The air was heavy with the reek of smoke. The fire hissed as fat dripped into it, spitting tiny embers that leapt and died against Wolf's boot. He chewed the last of the charred liver, the texture grainy and bitter, and swallowed slowly, feeling it slide down like a rough stone through his throat.
Then he exhaled, low and deep. "Tch… still a bit overcooked," he muttered, his tone casual—like he was commenting on soup rather than human meat.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, streaking more grime across his cheek. In the cave, the Hornmaw pack sat in eerie stillness, some chewing the scraps he'd tossed, others merely staring—watching him as though taking notes from a mentor.
Wolf rose from the log, his joints cracking softly in the firelight. His gaze drifted toward the trembling crowd of captives huddled at the edge of the clearing. Their eyes followed him in terror, silent prayers dying in their throats.
He rolled his neck once, then picked one at random. "You," he said flatly.
The man froze, eyes widening.
Wolf's hand moved before thought—his blade whispering through the air, cutting flesh like silk.
The man dropped soundlessly, blood blooming from his neck.
"Let's not waste time," Wolf murmured, dragging the body toward the fire. The Hornmaws shifted, some snuffling curiously, others whining softly at the smell.
He knelt, precise and unhurried. The machete's edge dug into the belly, and a dull squelch filled the silence. Steam curled upward as the warmth met the cold air. He hummed faintly, prying the flesh apart, fingers slick with red. The heart was still faintly pulsing—he admired it for a moment before slicing it free.
The smell hit him harder this time—iron, salty, faint sweetness of cooked tissue. His stomach responded like a reflex, his hunger an old, loyal hound.
He skewered the limbs again—small ones for roasting, the heart and organs for the rotisserie. The fire's glow licked at his face as he turned the spit with steady rhythm, the sound of popping fat and sizzling meat filling the clearing.
The humans couldn't even look anymore. Some retched quietly. Others stared blankly, minds breaking.
Wolf smirked faintly at the sound of their despair. "It's not so bad once you get used to it," he muttered, voice almost too soft to hear.
He tore off a piece of cooked meat and bit down. The taste—dense, salty, a bit tangy near the edges—spread through his tongue.
The texture was tougher this time, perhaps from tension in the body before death.
Chewier… too much adrenaline, he thought absently.
Then, as warmth spread through him, a familiar chime echoed.
Light shimmered faintly across his vision as he blinked. The window unfolded neatly before his eyes.
Name: Anantawat Thiphavong
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Age: 23
Height: 178 cm
Class: —
Title: First Looter, First Hand, The Brutalist, The Apex Feaster, The Hundredfold Hand
Lv. 8
Stats:
STR: 14 (+1) | SPD: 17 | AGI: 18 | STA: 18 | END: 20 (+3) | POW: 10 | LUCK: 12
Point left: 14
Mental Stats:
INT: 18 (+3) | CHA: 15 (+3) | FORTITUDE: 20 | EVILNESS: 20 (+14)
Alignment: Evil
Active Skills: Red Tide
Passive Skills: Adaptive Nutrition, Artisan's Instinct, Analytic Sight
He leaned back slightly, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as the information unfolded.
The flicker of the fire reflected in his pupils, the warmth painting red under his jaw.
"Well… that's a surprise," he murmured, a faint grin curling his lip. "I didn't expect mental stats to show up too."
He looked down at his own hands—scarred, slick with blood, steady as stone.
I don't feel different, he thought.
Even with all these numbers climbing. Maybe it's just the body catching up with what I already am.
He chuckled under his breath. "Heh… guess that makes me officially a bad person." The laugh turned low, dry, almost joyful. " my evilness… already over thirty. Should I be proud?"
The Hornmaw boss tilted its head, watching him.
"Don't give me that look," Wolf said with a grin. "You'd eat me too if the tables turned."
He dismissed the screen with a flick of thought, but another shimmer appeared as he called for the title's detail.
Title: The Hundredfold Hand (Unique Title)
Acquisition Requirement: Slaughter at least 100 or more individuals, possess [First Hand] title.
