The familiar ding chimed in his ears, sharp as a bell struck against bone.A faint translucent box rippled into existence before his eyes
[You have acquired the title: First Looter]
"Oh?" Wolf's lips curved ever so slightly. Surprise touched his expression—like the restrained flicker of someone used to swallowing astonishment before it spread. His brow arched as he flicked open his status window with a thought.
Name: Anantawat Thiphavong
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Age: 23
Height: 178 cm
Class: —
Title: First Looter
Lv. 1
Stats:
STR: 14 | SPD: 17 | AGI: 18 | STA: 18 | END: 20 | POW: 10 | LUCK: 12
Mental Stats: Hidden
Active Skills: —
Passive Skills: —
He let out a low hum in his throat."Hm… now, how do I check it? Do I just—think of it?" His eyes narrowed with faint irritation. A second later, the description unfurled before him.
Title: First Looter
Description:
"You were the first to claim something from this world. Whether by instinct, greed, or curiosity—you reached out first."
Effect:
Items picked up have a small chance to reveal hidden properties and details.
You are more likely to notice overlooked objects or details in your surroundings.
Wolf's right eye twitched at the phrasing, though the corner of his mouth pulled upward with quiet satisfaction."First looter, huh…?" His words slipped out like smoke curling between his teeth. A soft chuckle followed, thin and dry. "Well, it'd be strange if titles didn't grant something."
His mind turned sharpening. So… it makes me better at finding things. Instincts amplified? perhaps. He rolled his shoulders and dismissed the window. "Anyway. Move on."
His smile deepened, though it never touched his eyes.
He lifted his gaze and continued along the river, slipping low through brush and tree cover.
The forest around him stretched in damp silence, punctuated by the faint murmur of water. Wolf moved along the river's edge, his body low, every step cushioned by the thick undergrowth. He used the trees and thickets to veil himself, slipping from trunk to trunk like a shadow that had learned to walk.
The further he went, the louder the sound became—until the roar of water devouring rock filled the day. The silver cascade of a waterfall revealed itself in the moonlight, plunging down into a mist-swathed pool.
Wolf stopped, narrowing his eyes."…A waterfall."
He crouched slightly, fingers brushing the damp moss on a nearby stone. His eyes swept the scene—no tracks, no broken branches, no animal eyes glinting back at him. And that was wrong.
"I haven't run into a single creature all the way here…" He muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing further.
The thought gnawed at him, deliberate and steady. "It's too clean and empty. Either that stone creature picked a place that avoids monster… or…" His jaw tightened. "…I've stepped into someone else's territory."
The air pressed heavier against his chest as he stared at the curtain of water, its relentless fall hiding whatever lay beyond.
He inhaled deeply through his nose, grounding himself. The damp, mineral tang of stone. The cool freshness of the spray. And beneath it—a faint bitterness, like soil freshly disturbed. He clicked his tongue and leaned his back against a nearby tree, tilting his head up to the stars barely visible through the canopy.
His voice dropped to a near whisper."…Midnight's long gone. Haven't slept a minute. I'll wear myself down if I keep this up."
The words lingered, and with them, the memory. Midnight—that was when he'd blacked out. O
ne moment he was upright,his body dragged a bit under exhaustion, and next… darkness, and then this place.
His eyes closed for a fleeting second. In the darkness, a thought surfaced. And the others…? He exhaled through his nose."They'll find out soon enough. Perhaps there'll be corpses or… something else, reality doesn't stay polite forever."
His lips pressed into a thin smile, weary yet edged.
His thoughts quieted. He straightened and approached the waterfall, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. He lifted a hand, letting the mist bead across his skin, droplets catching the sunlight. His eyes traced the way the water churned violently at the base before spilling downstream.
Behind it… His fingers twitched slightly at his side.Behind it there's always something.
He chuckled under his breath, though no humor touched it."Guess I'm cursed to check."
With one more deep breath, he rolled his neck, adjusted his footing, and stepped forward toward the crashing curtain of water.
