From the journal of Explorer Erni-von Hillbach.

  Where to even begin with this accursed swath of wilderness? To start, there isn’t even an agreed-upon name for the damned place. The Nightmare Wood, Elysium's Ruins, Godsbane, or as we commonly refer to it. The Forsaken lands. Our eastern border is both protected and encroached upon by these unmanageable stretches of bogs and forests so dense the sun dare not even tread on the ground.

  The inhospitable terrain is not what earned this wretched place its namesake. Oh no, that would be its denizens. Where most abnormally high Mana areas would have stretches that are dangerous to traverse. Or require a competent scout to avoid high-tier monstrosities. The entirety of this wilderness is an absolute deathtrap without rhyme or goddamn reason to its dangers.

  The trees will, with no warning, be blood-rending husks that drag themselves over fields of corpses to feast on any life they sense. When not even twenty paces ago they were naught more than lovely willows draped across your path. The grass in one meadow may have radiant stems with stunning healing properties. That rivals a second-tier potion. And then in the next meadow, it cuts your scout down to the bone at the lightest touch. Then it begins to sprout from his still-pooling blood while he yet lives.

  Carpets of verdant, luminescent moss can wind through the bogs, a welcomed reprieve in the oppressive darkness. Guiding you to shelter at the base of a waterfall. Only for the bits of moss you tracked on your boots to begin growing, rooting you in place. Trying to add you to the ever-expanding bloom. That is just the fucking plants.

  The less said of the creatures, the unbridled horrors that lurk here, the better. But for the sake of understanding, I will speak of the Threshers. Famous beasts for being quite possibly the most lethal threat a man can face. That the system deigns is only at the beginning of the second tier. Luring innumerable overtly brave warriors to an early grave. They are as tall as a man standing on its two clawed legs. With dark red and black scales, punctuated by feathers of the deepest onyx. Feathers presumably made of Mana. That draws the shadows around itself deeper . A maw of overgrown fangs, layered like that of a shark. Protrude from there scaled snouts.

  None of these physical characteristics are what make them so dangerous, however. The disproportionate lethality is twofold. One, they are smart, disconcertingly so. Nearly sentient in their mannerisms. They always hunt in organized packs, luring one or two victims at a time. Secondly, and most famous is the beast's eyes. If you ever fight one of the creatures, do NOT look into its eyes. I witnessed firsthand how locking gazes with the beast robbed the most powerful of my guards of his wits, his senses, his very will to live. Leaving him a trembling wreck that was easily dispatched.

  If not for the system’s protection of our borders, Threshers and many worse things could intrude from the twisted hellscape into our lands. “Why do people still go into such a pointlessly cruel deathtrap?” is a question I am often asked. The answer is simple: greed. The sheer density of dungeons, high-tier beasts, and plants. And of course the ruins of the Elysium Capitol make it so that if one can venture into the Forsaken Lands and survive. Your odds of coming out richer in levels or ancient treasures are almost assured. I myself broke through into my second tier of [Explorer] by simply surviving the journey. We made it four leagues in before I was the only survivor. I will never go back.

  I digress. Let me end this entry with a well-intentioned plea. No matter your power, do not underestimate this place. The first tiers among you who have just begun on your path. Those who have successfully driven into the second tier. Lauded as the elites of your city. Even those very few who have pushed into the third tier. Holding enough personal power to besiege a fortress single-handedly. The survival rate is the same.

  Less than one in ten of you. Who ventures anywhere past but the barest fringes of Forsaken Lands will return. This number doesn’t change even for the scant few individuals holding personal power akin to that of a small army, who have miraculously broken beyond the third tier. Unimaginable horrors lurk within. Gods died here. And what remains does not want to be seen.

  Vraxious – Hopes End village.

  Vrax intently peered from a shadowed perch within the alley. His cloak drawn tight against his body, blending in with the dirty balcony, he lay upon. Bits of broken stone and brickwork were arranged haphazardly in front of him to break up his silhouette even further. The sun was just starting to be the faintest of a crimson glow on the horizon. Casting deep and disorienting shadows across the cobbled courtyard below him. The telltale jingle of chainmail and heavy clink of armored boots from farther up the town square. Announced the arrival of his target.