Description:
Earned by those who have claimed the lives of a hundred, your hands are marked by the weight of countless deaths. It isn't just the violence you've wrought, but the decisiveness and ruthlessness that made it possible.
Effects:
+5 Evilness
+3 Charisma
+3 Intelligence
You can detect patterns in groups of opponents, anticipating moves or weaknesses better.
When fighting or killing among multiple opponents, experience gained from each kill subtly increases.
You may read innocent movements as potential threats, blurring the truth. Others may unconsciously defer to your decisions or leadership.
"Ohh… I see," he whispered, the firelight cutting lines along his smile. He tore another chunk from the skewer—liver this time, slightly burnt, the outer crisp giving way to a metallic tang inside. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowing with a faint hum.
That would explain it, he thought, eyes narrowing.
That urge to kill those Hornmaws earlier… wasn't instinct—it was influence. He looked at the beast sitting opposite him, its red horn glinting. I've been feeding it human flesh to lower its guard. Guess it worked. But it's still a dangerous habit to keep.
He sighed quietly, voice flat. "I should stay aware of myself… that thing really is powerful. Worthy of being a unique title, I suppose."
The pop of a burning log punctuated his words.
"Now then," he muttered, swiping to the next one. "Let's see what else changed."
Active Skill:
The translucent screen unfolded like a bleeding parchment before his eyes.
Red Tide (Unique Skill)
Lv. 1
Cooldown: 5 minutes
Ether Cost: 120
Acquisition Requirement: Be the first to slaughter 100 or more individuals.
Description:
You've bathed in the lives of countless victims. Through cruelty, instinct, and the hunger for blood — now your very presence drags others toward death.
Effects:
Enter a state of unrelenting bloodlust for 2 minutes.
Each successful strike drains the stamina of foes and restores your own.
Each strike may induce fear, panic, or hallucination in those affected.
The ferocity of these effects increases with every enemy slain during activation.
At maximum intensity, grants regeneration (100 max).
Wolf tilted his head slightly.
"Hm… ether, huh?" He muttered, tapping the faint icon beside the cost. The numbers pulsed, unreadable.
He leaned back, lips curling into a slow, deliberate grin."I don't even know how much ether I have… but that's fine. It's not like I need to understand everything right away."
"With this much," he murmured, flexing his hand and watching dried flakes crumble from his skin, "even if I can use it just once—"
His smile deepened, feral and almost childlike.
"—it'll still be worth it."
Passive Skills:
Analytic Sight (Unique Skill)
Lv. 1
Acquisition Requirement: Be the first person to attempt guessing and confirming stats of others by any means.
Description:
You've learned to see what should not yet be seen.Through reason, intuition, and defiance of system limits, your perception now breaches informational barriers.
Effects:
You can now examine any status window, item, creature, or object.
Extends descriptions and reveals additional details.
Occasionally reveals 1–3 random number stats.
Can be used five times on the same target for different results—the information revealed varies with user's insight and luck.
He nodded to himself. So that's how I could see those details earlier… He rubbed his chin, smearing more ash and dried blood. Five times per target, huh? That's useful enough.
He scrolled again.
Artisan's Instinct
Lv. Max
Acquisition Requirement: successfully create a proper weapon.
Description:
You're the first to forge a weapon worthy of legend. Through intuition and precision, your hands now craft items with unmatched durability and reliability.
Effects:
All weapons crafted by the user gain increased durability.
Crafted weapons are less likely to degrade or break during use.
Subtle adjustments during forging improve balance and handling without conscious effort.
He gave a small, satisfied hum. That explains the machete… no wonder it still holds after all that work.
Then the final one appeared—his gaze sharpened.
Adaptive Nutrition (Unique Skill)
Lv. max
Acquisition Requirement: Obtained by the title [The Apex Feaster] only.
Description:
You were the first to turn hunger into strength. Through desperation, will, and the consumption of what others would forsake, your body has learned to draw power from the unthinkable.
