“You have to be kiddin’ me?!”

  “Hey, kiddo, prices are set,” Gob said, lifting his chin with smug calm. “If you can’t afford it, pick something else—or go get more credits.”

  “Go get more?” Hope frowned. Right… all the credits he had were from killing others. No, wait—there was also that giant Elite worm. But damn, that thing had only given him five pitelle credits. And he’d only seen one in the whole damn desert!

  “So… Gob… how am I supposed to get, you know… more credits?”

  “Oh, glad you asked.” Gob grinned, then swung an arm wide with flair. “There’s plenty of creatures out there, lad. Some big, some nasty, some downright juicy. Hunt, earn, repeat. No rush. Come back when you’ve got the coins.”

  “Creatures…” Hope turned his gaze to the horizon. The new volcanic terrain stretched out before him—black slopes, jagged hills, trails of ash curling in the wind.

  So that was it. Another grind.

  He considered. There was always one more way to get it all: kill Gob and loot the stash.

  Hope stared at the guy, but… no System prompt showed up.

  No ID, no level, nothing. Gob simply didn’t register. That alone was a big red flag. Also, the bastards up top wouldn’t send someone he could just off and rob. No. They’d set rules—earn it through the hunt.

  And Hope knew damn well he wasn’t strong enough to break those rules. Not yet.

  They surely knew about his Discovered Active Skill already. That was probably factored in too.

  He sighed.

  “Alright, so… what can I get with what I have? Accessories?”

  “Sorry, kiddo,” Gob said. “Cheapest Grade F accessory’s still above your line. That one starts at 1000 credits.”

  “The actual fuck!? Grade F? Then what about Grade D?”

  “Oh, that one?” Gob’s grin stretched. “That’s ten.”

  “Huh? Just ten?” Hope blinked.

  “Yeah. Just ten grand.” Gob chuckled, wiggling his long fingers. “Real steal, eh?”

  Cheap bastard.

  Hope pinched the bridge of his nose. “So… anything under 500?”

  “Well, yes, quite a few things,” Gob said, perking up. “Got some fine meat cuts—restores stamina faster than any grub you’ve tasted. Couple drinks too. One clears mental strain, another eases pain. Temporary buffs, of course, but useful if you know when to use ’em.”

  Hope raised an eyebrow. Sounded decent. All temporary though. A quick boost, nothing permanent. Still… wouldn’t mind trying that meat if he could scrounge up enough.

  He crossed his arms.

  “What about armour? Anything within range?”

  Gob scratched his chin, then snapped his fingers. “You might like this one. Grade F helmet. Sturdy enough, and yours for just 300.”

  Padded Headwrap

  Rank 1 Gear (Grade: F, Type: Head)

  Requirements: Ranged Combat (Level 3), Physis 1200

  Effect: +60 Physis, +1 Ranged Combat

  Hope stared at the thick, cloth-wrapped piece. Not only did it look like something stitched together from scraps left in the dirt, but—

  “What happens if I don’t meet the requirements?” he asked, squinting at the item.

  “Oh, I can get you another one then, what about—”

  “No, I mean,” Hope cut in, “what happens if I wear something I don’t meet the requirement for?”

  “Ah,” Gob grinned, scratching under his hood. “Nothing really. You can wear it just fine—it just won’t give you any benefits.”

  Hope gave a slow nod, tucking the info away.

  Gob, already rummaging behind a crate, popped back up with another piece in hand. “What about this one, eh?”

  Dark Hide Helmet

  Rank 1 Gear (Grade: F, Type: Head)

  Requirements: Close-Quarter Combat (Level 3), Physis 1200

  Effect: +60 Physis, +1 Close-Quarter Combat

  Hope liked this one more. Looked sturdier, too. And he could really use the extra skill level… but still—

  “Do you have something else I could wear with the same effect? Not really fond of helmets to be honest.”

  Gob gave a knowing nod, then ducked behind the crates again. There was more rustling, a clink or two, followed by a soft thud. He emerged holding a pair of thick, fingerless gloves.

  “Here you go. Just as good and won’t mess up your pretty hair.”

  Dark Hide Gloves

  Rank 1 Gear (Grade: F, Type: Hand)

  Requirements: Close-Quarter Combat (Level 3), Physis 1200

  Effect: +60 Physis, +1 Close-Quarter Combat

  “Same price?”

  “Yep. Three hundred credits, flat. No tax, no haggling.”

  Hope rolled the coin between his fingers.

  “Alright,” he said, tossing the coin forward. “I’ll take 'em.”

  Gob grabbed the coin mid-air. “Got’ya. Anything else, lad?”

  Hope paused, rubbing his temple.

  To earn more credits he’d need to hunt. Probably a lot. That meant fighting, exhaustion, and mental strain—especially if he was gonna be relying on his new skill.

  “Do you have somethin’ to ease the headaches?” he muttered.

