The world's empires and kingdoms didn't matter. The politics of elves and dragons meant nothing. In this moment, the universe had shrunk to the ten meters of overgrown grass between me and a pair of glowing, hungry eyes.
A Timber Wolf. F-rank. Common.
And it was going to kill me.
My hand was slick with sweat on the hilt of my cheap sword. My mind, frozen a second ago, snapped into a frantic, crystal-clear focus. This was the test. The first one. Theory was over.
[Appraisal].
The blue text superimposed over the snarling beast.
[Creature: Timber Wolf (F-Rank)
Condition: Starving, Aggressive. Muscle mass depleted.
Weakness: Underbelly (Unprotected), Left Hind Leg (Old Injury - Limp)]
Starving. Injured. It wasn't hunting for fun; it was desperate. That made it more predictable, and more dangerous.
It didn't circle. With a guttural snarl, it lunged, a gray blur closing the distance in two powerful bounds. Instinct—Roy's pitiful muscle memory—made me bring my sword up in a clumsy parry.
CLANG!
The impact shuddered up my arms, numbing my fingers. I was shoved backwards, my boots skidding in the dirt. The wolf's breath was hot and foul in my face. Its weight was immense. My G-rank strength was a joke against even a weakened monster.
I couldn't match it. I had to outthink it.
As it recoiled for another bite, I focused on the ground at its feet. My mana pool, still low, screamed in protest. I ignored it. This was survival.
"[Plant Creation]!"
I didn't need a grand tree. I needed a tripping hazard. A tangle.
At the base of the wolf's uninjured right foreleg, the earth twitched. A thick, fibrous root—like a woody rope—erupted from the soil and coiled around its ankle.
The wolf yelped in surprise, stumbling. Its charge was broken. It turned its head, snapping at the root, tearing it apart. But it had given me a second. One precious second.
Left hind leg. It favors it.
I didn't charge. I sidestepped, moving to its left side. As I predicted, it pivoted to face me, putting its weight on its right hind leg to protect the weak left one. Its movement was slightly slower, slightly unbalanced.
Now for the real gamble. My mana was almost gone. A direct attack with my sword would be deflected by its skull or met with its teeth.
I feinted a stab at its face. It jerked its head back, snapping. In that moment of distraction, I dropped my stance and lunged low, not at the beast, but at the ground behind its weak left leg.
"[Plant Creation]!"
The last dregs of my mana poured out. This time, I didn't summon a root. I urged the thick, tough meadow grass to grow, to weave, to tighten into a snare around its already-tender left paw.
The wolf tried to leap back to dodge my blade, but its weak leg was trapped. The grass held for less than a heartbeat, but it was enough. Its leg buckled.
With a cry of pain and fury, the wolf fell onto its side, exposing its pale, vulnerable underbelly for a single, glaring instant.
There was no time for heroics, for a perfect strike. There was only time for survival.
I drove my sword forward with all the strength in my skinny, G-rank arms.
The blade, cheap and unremarkable, met resistance, then sank in with a sickening, wet sound. The wolf's furious snarls turned into a choked, gurgling whine. Its body spasmed once, twice, then went still.
Silence.
I stood there, panting, my sword still buried in the creature's chest. The coppery smell of blood filled the air, mixing with the scent of upturned earth and crushed grass. My hands were trembling violently.
I had just killed something. For the first time in either of my lives.
No triumph surged through me. Only a hollow, shaky relief, and a cold, hard understanding.
This is the world. This is what it means to be weak.
I wrenched my sword free, wiping the blade clean on the grass with mechanical movements. My body was screaming—adrenaline crash, mana depletion, muscle strain.
But I was alive. I had used my knowledge, my meager skills, and my Trait not to win a fight, but to survive it. The Appraisal had given me the plan. Plant Creation (G), a trash-tier supportive skill, had been the key. Not as a weapon, but as a trap. As control.
I looked at the dead wolf, then at the old stone cottage behind me. My sanctuary. It had almost been my grave.
Dragging the carcass by its hind legs was exhausting work, but I couldn't leave it to attract other predators. I hauled it to the edge of the tree line, far from the house.
As I straightened up, wiping sweat from my brow, the full weight of the day crashed down on me. The confrontation with my family, the negotiation with Sir Kane, the fight for my life. I was utterly spent.
Stumbling into the cottage, I barred the heavy wooden door behind me. The main room was dusty and empty save for a stone hearth and a few broken pieces of furniture. It didn't matter. It was safe.
I collapsed onto the cold stone floor, not even bothering with the bedroll in my pack. My last conscious thought was a grim promise to myself.
Tomorrow, the training begins. And I will never be this close to death again.