap.
The sound cracked sharp in the enclosed brush, startling birds from branches above. Klion reeled, cheek stinging red."Ah—ow! What the hell did you do?!"
Anantawat's expression was unreadable, voice dropping cold."You weren't listening to me anymore. So I had to slap some sense into you, Klion."
Klion's breath hitched. Anger burst through his lips."Fuck you!"
But immediately after, his defiance wilted into a sigh. His shoulders sagged, head lowering, voice trembling between exhaustion and despair."This is shit…"
The silence hung. Then Klion raised his eyes weakly, as if clinging to the last thread of normalcy."…I forgot to ask. What's your name?"
Anantawat's smile returned—warm this time, disarmingly warm. He leaned back against the tree again, tilting his head like a teacher introducing himself to a new student."My name is Ying Zheng." He paused, letting the weight of the name hang. Then, softer "But you can call me Wolf."
Klion scoffed, voice cracking but laced with bitter humor."No shit I can call you Wolf. With that long hair down to your neck, and those gray streaks? Yeah. You look like one."
Wolf's smile show a faint glimmer of satisfaction.
Wolf let the silence hang like a held breath. Around them the forest murmured—leaves whispering, distant footsteps, the occasional sob and muffled argument from where the crowd clustered—and the air tasted of crushed pine and something mineral, like iron under old rain. He watched Klion as if watching a clock unwind: pupils, pulse, the small tremor that ran down a man when his life is measured in seconds and choices.
"Now that you're listening," Wolf said finally, voice smooth and measured, like a blade drawn across silk, "this"—he paused, searching for the simplest phrase—"is your only opportunity."
He let the words sit, then closed the space between syllables and thought with a slow exhale. His hand had been open on his knee; now it rose, fingers tapping the bark in time with his words, steady and patient.
"If you stay put, things will go the way you expect. You'll huddle with a few faces, pretend at leadership, split rations like frightened schoolchildren, and someone else will end up pulling the teeth out of everything you built. But if you act—if you play it right—things change. Perhaps they change in your favor."
Klion swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed like a trapped bird. "H-how is that even possible?" he asked, voice thin, the words trembling not from the forest chill but from the friction of fear and hope.
Wolf's eyes slid over him, assessing. "Remember when you made that big fuss earlier? The one about status windows? That same hustle will happen with survival and forming groups. Everyone wants to feel useful. Everyone fears being weak. It's all about trust."
Klion scoffed, half laugh, half derisive cough. "Trust? You think you can buy that? You think trust comes with a price tag?"
"You're wrong," Wolf said, and the correction was soft but absolute. "Buying trust is one path. But it's a blunt one— it's simple really. you pay, you get obedience or loyalty for a time. But money, gifts, force… those are fragile scaffolds. If you can't buy trust, you create trust."
"Create trust?" Klion echoed, bafflement and caution wrestling across his face. He stared up at Wolf as if Wolf had told him to command the sea to kneel.
Wolf's mouth tilted. For a second, the wolf in him showed—teeth just visible, in delight. "Perhaps. But you can speak what you fear. What do others like you fear?"
Klion's eyes flared, a mix of fear and understanding. "You mean… pour oil on the fire? Make them panic?"
"You got it." Wolf gave him a thumbs-up, the motion casual, as if approving a small mischief. "After that—once they're stirred—you can convince them to join under an anonymous organization."
Klion frowned, confusion wrinkling his brow. "Anonymous organization?"
"Exactly." Wolf's hands shaped the phrase, making it tangible. "A group that doesn't require you to show your status window. People join under one banner. You offer them structure, a purpose, and rules. Those who refuse to follow you—those who slack or sabotage—can be forced to show their status window. You punish them, you loot them if needed, you enforce order and call it justice."
Klion's lips parted, then closed. He chewed on the idea like someone tasting something bitter then sweet. "What do you gain from this?" he asked bluntly. "What benefit is there for you, Wolf?"