  “Of course I do, who do you think I am?” Gob grinned, already pulling a small bottle from a nearby crate. The liquid inside shimmered with a faint blue glow.

  Clarity Draught

  Rank 1 Consumable (Grade: F)

  Effect: Boosts mental strain recovery by 20% for 2 hours

  “Fresh batch,” Gob said proudly. “Just for you, kiddo.”

  Hope eyed the bottle, curious. “And the price?”

  “Fifty credits per gulp,” Gob said. “But don’t get any funny ideas. You gotta drink the whole thing to get the effect.”

  Hope narrowed his eyes. “So what if I drink, like, two or three at once? Stack it?”

  Gob let out a sharp, amused snort. “Hah! Wouldn’t recommend it, lad. Nasty side effects if you chug too many, and no—the bonus don’t stack.”

  “Alright, give me… eh… three,” Hope said after doing the quick math.

  “Got’ya, and that will all be… 450 lad, good?”

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Hope nodded.

  Gob throwed the coin back at him and Hope noticed it now showed ‘45’.

  “And here you go,” Gob brought forward the gloves and three potions.

  Hope put on the gloves first feeling a surprising boost in strength. He checked his upgraded skill.

  ?? Close-Quarter Combat (Level 6 + 3)

  Instinctive adaptations for tight engagements.

  ? 45% reduction in stamina drain during close quarter combat.

  ? +400 Physis permanently

  Damn, it went from 250 to 400 at level 9? Sweet. Good buy, I guess.

  What if he pushed it even further? Yeah… he should aim to get more of these Close-Quarter Combat boosting gear.

  He grabbed the potions, but quickly realized the issue—his current bag was stuffed with rocks. Even if he dumped them out, he’d barely fit one, maybe two bottles in there, and they’d probably end up smashing each other after some intense fights.

  “So, Gob… you wouldn’t happen to have something I could use to carry this stuff?”

  “Yes, I do.” Gob nodded, already rummaging around. “Got several pouches and backpacks right here. Pretty cheap too, since they’re plain items with no effects. Just good ol’ storage.”

  He pulled out a rough brown backpack, leather straps worn but intact. Small side loops for tools or weapons, and on the front—a fitted rack made just for potion vials, snug and protected.

  “This one here’s got space for ten bottles and enough room inside for whatever junk you lug around.”

  Hope raised a brow. “How much?”

  “Thirty credits, flat.”

  Hope didn't even hesitate. He tossed the coin Gob’s way and caught the pack mid-air.

  “Not bad,” he muttered, slinging it over his shoulder and carefully sliding the potions into their fitted slots.

  Now he was armed, geared, stocked, and with a plan. He caught the coin as it blinked back into his hand—‘15’. Still broke though.

  “Alright… guess it’s time to go huntin’.”

  “C’ya later, lad. Bring some more coins next time,” Gob called out with a toothy grin, waving lazily from his crate.

  Hope just gave a half nod and took off, feet crunching over blackened gravel as he jogged past the crooked shop and into the volcanic region ahead.

  The air shifted fast.

  Pockets of smoke hissed from narrow fissures, and the terrain undulated with low, uneven hills darkened by soot and burned rock. In the distance, a sluggish red flow snaked its way down the side of a far-off slope, and the smell—dry, bitter, almost metallic—filled his lungs.

  The wind was hotter here, heavier too. His skin prickled under the heat, and the amount of Heat Magika hanging in the air buzzed at the edge of his awareness.

  Hope slowed his pace as he crested a rise—and froze.

  Down below, near a basin of cooled magma and scattered stone slabs, stood a tall, hulking humanoid figure. It was more than twice Hope’s height, with thick arms, broad shoulders, and hide the color of scorched ash. It dragged a rusted slab of metal larger than an adult man behind it, using it like a makeshift weapon.

  Yet more than the peculiar, ugly appearance of the giant, it was the System prompt that appeared above it that made Hope’s jaw drop.

  Scorchback

  Level 55

  “…You gotta be shittin’ me.”

  And worse—Hope squinted further into the distance. More of them! All the same damn level.

  This was ridiculous. He was just Level 34! Where the hell was the fairness in that?

  Screw them all!

  Hope exhaled slowly.

  “Alright then… let’s get this over with.”

  He dropped his backpack and grabbed his spear. The sensation was strange now—his hand wrapped in the new glove. It didn’t feel quite right, but the grip was steady. He’d get used to it.

  He ran down the crest.

  The creature stirred when he got closer, turning slow and heavy to face him. It raised the rusted slab of metal in its hand like a massive club.

  Hope knew—one hit and he was done for. No questions asked.

  He also had no clue how fast the damn thing was.

  No chances, then.

  Hope shut everything out.

  He focused—on the rhythm, on that feeling, that memory of wings, of that bird.

  His heartbeat matched the wingbeats.

  One.

  Whsssh

  Two.

  Whsssh

  Three!

  Whsssh

  The Air Magika swelled around him like a storm, wrapping him in invisible lift. His boots lifted off the ground.

