Hope exhaled sharply, his hand trembling slightly as his boots touched down on the scorched ground.

  Behind him, the Scorchback staggered one last step before collapsing. Blood poured from the gaping wound in its throat, splattering across the stone as its massive frame slammed down with a thunderous crash. The impact sent a blast of hot air and loose debris in every direction.

  Level 39?40

  A moment later, as the creature vanished into thin air like the others before it, the coin it left behind—no, the coin those assholes in the sky had placed for him—floated up and merged seamlessly with the one in his bag.

  ‘145’

  Hope sighed, letting the anger seethe away as he focused on the feeling still pulsing in his chest.

  The headache lingered, dull and steady, but by now it had become just another part of him—background noise. He didn’t care about that.

  No, what Hope wanted to understand was that lift he’d felt a few times already.

  It wasn’t exactly the wind pushing him up. Not like some big gust behind his back. It had felt… different. Like something was missing below him. Like the air wasn’t shoving but pulling. Or maybe… letting him fall slower? Letting him cut through?

  He narrowed his eyes and stared at his spear.

  He remembered the second strike, when he’d flung himself up and angled the blade. The way it sliced in—it hadn’t just been speed. Something else had helped. A softness around the edges, like less fight from the air itself.

  Was that how it worked? Not just the push, but… what was missing? The emptiness?

  Hope didn’t know the word for it, but he pictured it in his head—when he dashed fast, the air in front got shoved aside, and behind him, it felt like something was pulling on his back. Not pulling him back—more like... chasing after him.

  He twirled the spear slowly, eyes thoughtful.

  If he could shape the wind better—not just blast it forward but curve it, let it collapse behind him where the air got thin and fast—maybe he could go faster using less. Use the empty bits to drag him through instead of always fighting to push.

  “Less for more,” he said under his breath, testing the idea like he was tasting it.

  Hope crouched low, one hand on the rock, and focused. He channeled a thin stream of Air Magika—not as much as usual, just a sliver—and moved it around his arm, letting it coil, letting it peel away from one side and rush back around the other.

  The wind tugged gently.

  “So it does work… emptiness can pull,” he whispered, eyes locked. “Interesting.”

  Hope rose to his feet slowly, spear in hand, his breath still rough but steadying.

  The thought stuck with him.

  He moved a few steps to a flat stretch of scorched rock, still warm from the corpse’s fall. The wind here was clearer, the heat dancing off the surface like a faint shimmer.

  He gripped the spear with both hands, adjusted his stance, and prepared a simple thrust. Nothing fancy.

  The first attempt was clumsy.

  He poured too much into the channel—too much Air Magika, too wide a flow. The wind resisted, whipped out the sides. The thrust dragged, too blunt.

  He clicked his tongue, stepped back, and tried again.

  This time, he narrowed the stream. He pictured the gap behind the spear tip—not where the air was, but where it wasn’t. A vacuum chasing after the metal. Pulling it forward.

  His arms followed.

  The thrust came out sharper, smoother. His shoulder still strained under the force, but the recoil was less violent.

  Not fast enough yet.

  He stepped again, pivoted, lowered his stance even more. The heat pressed up through his soles, but he ignored it. His mind drifted inward.

  Less Magika. Tighter shape. Coil it first, then let go.

  He thrust again.

  The air peeled open, sound ripping faintly as the spear surged forward with a lightness that didn’t match the weight of the strike. Like something else had grabbed the shaft from behind and yanked it along for him.

  Hope’s eyes widened slightly. That—he felt it.

  Again.

  He adjusted, this time shifting more weight into his lead leg. He used the ground, bracing hard, letting the thrust build through his core, not just his arms. Then, with a mental flick, he unraveled the Magika—not a push, not a burst.

  A path.

  The wind split.

  The spear flew.

  The tip whistled as it cut, slicing through the empty pressure gap he’d created for it, like a needle piercing skin that had already been stretched.

  Hope grinned.

  He didn’t say anything. Just moved again.

  Thrust.

  Shift.

  Twist.

  Recoil.

  Reset.

  The movement became a rhythm. His arms burned. His legs ached. But each time, the spear moved cleaner. Crisper. Less resistance. More speed.

  Each pull from the vacuum was better than the last.

  “Color me blind, it works!” he grinned.

  He also noticed something else—the smoother it felt, the quieter it was. The more silent the spear became… the better the thrust!

  But he did not stop.

  Despite the tiredness and the throbbing head, he thrust over and over, slowly ingraining that feeling in his mind.

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  He dragged the air tighter, shaved the Magika leaner, and made the path narrower. The tension between his hands and the spear became familiar—like drawing back a slingshot, like balancing on the edge of a fall.

  His body began to sync with the motion.

  The breathing, the steps, the subtle way he turned his shoulder just before release.

  The spear no longer slammed.

  It whispered.

  Hope’s grin widened as his boots scraped, and he was about to reset again when—

  ??Spear Handling (Level 5?6 + 1)

  You’ve grown used to the feel of a spear—how to hold, move, and strike with it.

  ? 35% reduction in stamina drain when using spears or spear-like weapons.

  ? +7% to Physis while the spear is your designated weapon.

  The prompt surprised him and widened his smile.

  “’Bout damn time, System.”

  He felt the slight boost in him, like holding the spear grounded him just a bit more.

  Hope decided it was enough for now. While his body was pretty fine, his mind was complaining too much.

  He was also a bit thirsty—not hungry, but he could definitely go for a bucket of water right now.

  That purse-pukin’ little bastard probably had some.

  But not yet. Too soon to go back.

  He took another five-minute break, wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, then set off again, boots scraping lightly across the cracked stone.

  It didn’t take long.

  Just ahead, tucked against a slope of broken obsidian and scorched rubble, he spotted another one.

