Two levels, huh? That’s all I got?

  A second later, the massive creature dissolved into thin air, vanishing without a trace. In its place, a single coin remained on the ground, sitting among the cracked stone and scorched dust like a cruel joke.

  Hope calmed his breath and pushed himself up with a grunt. His muscles ached, and his head throbbed with the weight of too much strain.

  He limped toward the coin, but before he could reach it, the thing floated on its own and zipped straight into his bag. The number etched into the side of the coin display flickered. ‘15’ became… ‘25’.

  His eyes narrowed. Jaw clenched. All that—for just ten?

  His hand gripped the spear tighter, knuckles whitening around the shaft. He could already imagine one of those fuckers’ skulls cracking under the pressure. Fuck them. Seriously, fuck every single one of them watching from above. What did they expect? That he’d just keep going like this? Killing monsters twice his level for scraps?

  So how many did he have to kill? Hundreds? A goddamn thousand?

  He exhaled through his nose and shook his head. The headache had already settled in, dull and persistent. He’d really burned through his reserves using the Active Skill for the entire fight. That wasn’t something he could repeat over and over. Not without consequences.

  With a low groan, he threw himself to the ground. The stone was scorching, radiating heat from the volcanic terrain, but he didn’t give a shit.

  He turned his head toward the rise he’d come from. “Hey, Eve,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Could you help me get the backpack back there?”

  She nodded without a word and carried it over. Hope gave her a brief nod in return. “Thanks.”

  He opened the pack and fished around until he found one of the recovery potions. “Let’s see if this works,” he said under his breath.

  The cork came off with a pop, and he downed it in one long gulp.

  The taste hit instantly—like rat piss mixed with rust and something long dead. Hope gagged, nearly spit it out, but forced it down. He’d had worse. Hell, he’d eaten worse.

  When the bottle was empty, he let it drop beside him and leaned back on his elbows, staring at the hazy sky above.

  He closed his eyes and forced himself to stay calm, to just let it settle. The sharp pounding in his skull slowly dulled, easing into a more manageable throb. It wasn’t gone, not by a long shot, but the potion was clearly working. Not a miracle by any means—just a steady lift. The boost was there, subtle but real. Then again, it was only twenty percent. Not like he’d downed some legendary elixir.

  Hope sighed and shifted his weight, dragging the pack closer. He stuffed it under his head and laid back, letting the rough fabric press against his skull. It wasn’t comfortable, but it beat lying straight on the sizzling ground.

  His limbs were still heavy, his joints sore, and the thought of fighting another one of those bastards made his stomach churn. No way he was getting back up for at least a while. Might as well take it easy until his body caught up.

  His voice came out lazy, muffled slightly as he rested against the bag. “What do you think, Eve? Nasty guys, those big blokes, ain’t they?”

  Eve’s faint hum of agreement echoed nearby.

  “But I think I have a plan,” he continued, dragging the words out as he stared up at the hazy sky. “See, I’m thinking instead of saving up for the fancy expensive stuff, why not just load up on gear that boosts Close-Quarter Combat? Like, just F-grade stuff. It still works. Sure, it’s three hundred damn credits each, but if I go piece by piece, I’ll get there. And since the benefit from the passive skill grows more and more, I’ll be racking up Physis pretty high in no time. And the more I have—”

  Suddenly, Eve chuckled. The sound was soft, almost musical, but it made Hope stop mid-sentence.

  “Wait, why’s that funny?” he asked, frowning.

  “You cannot wear more than five gear pieces and two accessories, Hope,” she replied, clearly amused. “Furthermore, no skill can be enhanced by external factors—gear or otherwise—beyond +5. So, while your plan isn’t terrible, I regret to inform you that you’ll need to adjust it a bit.”

  “What? Since when? Why? Like… System stuff?”

  Eve nodded politely. “System stuff.”

  Hope groaned and dropped his head back on the pack. “Not that one fuckin’ me too… shit.”

  He sighed as his thoughts drifted back to the fight. He needed a way to finish it quicker and without draining himself to the bone. His Active Skill gave him a huge edge in speed and movement, but offensively… he was still lacking.

  Sure, channeling Air Magika into his spear helped speed up his thrusts, but only to a point. He needed more than that—he needed a strike so fast those bastards wouldn’t even have time to raise a hand.

  But how?

  Was it a control issue? Was his Air Magika manipulation just not good enough? Or was it his Magia stat putting a cap on what he could do? Or maybe… maybe he was just doing it wrong?

  Hope focused on that last thought, letting his mind wander through different angles, techniques, and possibilities. He ran through imaginary fights, tried to feel the motion in his head, adjusted the grip, the angle, the burst of energy. Time passed unnoticed as ideas swirled and sharpened.

  Eventually, he sat up and clapped his hands against his knees.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  “Alright. Time to get back at it,” he muttered, then pushed off the ground in a smooth kip-up and stood tall. The headache had mostly faded by now, though he could still feel its ghost tugging at the edge of his skull. Still, a lot of time had been wasted just recovering. And that potion had cost him 50 credits, while that damn Scorch-Somethin’ had only given him 10!

  Whatever. He’d figure it out. That was just the first one. He’d get better, rack up some levels, build up momentum. He’d find a way.

  “You okay, Eve?” he asked as he adjusted the spear on his back.

  “Yes. Why do you ask?” she replied calmly.