The cave's mouth was a dark maw cut into the cliff behind the waterfall—a hairline slit that swallowed the light. Wolf checked the rock in his pack once, then twice, and shoved it aside; the sliver of space would have been laughable for most, but his shoulders and elbows narrowed and he folded himself like a folding knife.
Cold beads of spray dotted his skin as he squeezed through; the fall's roar muffled into a steady thunder behind him. The air inside tasted of wet stone and old things—stale breath of the earth, mineral and mold—and moved with the slow, trapped rhythm of a place that had not seen stirring feet for a long time.
He'd barely crawled two meters when something moved. Not a shadow but a wet, sucking rustle that hummed against his bones. Wolf's skin prickled; instinct pushed him sideways. He slid on moss, palms scraping across slick rock, and the sound came at him again—this time closer, like soft flesh dragged over stone. There was a smell, sudden and sharp, rot and the stench of fresh meat opened to air.
He rolled to his left on reflex, the motion fluid, practiced. The thing missed him by a breath. The noise it made was wrong in the throat—squelching, sticky like someone chewing canvas—then a second impact thudded into the wall where he had been only a heartbeat before. The cave's thin light, borrowed from the waterfall, pooled dimly over the scene; it was not dark enough to hide in, not bright enough to trust sight alone.
He accepted that and let other senses lead: pressure against the soles, the tiny abrasive rasp as something dragged, the pattern of breath that indicated another heart.
It came again with speed—a rush of momentum that wanted to clamp and hold. Wolf timed a push-cross with the inside edge of his foot against the creature's flank as it lunged past. His kick met a texture like wet leather and something gummy gave beneath his boot. The strike and the enemy's momentum combined; the creature slipped as if stuck in sap, then was flung backward, slamming wetly against stone.
A sound echoed—a wet thud and a high, keening whine that set Wolf's teeth on edge. He didn't hesitate. He charged, knees snapping up, and crashed his knee into whatever had struck the wall. The impact was satisfying and immediate: resistance, then a collapse, a soft muffled scream like an animal being squeezed through an old radio. It was the clearly and certainly one of the most horrible sound he'd ever heard.
if he had to describe it, it would be a baby's plaint cry dragged through a pig's squeal and warped by static.
The thing writhed. Something warm and slick splattered across his forearm; the sticky residue clung to his skin, cold and revolting. Wolf's mouth thinned. He delivered a rapid succession of punches—hard, targeted blows to whatever he could find: a flank that gave under his knuckles, a bulbous head that rolled away and shrieked, then another stinging, rotten sound where he could feel the thing's will to push back weaken.
He kept moving, changing position, switching the angles of attack so the creature could not line up a counter. The cave walls took the echo of his blows and returned nothing but his own breathing, fast and efficient.
Between strikes, he tuned into the system's private hum—the same clinical ping that had announced titles in the clearing. The sound threaded through the chaos and then a translucent screen unfolded in his vision as if projected onto the cave's damp air.
[You have acquired the title: First Hand][You have acquired the title: The Brutalist]
He didn't stop punching. The creature keened until the sound shredded into lower, gurgling sputters. He kept driving his fist into whatever mass writhed before him, each hit a precise punctuation—shoulders turning, hips driving, not a single wasted aggression.
A moment later he called his status window with the same blunt thought that summoned his status window earlier. the ghostly panel hovered in front of his face, letters clear and clinical.
Name: Anantawat Thiphavong
Gender:Male
Race: Human
Age: 23
Height: 178 cm
Class: —
Title: First Looter, First Hand, The Brutalist
Lv. 1
Stats:
STR: 14(+1) | SPD: 17 | AGI: 18 | STA: 18 | END: 20 | POW: 10 | LUCK: 12
Mental Stats: Hidden
Active Skills: —
Passive Skills: —
He didn't glance away from the thing. He punched again; the creature's hide sloughed beneath his knuckles, warm and treacherous. Between impacts the new titles wrote themselves into his head like small, cold edicts. He mouthed each name to give it weight.
Title: First Hand.
Description:
The first touch of mortality, the initial act that separates instinct from hesitation. By claiming a life, you crossed the threshold.
Effects:
+3 Evilness.