  Scorchback

  Level 55

  Hope’s brow furrowed.

  What caught his eye wasn’t the beast itself, but the gaping mouth of a tunnel yawning open behind it—massive, wide enough for twenty men side by side, and dark all the way through. The tunnel sloped downward, cutting straight into the base of one of the larger mountains like a wound torn into stone.

  Hope blinked, let the thought hang, then just shrugged.

  He rolled his shoulders, tightened his grip on the spear, and launched forward without hesitation.

  The creature hadn’t seen him yet.

  Hope shifted his weight, then twisted low and activated Air Gear.

  Wind coiled around his legs like a spring. He kicked off the ground hard, cracking the stone beneath his boots as the air burst outward—hurling him in a wide arc.

  The Scorchback turned at the sound, raising its club with a growl—but not fast enough.

  Hope didn’t charge head-on.

  He circled wide, boots brushing ground for the briefest moment, then used it again—another kick, another burst.

  He cut behind the beast in a blur, angling low again, then twisted mid-air, tracing a tight loop with the wind still chasing him.

  The Scorchback spun to follow.

  Big mistake.

  Hope didn’t aim for the ribs—too thick, too layered.

  He roared, legs tightening, and drove forward with everything he had.

  The spear surged.

  Not to the side. Not upward.

  Straight beneath the armpit, right where the ribs thinned—where the heart would be.

  The tip struck clean, then buried deep with a crack of flesh and a jolt of resistance.

  The Scorchback spasmed.

  Its whole body jerked, limbs flailing wildly as the spear punched straight into the cavity beneath its arm. Blood sprayed in a hot arc, dark and thick, spattering Hope’s face and chest as he snarled and twisted the shaft.

  The beast let out a choking roar, mouth stretched wide, but the sound came out broken and wet.

  Its club-arm flailed once, blindly, missing by a mile.

  Then its knees buckled.

  Hope yanked the spear back with both hands, wrenching it free with a sharp, ripping shluck that tore flesh and muscle loose in strings. A geyser of blood burst from the wound, pressure pulsing as the creature staggered, heart torn open mid-beat.

  It spun halfway, feet scraping stone, then crashed face-first into the rock with a thunderous slam.

  Hope took a few steps back, panting, his boots leaving streaks through the blood slick.

  “That was quick,” he muttered under his breath. Yet nothing but a coin from this one. ‘155’.

  Hope stared at his spear. The thrust was faster now… but he knew there was more potential than this. He just had to keep pushing it.

  He raised his head and looked at the dark tunnel. It intrigued him.

  While he hadn’t gone far in the region, this was the first thing like it he’d seen. It wasn’t jagged or rough like the rest of the terrain. The arch was clean, too precise. The slope too straight.

  Didn’t seem natural. Man-made? Beast-made?

  Wonder if anything in this freakshow world’s even natural.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Oi, Eve, maybe… hang back this time, alright?”

  “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

  Hope scratched the back of his neck, then shrugged.

  With a grunt, he started walking.

  The tunnel swallowed him quickly. Darkness pooled thick, like wet cloth draped over his eyes. Each step echoed with a dull, dragging note. The air was cooler inside, but carried a tang—metallic, sharp.

  He pressed on slowly.

  Then, around the bend, the world shifted.

  Thin lines of red light began to thread across the walls—faint, glowing magma veins that pulsed like veins under skin. The stone glimmered dimly with heat, shadows flickering as the ground sloped deeper.

  Then he saw them.

  Two Scorchbacks, standing still ahead, their bulk casting twisted shadows along the tunnel walls.

  Hope slowed. Two at once?

  He hesitated for a beat. Then crouched low and clicked his tongue. Air Gear kicked in.

  Wind peeled around his legs as he dashed forward, not straight—but up.

  He launched sideways onto the wall, boots scraping stone, then kicked off with force. The momentum carried him to the opposite wall, where he rebounded again, zigzagging like a spring under tension.

  The creatures turned—slow, confused. One swung too early. The club missed him by far.

  Hope spun midair, narrowing the Magika to a tight coil around his spear arm.

  The wind pulled.

  He let the thrust loose just as he dropped in from the ceiling.

  The tip slammed clean into the first Scorchback’s neck—right at the angle beneath the jaw where the thick skin split. Flesh tore. The thing gurgled, staggered, and collapsed with blood spraying across the stone like a broken pipe.

  Hope didn’t land.

  He kicked off its shoulder, spinning again, using the momentum and angled wall to redirect himself. Wind curved behind him, his legs cutting through the tight space in a blur.

  The second beast swung clumsily, but he was already past it—skating low, feet scraping the ground.

  With a grunt, he twisted and drove the spear upward under its armpit. A burst of resistance—then a crack as the tip broke through cartilage and into something vital.

  The creature shrieked, thrashed. Hope let go and spun off, landing hard and tumbling back into a crouch.

  The second Scorchback collapsed seconds later, the stone trembling from the fall.

  Hope stood, panting, a smear of blood across his cheek.

  Both disappeared shortly after, and his credits went up. ‘175’.

  The tight space sure came in handy. I can hunt them way better in this tunnel.

  He paused, thinking. Probably two hours had passed. He called back to Eve—voice a bit sheepish—then scratched his head as she brought him his backpack. He hadn’t meant to make her carry it the whole way, but she didn’t seem to mind. Still, he felt a little bad about it.

  He gave her a quick nod of thanks, grabbed another potion, and downed it.

  Only one left now.

  He took a deep breath and rushed ahead.

  On the way, he encountered two more. Quick kills. And finally, another level and twenty more credits.

  Level 40?41

  This was much easier.

  But as Hope moved deeper, turning past a bend in the tunnel, he froze.

  “You can’t be serious.”