  And then—

  He vanished forward, air splitting behind him as his body launched like a rocket.

  But the Scorchback was faster than it looked.

  It reacted, shifting its massive frame with eerie agility and swinging its makeshift mace in a perfect arc—straight at him.

  Hope didn’t flinch. He stayed calm, eyes on the motion, mind locked on the flow.

  At the last second, he twisted hard and dropped beneath the swing, momentum carrying him low and fast as he thrust his spear up into the creature’s rib.

  The point hit home, however—

  Hope’s teeth clenched as the impact threw him back. The spear barely pierced past the tip before it jammed, the shaft shuddering in his grip. The recoil flung him off-balance, his body spiraling and crashing into the ground with a grunt.

  He scraped his face on the ash-coated stone and felt the bruise bloom across his ribs—but he didn’t stop.

  Hope drew the Air Magika in again, sprang up like a shot, and flared his speed.

  The Scorchback moved.

  Hope twisted mid-air, dodging the counter-blow by inches. He reached out, grabbed the lodged spear, and yanked with all his speed-enhanced strength. It slid free with a wet sound, and he disengaged immediately.

  He landed, panting, sweat cold on his skin.

  His eyes stayed locked on the creature.

  Its defense was absurd. A single hit would break him in half.

  And it was fast—too fast for such a big guy.

  Hope’s only advantage? Speed.

  And probably… only while his Active Skill was up.

  Hope thought for a moment.

  The creature’s bones were clearly too dense, its muscles packed with inhuman strength. His spear barely scratched the damn thing's ribs. He couldn’t afford to aim blindly. He needed a vital spot. Something soft and exposed.

  He could feel sweat clinging under his arms and behind his neck. His glove was already damp inside. The strain from the last burst tugged at his ribs like a knife between each breath.

  There was no pause.

  The Scorchback roared. Its wide steps cracked the cooled magma underfoot. Each movement shook the slope beneath Hope’s boots. And yet, he watched. Every step. Every twitch.

  He had to be faster.

  Not just with his body—but with the spear.

  Hope exhaled, focused.

  The wind embraced him.

  He stopped seeing the air as a cushion and started feeling it as pressure—force he could guide, compress, and unleash.

  He channeled the Air Magika not just into his boots, but into the shaft of his weapon, into his arms, into the tip itself.

  The spear trembled slightly.

  It wasn’t just speed. He was building thrust now—like a spring wound too tight, about to snap.

  He darted forward again, circling fast. His boots barely skimmed the charred stone as he weaved around broken slabs and cooled fissures, wind kicking up trails of dust and soot behind him.

  The creature turned, trying to follow. Its massive arm raised again, but Hope didn’t give it the chance to predict.

  He flanked it from the right, then veered left. Then, finally, dashed straight toward its exposed side. The throat. Black skin pulled tight over pulsing tendons and a sunken gap between collar and jaw.

  He launched the spear, arm locked tight and guided by air.

  The Scorchback answered fast.

  Its free hand snapped up, catching the spear mid-flight. The shock of impact rattled Hope's arms as he was yanked back with it, his feet dragging across the gravel. The beast let out a low, choking snarl as it twisted and hurled him back like a sack of bones.

  Hope slammed into a scorched boulder, ribs crunching. The air left his lungs in a pathetic wheeze. Pain rippled down his side. His arm numb.

  He bit down a scream and spat out blood.

  The giant was moving again.

  Hope rolled to the side, just as the slab-mace crashed where he’d been, sending stone flying in all directions.

  He pushed up, ignored the pain. Every breath felt like glass dragging down his chest, but he didn’t stop.

  He blurred again, eyes burning from sweat and ash. This time, he twisted behind the Scorchback and jammed the spear into the back of its knee, driving with all the air-boosted force he could channel.

  It howled, a gut-wrenching vibration that shook Hope’s chest.

  The leg buckled.

  Hope didn’t wait. He let the spear go and vaulted upward, boots pushing off the giant’s own thigh as he climbed its back like a spider.

  The Scorchback reached up to grab him—too slow.

  Hope landed behind its head and grabbed the base of his spear sticking out from the joint.

  He tore it free, spun it around, and rammed the tip down into the side of the creature’s neck—just behind the thick jaw.

  This time it sank deep.

  The point burst through the other side with a wet crunch, spraying blackish blood across the stone below.

  The Scorchback staggered, arms flailing, body twisting in confusion and pain.

  Hope jumped back as it collapsed forward, dead weight crushing the rocks with a deep, echoing boom.

  He landed hard, rolled, and came up coughing. His lungs burned. His hands shook.

  The smell was worse now. Burnt hide, blood, and crushed bone. It soaked into the ash and hung heavy in the air.

  Hope dropped to a knee, spear still clenched tight, and let himself breathe for a second.

  He stared at the twitching corpse, blood dripping from his gloves, and felt it settle in.

  The creature was dead.

  Level 34?36

  He’d won.