  “Nothing. Just… don’t you get bored, or tired, or hungry? I dunno.”

  “I… I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. And… it’s fun watching you do stuff,” she said with a small smile.

  Hope gulped. Yep… she was a certified stalker, alright. A sweet one, sure—but still. Well, to each their own weird fetishes and quirks.

  He grabbed his spear and set his sights on the next target, not too far ahead.

  Scorchback

  Level 55

  Hope narrowed his eyes, calming his thoughts. The last fight had given him a rough picture of what these bastards were capable of. This time, he would fight smarter.

  He rushed forward, boots scraping over loose ash and broken rock.

  As the creature turned toward him, its jagged slab of a weapon dragging behind, Hope let the feeling rise—calm breath, focused mind, heartbeat syncing with the memory of wings cutting through the sky.

  Air Gear

  It hit like a rush, a whisper that roared. Wind curled around him like invisible arms, lifting, driving, throwing him forward as if hurled by a storm.

  The Scorchback swung wide—Hope dodged, the air pressure of the club's path slamming into him like a hammer, but he didn’t flinch. He twisted mid-air, the world a blur, and aimed straight for the throat.

  The creature jerked back at the last second.

  But Hope had never meant to hit it.

  He let the missed strike pull him around the hulking beast. Boots hit the ground behind it with a skidding thud. Then he pushed off again, legs burning, using the ground this time, not just the air. He drove his body forward, snapping like a spring, muscles and Magika working together.

  Crack!

  The ground split slightly under his feet as the Air Gear engaged again, wrapping him in gale-force speed. His arms tensed—not for a thrust, but a slash.

  The head of his spear tore across the beast’s neck, slicing through flesh and muscle. A thick gout of blood sprayed out in an arc, coating the stone below.

  The creature howled, a deep, throaty roar that vibrated through the ground.

  Hope landed again, breath heaving, blood dripping from the edge of his weapon. He didn’t pause.

  Another push. Another slash. This time lower.

  He darted around the beast like a wasp too fast to swat, ducking under its defensive swing. But the Scorchback wasn’t stupid. With one hand, it raised its weapon to guard the wounded throat, thick fingers pressing against the gash, blood oozing between them.

  “Shit,” Hope hissed, eyes darting for another angle.

  He dropped low and spun behind it again. No time to overthink.

  He struck fast—once, then again, carving into the back of its leg. He went for the joint, then higher—slicing tendons with quick, angled cuts. The creature roared again, this time a scream of agony, and staggered.

  Its knee buckled.

  It dropped to one side, massive form collapsing into a pile of ash and loose rock with a violent crash. Debris flew everywhere. Hope stumbled back, shielding his eyes, coughing as black dust filled the air.

  Then he saw it shift, trying to crawl, dragging its weapon—

  Not this time.

  Hope lunged forward with a final burst of speed, sliding on one knee behind the crumbling creature and slamming his spear into the gap just beneath the skull.

  Crunch.

  The spine cracked.

  The Scorchback convulsed, before it fell still.

  Hope stayed there for a moment, crouched over the body, panting, heart pounding like a war drum inside his chest. Blood dripped down the shaft of his spear, the tip buried deep.

  Then he exhaled, long and slow.

  "That's two," he muttered.

  The wind around him slowly faded.

  Level 36?37

  He was satisfied—more than with the first kill. The fight had gone smoother, cleaner. But the mental strain still throbbed just beneath the surface, a tight, aching pressure behind his eyes. Not as bad as before, true, but far from manageable if this kept up.

  He needed to be faster. Sharper. More efficient.

  Using the ground to propel himself had been a smart move—he’d felt the difference immediately, how the air and muscle worked together, turning his body into a weapon. But slashes didn’t go deep enough. Not with a creature that size.

  Slashing with a spear… yeah, it looked better in his head before trying it.

  No, he needed a thrust. A perfect one. A blow fast enough to hit before they could react, but hard enough to punch through and end it in a single shot. The problem was what came after. If he commits to a deep thrust, it will end the same way. Spear lodged inside, body jolted by the sudden stop, balance shattered, arms rattling, and him crashing to the ground like a tossed rag.

  His thoughts spiraled, trying to play out different approaches, angles, combinations. Could he use the wind to rotate the shaft mid-thrust? Or maybe shape the Magika at the tip for penetration only, then release?

  Before he got too lost in theories, the corpse vanished like the first—dissolving into nothing. A faint shimmer rose from where it had fallen, and then the coin merged into the pouch by his waist.

  ‘35’

  He stared at the number, jaw clenching.

  Only two kills in, and the sheer scale of what lay ahead was already kicking in. If every beast gave ten—he’d need almost three hundred more just to buy that fancy spear. And that wasn’t counting food, water, potions, or other stuff.

  It was just absurd.

  But he didn’t complain. He just let his body settle, still crouched in the cooling ash. The air around him shimmered faintly from the heat radiating off nearby magma flows, and his back ached from the twisting and impact. His breath came steady now. Controlled.

  The potion was still working—he could feel the burn in his mind softening, the worst of the strain gradually numbed. According to the effect, it was supposed to last two hours, so he should still have plenty of time left.

  After several quiet minutes, he rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck, and finally turned.

  His fingers shifted along the spear's shaft, settling into a firmer grip.

  Time to try again.