Your mind remains calm under pressure, allowing clearer judgment.
You adapt to sudden or dangerous changes in your environment with remarkable speed.
Title: The Brutalist.
Description:
You have acted beyond reason, beyond survival—by striking beyond necessity, by continuing to inflict harm long after the enemy could fight back.
Effects:
+1 STR
+1 Evilness.
Your strikes are more decisive in combat, as your body adapts to extreme aggression.
Repeated extreme aggression dulls your emotional response to harm and danger, making you colder in tense or lethal situations.
You may feel drawn to escalate conflicts unnecessarily, even when restraint would serve better.
He read the first title—and upon reading it, he stopped his fist.
He wiped the sticky smear of flesh and warm blood from his forearm with the hem of his shirt, the fabric coming away darker, tacky against his skin. The sweat under his neck ran cold as he read the second title's final line again—You may feel drawn to escalate conflicts unnecessarily, even when restraint would serve better. A dry laugh escaped him, hollow and quick."Negative effect, huh?" he muttered, amused. The sound had no cheer in it. "Not for me, anyway." He flexed his hand once, feeling the ache in his knuckles like a pleased animal.
Titles that gifted stats were simple enough to like; the rest were puzzles to be used or ignored. He let the thought slide—monster level, exp, all of it could wait until he had more information. For now the world offered immediate necessities.
The cave was small—a single chamber that swallowed echo and kept secrets. It shouldn't have housed more than the one thing he'd wrestled, yet there were signs that it had been used: scraped rock, a shallow depression in the floor, concentric stains of old gore that told of long meals.
In a crusted nook he found what looked like food—half-dried chunks, shaped like candy, clustered as if someone had dropped a bag. Fifty of them lay in the hollow, each a dull, waxy bead with a sheen like preserved fruit. He plucked them up on instinct, the First Looter title humming in his mind..seem more useful than I'd assumed.
"Huh," he said to no one, turning one between his fingers. Not sure if I can eat them… He considered tests but prudence won. He would cook first, purify if possible. The practical side of him cataloged steps: get a fire, cock them and eat all. He bundled the little nuggets in a scrap of cloth and tucked them into his pack.
Before leaving he pushed the dead thing's body toward the leg of the cave as far as he could, heaving with his shoulders, the weight awkward and squelching. The scent of it followed him like a shadow as he slipped back into the open air, light stabbing his pupils.
At the river he scrubbed rigorously—water biting at the clotted blood, cool and honest—and rinsed hands until the skin puckered. The remainder of the carcass he dragged and tossed into the current; it thudded and disappeared in a wash of foam, leaving only a smear of red on the stones. The river took secrets willingly.
Collecting rocks, sticks, and the hollow, squashy brushes he found nearer the waterfall, he constructed a crude pile for his first bonfire. He moved with economy—stoked, arranged, tested tinder—and when he stooped for more brushes a presence prickled the back of his neck.
The voice that came after was unmistakable now: similar in shrill pattern to the thing he'd killed, but clearer, older, higher with the thinness of adolescent wail and threaded with a nasal, equine squeal. It made the hair on his forearms rise.
He turned. The creature waited where the damp earth met the shadowed lip of the cave—part mud, part torn leather, its body neither wholly round nor flat but somewhere between an oval and a bloated circle. It had no limbs in the way he knew them: no arms to swing, no legs to step, only a wobbling mass and an elevated bulge that served, grotesquely, as a head. Two small, raw eyes glinted from that high point.
It pulsed and screamed, a language made of keening and sputter, fingers—thin tendril-like growths—spouting from its side and pointing at him with pleading accusation.
For a moment Wolf only watched. Irritation creased his brow; the creature's voice grated on him like a stone under foot. He bent to gather more brushes but kept his movements careful, calculating distance and angle.
The little appendages wavered; the thing's expression, if such a thing could be called an expression, shifted between fear and frantic hope. It jabbed a finger again, urgent, then pushed its head forward in a hopeful lunge.