Effects:
When consuming food or organic material from fallen creatures, a small portion of their strength is converted into experience.
Your body automatically neutralizes minor toxins and impurities found in consumed matter.
Food consumed after dangerous encounters grants additional experience, scaled by the threat and rarity.
He grinned—slow, dangerous, and utterly content—as the fire crackled and the red-horned Hornmaw watched him from across the flame.
Wolf leaned back, bones creaking faintly under the tension that had gathered across his shoulders. The air had grown still—no human whisper, no Hornmaw howl, only the faint crackle of the dying fire.
He licked his fingers absently, tasting the residue of iron and smoke. A low chuckle escaped his throat. "Hmm… it's still not clear enough," he muttered to himself, brushing a thumb over the corner of his lip. "The whole level and experience thing's vague as hell. I killed so many… yet my level's barely moved. Seven measly levels?"
He let out a snort and shook his head, strands of soot-streaked hair brushing against his cheek. "Tch. Whatever. Let's just finish this quick… and kill the rest."
His eyes darkened slightly—flat, reflective, almost void of emotion. The decision was made.
He rose, brushing dirt from his trousers, the machete glinting faintly as he twisted it in his grip. The captives still alive turned sharply at the sound of his boots pressing into the damp ground. The air thickened with the sour stench of fear.
One man—barely more than a boy—stumbled backward, falling onto his palms.
"W–wait—please—"
Wolf didn't answer.
The machete came down with a wet, decisive crack. The boy twitched once and was still.
Screams erupted from the others—some ran, stumbling into each other, slipping on blood-soaked mud; some dropped to their knees, hands clasped, whispering prayers to gods that had never answered them. Others froze entirely, eyes wide and hollow, minds already detached from the world.
Wolf moved like a machine through them—fluid, precise, methodical. One swing to the ribs, another to the neck, a quick thrust under the chin. His movements were almost elegant—too refined for the brutality they caused.
Each death marked the same rhythm as his breathing, slow and unbroken.
A woman tried to crawl away, nails clawing at the dirt.
"Please—I have—" Her plea ended in a gurgle, blood spilling from her lips.
Wolf sighed.
"Don't make it harder than it needs to be," he murmured quietly, wiping the blade against her torn shirt before moving on.
By the time it ended, silence blanketed the clearing again. The only sound was the faint crackle of fire, the hiss of cooling blood, and Wolf's quiet breathing.
He dragged his palm along his face, smearing a new streak of red over the old ones. "Haa…" He exhaled, long and tired. "Still the same."
His body was calm. He opened the status window again, eyes flicking through the lines of light.
Name: Anantawat Thiphavong
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Age: 23
Height: 178 cm
Class: —
Title: First Looter, First Hand, The Brutalist, The Apex Feaster, The Hundredfold Hand
Lv. 8
Stats:
STR: 14 (+1) | SPD: 17 | AGI: 18 | STA: 18 | END: 20 (+3) | POW: 10 | LUCK: 12
Point left: 14
Mental Stats:
INT: 18 (+3) | CHA: 15 (+3) | FORTITUDE: 20 | EVILNESS: 20 (+14)
Alignment: Evil
Active Skills: Red Tide
Passive Skills: Adaptive Nutrition, Artisan's Instinct, Analytic Sight
He stared for a moment, expression unreadable. Then, a quiet groan. "Figures."
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the stiffness of dried blood clinging to his collar. "Maybe it's already long past the zone that counts as after dangerous encounters…" he mused aloud, his tone half-curious, half-irritated.
"Or maybe killing has the same scaling—threat and rarity."
He crouched, resting an elbow on his knee, gaze drifting over the mutilated bodies.
If threat means level, then most of these people were level one. Common as dirt. If rarity's the same, then… yeah. Worthless.
He sighed again, shoulders rolling with the motion. If my theory's right, killing the rest won't do a thing for me.