Wolf laughed—a sharp, bright sound that cut through the brush. It wasn't loud, but it carried. "You gotta figure that out yourself. You already have what I offer in this business—you can't back out now, Klion." He leaned forward, eyes narrow and hungry under the streaks of gray in his hair. "Not like I want you to. It's your life on the line, isn't it? If you want a good life later, you'll need to do what it takes now."
Klion exhaled so loudly it rustled the brush. A confession wheeled out with the breath: "If I want a good life I gotta do it." He sounded resigned more than enthusiastic.
"Seems that aside from everything," Klion added, with a small, reluctant laugh, "you're not so bad, Wolf."
Wolf gave a short, incredulous chuckle. "You called a wolf 'not bad'? That's almost funny." He tapped the tree with a forefinger, then straightened. The motion was small, but the calculation in his gaze was all hunger and curiosity.
He pivoted with smooth motion, pushing aside the squashy, hollow stalks that had hidden them. The light shifted as he emerged—sunlight catching dust and trembling green motes, people turning to see the silhouette slide through. He did not move toward the throng. Instead he walked away from them, alone, steps measured, shoulders relaxed though every millimeter of him thrummed with purpose.
Klion watched him go, eyes narrowed. For a beat, he seemed uncertain—then something like resolve or shame propelled him forward. He didn't call a goodbye. He didn't wave. He slid back through the brush and rejoined the crowd with a quick, awkward gait, as if sewing himself back into the fabric of the mass.
As Wolf moved, his mind unfurled like a map.
He watched a cluster of people arguing under the low limbs of a fern-heavy tree. a stout, scarred man brandishing his fists as if punching at fate, a woman with a binder's patience, listing rules aloud. two younger men whispering about alliances. Their voices were small, their faces were bigger with fear. Wolf cataloged them like tools.
His steps carried him to the edge of the clearing. He paused, looking back once—not to see if Klion followed, but to make sure his plan had planted its first seed. Klion stood at the fringe of the crowd, hands shoved into pockets, watching the way Wolf's shoulders receded. There was no follow, no immediate obedience. Just the small ember of possibility.
Good. Let the notion fester. Wolf's thoughts were coldly clinical.
People who see a leader are hungry for proof. They'll test, push. Give them a handshake and a straight rule, and they'll fold like paper. Give them fear and a solution, and you have allegiance forged by their own desperation.
He let out a soft, almost amused breath and stepped away from the clearing. Each footfall was deliberate—calculated silence over the carpet of leaves.
Klion returned to the cluster with a mind that moved in islands: fear, practicality, survival. If this is my only shot. if Wolf's offering me a ladder—do I climb? If I climb, what if he kicks it away?
If I don't, what if I drown in the tide of those who do? His fingers dug abrasively into his palms until the small pain centered his scattered thoughts. He glanced toward where Wolf had vanished and—brief, involuntary—he straightened his back a degree.
Closer to the crowd, voices rose and fell in rhythm. People were forming factions already: the loud taking roles by volume, the quiet by cunning. A pair of men argued over food—one adamant about fairness, the other whispering about guarding resources.
A woman with a calm, steady voice proposed a rotation for foraging; three men scoffed, then nodded when she spoke with numbers.
Klion found a spot near a dying braziers' ember, hands tucked to his chest for warmth and for the comfort of owning something to do, while the forest stitched its shadows around him. He told himself the plan was sensible. He told himself he was doing what he had to. But under the skin of those rationalizations, a small fear flickered, have I been chosen, or have I been chosen to be used?
Wolf, already a distance away, let the worry of others be other people's problem. He walked toward a cluster of rocks where he could see three paths out of the clearing—one that led deeper into the forest, another that scaped toward a ruined pathway, and a third that sloped toward a river. Each path held possibility, greater risk for greater resource.
He bent a moment to pick a smooth stone, rolling it between finger and thumb as if feeling the weight of decision. The stone was cool, specked with mica. He added it to his pocket.