He tested it—pointed at the thing, then at himself, then drew a crude outline in the air with one hand that mimicked the creature's shape. He slipped his other hand out of view and made the smallest of gestures. The creature's eyes brightened; it nodded eagerly, misreading his mimicry for communication. It shuffled closer, the wet sound growing.
He'd seen the pattern before.
When it drew within reach he moved in a single motion. The rock he'd picked for sharpening a firebrand flashed in his hand and slammed down on the soft upper curve of the thing. The impact spat a wet glob of flesh; the scream brominated into a keening babble as he kept striking—rock after rock, blunt, methodical, his shoulder driving, elbow snapping, every hit practiced and final. The sounds it made twisted into gurgles, then thin, flaccid whispers; each strike shortened the noise until nothing remained but a small, sodden thud where it collapsed. He didn't slow until there was no sound left to stop.
He panted—breath hard, chest rising and falling like a bellows—then hauled the remainder away, hefting the sodden carcass to throw it into the forest underbrush where scavengers might finish the job. His limbs hummed with the aftertaste of exertion; blood flecks decorated his forearms like confetti.
As he moved, thoughts assembled into a tidy theory, the kind that pleased him because it simplified.
He felt the cynical smile tug at his mouth. Nope. Not on my watch.
Two similar voices.Two creatures.
His eyes flicked back toward the cave, to the smear of blood still glistening on the stones.
They're mates. One away hunting, one home waiting. It returns and finds its mate gone—scent on a stranger. It assumes abduction or slaying. Either way, it wants me. It tries to apprehend and interrogate. Smart, vile.
A dry smile edged his mouth as he hefted the bloody rock once more.
Too bad for it—it has to face me.
He let the conclusion sit between the stones like a placed token.
He gathered his tools, stuffed the picked brushes and rocks back into the cave. One by one he fed his things inside through the narrow mouth—pack, scraps, tinder—and then squeezed himself through, folding like a pocketknife into the small hole.
Once inside, he set the larger rocks at the entrance, arranging them in a jagged semi-circle that, to anyone peering in, would look like an accidental tumble. It was a flimsy barrier to a determined human, but in the worst case—someone prying the stones aside—there would only be a small hole to wriggle through.
The sound of the rocks shifting would carry through the throat of the cave; that noise would warn him.
He tested the theory with a small push of one stone; it scraped softly, the sound dull and precise. If someone moves these, I'll know, he thought. And with this single entrance, I can hold them off. I can kill them if they try too hard. He mapped the angles in his head—how an intruder would have to stoop, how a blade might catch, where he could brace to drive a foot into a trapped target.
But none of that mattered if he had no weapon to hold them at bay through the hard time. He touched a half-formed sliver of wood, the idea resolving like condensation. I can make something—sharpen something. He imagined the motions, the knots tightening under his fingers, the strike of stone against wood, the weight of an improvised spear balanced in his hands.
He paused, listening to the cave breathe, the river chant beyond, the distant chorus of the forest—small animal sounds, the occasional human shout lost in the cave.
He ran his thumb along a jag of stone, tasting iron and the chill of the cavern in his mouth. The fire would have to wait until he could fashion something reliable.
I gotta make that weapon before sleep now.
Wolf crouched low, the bonfire's amber glow flickering across his features as he arranged the sticks, rocks, and brushes he had scavenged. Each twig snapped crisply under his careful placement, the brush forming a crude windbreak to shield the flame.
He stepped back, his shadow stretching long across the cave wall, a silent sentinel. With a smaller rock, dull and uneven, he fashioned three makeshift skewers. The ends were jagged, not sharp, but serviceable; he pushed five of the odd, candy-like monster eggs onto each skewer with precision born from habit, careful to balance them so none would slip off into the embers.
He held one skewer over the flame, turning it slowly, the smoke curling into the damp cavern air. The scent was strange, pungent but not unpleasant—the faint aroma of baked earth mixed with something reminiscent of dried meat. Fifteen minutes later, after counting meticulously in his mind, he blew gently across the skewer to cool it, the smoke curling around his fingers.