He rotated his arm, loosening the joints, and rolled his wrist until it cracked. "Still," he muttered, half to himself, "I might as well finish what I started."
The machete flashed again, wet, swift, final. When it ended, the air hung thick with metallic mist, faint smoke curling around the dead.
Wolf stood in the middle of it, breathing slowly through his nose. His eyes were steady, unbothered, as though watching the aftermath of someone else's work.
He glanced again at the hovering window. Nothing changed. No faint glow of progress. No subtle rise of numbers.
Wolf sighed heavily, shoulders drooping a little. "Alright, alright," he muttered. "No problem. Let's spend the points then."
He raised a blood-stained hand toward the floating text, his gaze sharpening as he began to focus. The numbers shifted faintly, one by one, under his silent command. Each increase felt like a whisper against his bones—muscles tightening, reflexes sharpening, nerves aligning.
When he finished, he straightened and looked at the new result. A faint smile crept across his lips.
Name: Anantawat Thiphavong
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Age: 23
Height: 178 cm
Class: —
Title: First Looter, First Hand, The Brutalist, The Apex Feaster, The Hundredfold Hand
Lv. 8
Stats:
STR: 21 (+1) | SPD: 20 | AGI: 18 | STA: 19 | END: 20 (+3) | POW: 11 | LUCK: 14
Mental Stats:
INT: 18 (+3) | CHA: 15 (+3) | FORTITUDE: 20 | EVILNESS: 20 (+14)
Alignment: Evil
Active Skills: Red Tide
Passive Skills: Adaptive Nutrition, Artisan's Instinct, Analytic Sight
He read it twice, then exhaled slowly. "I feel a bit different," he murmured, clenching his fist and feeling the taut response of his muscles. "Well…then, Let's go."
He turned, brushing his machete clean on the nearest corpse, then wiped his hands in the dirt. After checking the surroundings one last time, he crouched low and began cleaning up the traces—kicking sand over the fire, dragging loose branches over the blood, leaving the rest for the Hornmaws to finish.
When he was done, he gave the red-horned boss a small, lazy wave. "They're all yours."
The beast tilted its head once before lowering itself, growling softly as it approached the bodies. Wolf didn't stay to watch.
He turned and began walking away, steps slow at first, then faster—until he broke into a run. Not toward the entrance, but toward the forest beyond.
The moon hung higher now, pale and cold, spilling silver light across the riverbanks. Wolf reached the edge of the woods, his breath steady, then broke through the tree line. Branches scraped his shoulders; damp leaves clung to his boots.
After some time, he stopped at the river's edge—the same one he'd crossed earlier this day. The water shimmered faintly under the moonlight, quiet and endless.
"Hm. Alright," he muttered, tightening his grip on the machete before leaping across in one smooth motion. His landing kicked up a small splash.
From there, he ran along the riverbank, retracing his path. The forest around him was whispering softly, night creatures stirring in the distance.
It didn't take long before the faint glow of campfire appeared ahead—their base.
By the time he reached it, the moon was already high, casting long shadows through the gaps of the trees.
Midnight, probably, he thought.
He hadn't even stepped fully into the clearing before a familiar voice called out.
"Wolf!"
Klion emerged from the dim light, eyes wide at first, then narrowing in disbelief. His gaze flicked over Wolf's face, his torn clothes, the faint traces of drying blood.
Wolf looked at him blankly, too tired to hide his exhaustion.
Klion let out a small breath and rubbed his temple. "We'll talk tomorrow," he said firmly, voice low but steady. "Just… go sleep. Now." He pointed toward a makeshift bed of leaves and grass nearby.
Wolf blinked once, then nodded silently.
He walked past him, boots whispering through the dirt, and lowered himself onto the rough bedding. It crunched faintly beneath him.
Above, the moon was clear and white—its light pooling gently across his face.
"Quite a beautiful moon for the first day," he whispered faintly, his lips curling into the smallest hint of a smile.
He let the thought linger a moment longer before closing his eyes. everything faded into a soft, unbroken silence.
And then, he slept.