He pinched off the tiniest corner of one egg with a fingernail and rolled it between forefinger and thumb, watching how the heat bled through the skin. He set the crumb against his tongue — no theatrical bite, only a careful contact to taste and wait. Flavor unfolded slowly: mineral, faintly sweet, a whisper of iron and something like dried shrimp. He swallowed. Now waiting time.
He settled back against the cave wall, shoulders easing into stone.
He measured his pulse with three fingers at the wrist—steady, a little high from the fight but not spiking: sixty-eight, then sixty-six. No burning at the throat, no numbness in the tongue.
He watched his stomach, felt for queasiness or the hollow click of panic; nothing immediate betrayed poison. The forest hummed its small, indifferent infrared of insects and water. Ten slow breaths. Another taste. No convulsions, no heat racing up his neck.
If there was a delayed toxin it would show within minutes, or it would be slow and insidious.
Then, without hesitation, he sank three eggs into his mouth at once, chewing slowly. "Ahh… not bad," he muttered, his throat scraping as he swallowed. "Tastes like… dirt, but… meat? Sand?"
He grimaced and laughed softly at the absurdity, the sound hollow but unbothered. His eyes scanned the cave, the river beyond twinkling faintly in the moonlight, his mind running quietly, like water trickling over stones.
Then, the abrupt pop of a notification startled him, the familiar chime reverberating in the cave.
[You have acquired the title: The Apex Feaster]
Wolf froze mid-chew, eyes narrowing as he opened the status window.
Name: Anantawat Thiphavong
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Age: 23
Height: 178 cm
Class: —
Title: First Looter, First Hand, The Brutalist, The Apex Feaster
Lv. 1
Stats:
STR: 14 (+1)| SPD: 17 | AGI: 18 | STA: 18 | END: 20(+3) | POW: 10 | LUCK: 12
Mental Stats: Hidden
Active Skills: —
Passive Skills: Adaptive Nutrition
Title: The Apex Feaster
Description:
The Apex Feaster is one who transforms chaos into sustenance, forging life from the aftermath of decisive acts. You embrace the harsh truths of survival, leaving nothing wasted. Your actions are both predator and provider, relentless in force yet methodical in survival.
Effects:
+ 3 END
+ 2 Willpower
+ 5 Evilness
You instinctively recognize edible resources in hostile or unfamiliar environments, even in extreme circumstances.
Your body and mind adapt to scarcity. Hunger, fatigue, and stress are easier to endure without breaking focus. Others may instinctively fear you. You may have subtle urges to repeat extreme actions.
You gain "Adaptive Nutrition" skill.
Wolf blinked, leaning back on his heels and tilting his head as the glow of the fire painted his eyes gold. "Oh… woah," he murmured. "So I ate… that creature's eggs?"
He ran a hand through his dark hair streaked with gray, letting out a long sigh that fogged in the cool cave air. "And the… negative effects, too? Heh. Let's hope it's really just… subtle."
He called out the skill name deliberately, his voice low and even, resonant in the empty space. "Adaptive Nutrition." He traced the movements with his eyes, imagining how food would now grant experience after dangerous encounters. Interesting… I don't know how much, but better than nothing.
After satisfied, he closed the status window with a flick of his fingers and returned to his skewers, finishing off the remainder of the odd, earthy candy-meat. Once the last one was consumed, he turned his attention back to the rocks he had been sharpening, the repetitive motion comforting—grinding edges, testing balance, imagining points of leverage.
After a while, he held up a jagged piece, one edge sharpened to resemble a fang.
"Hm… not a title from this, huh?" he muttered, letting the rock rest in his palm. The firelight glinted off the crude edge, giving it an almost menacing appearance.
"Not the best weapon, but… it'll do."
He set it aside carefully, a sense of finality in his movements.
Finally, Wolf settled against the back wall of the cave, the shadows embracing him. He felt the faint warmth of the fire, the whisper of river water outside, the lingering smell of earth and monster flesh. Closing his eyes, he allowed his breathing to slow, muscles loosening after the long day.
The deepest part of the cave was quiet now, a cradle of stone and shadow. He let himself sink into it, arms crossed over his chest, the edge of alertness still tickling his nerves, but sleep calling steadily.
I can finally sleep… for a bit.