  Everything had to be perfect. Vrax had prepared for this ambush for a month now. His future was riding on it. Gregory, the groggily approaching town guard, had just begun his watch. Gregory had been deep into his cups the night before; Vrax had made sure of it. Slipping the portly innkeeper an entire imperial silver to make sure Gregory went far beyond his normal three tankards. The innkeep had raised an eyebrow at that but palmed the coin deftly all the same. Bringing tankard after tankard to the guard. “From the gentleman down at the end,” Rafael the inn-keep had told Gregory, pointing to an almost insensate drunk halfway off his barstool. Gregory had seemed dubious at first, but after the fifth tankard, his questions eased into the boisterous clamor of a drunk among friends.

  This is the best shot I am going to get, and I sure as hell am only going to get one. He was talking to his damned stool by the end of the night. Even with his monstrous resistances, he should be suffering enough to be off his game. One big mistake. One oversight is all I need from him.

  Vrax surveyed the ambush site one last time. The town square was a circular cobblestone yard, thirty strides wide, ringed by well-worn brick and wooden buildings. A statue of the damned duke sat in the middle of the yard. Gently burbling as it depicted the noble pouring wine into a basin. Making for a beautiful if tasteless fountain. Every half dozen strides was a market stall strewn with half-faded silks and long-ago painted signs. At this hour the courtyard was still empty of the merchants.

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  Eight traps, it should be enough. Calm breaths man. State of mind is half the battle, if you panic and step into one of your own traps, you won't survive the damn things.

  Vrax pulled his cowl every so slowly forward, making sure to obscure his distinctly piercing green eyes. Gregory was approaching the cracked section of cobblestone. It was a three-stride patch shattered down to the hard-packed loam beneath by the town's “Cleric.” When some Forsaken Delvers had decided strong-arming one of the church's young charges for a better price was a remotely wise idea. Vrax had transported a surprise from the forsaken lands itself to that patch of town history.

  Vrax focused deeply on the air around himself, feeling the faint mana at his fingertips like a gentle stream of water. With a force of will, he clasped his left fist clumsily, rending a thin stream of unfocused mana from the air and directing it down his arm and up into his eyes. He felt the familiar tug on his senses, the slightest pull toward seeing beyond the veil of mere mortal eyes as [identify] activated.

  (Gregory Hillborn Tier 1 [lvl 89]) (Steel guard, Uncommon) . Vrax cringed slightly at the burning sensation streaming through his veins and into his eyes. Still unclassed himself, it was impressive he had managed to craft a usable skill at all. But it still needed far more work. He was just relieved that Gregory hadn’t leveled up any further. This ambush was already a herculean task, against a foe so far beyond him.

  Vrax slinked further towards the edge of his overhang as Gregory neared. “Fair fights are for suckers, fight to win, goddammit,” Vrax whispered his favorite quote from his father to himself as he shifted onto his fingertips in anticipation. He palmed the first of his smoke bombs and threw it in a very sharp arc over the center of the courtyard. Just as Gregory’s foot fell on the broken stone. “Wait, what the fuck?” Gregory blurted out as the barbed tendril of a lurker mushroom slapped itself across his shin. “Oh fucking hells.” Was all he managed before the other five mushrooms hidden among the cobble launched their tendrils around his shin and arm, roughly hauling him half a step forward and halfway to his knees.

  Vrax was already in motion, exploding from the balcony in an agile dive, rolling to his feet 5 strides behind Gregory. Gregory, as hungover as he was, still responded with astonishing violence. He braced his bound leg against the ground and leapt backward with such force he sent a chunk of cobblestone flying. While at the same time unsheathing a well-worn short sword shearing through the still intact tendrils faster than Vrax could track. The second of delay Gregory had freeing himself was what Vrax had counted on.

  Vrax practically slid from a dead sprint, desperately gliding under a savage pommel strike from the guard as he whirled towards the actual threat. Gregory was off balance, and it allowed Vrax in under the blade. Vrax struck, whipping one hand up with a bag of yellow powder misting into the guard's face. the other hand driving a piercing dagger towards the guards unarmored inner thigh. Gregory reflexively slammed the dagger from Vrax’s grip with a savage knee. His hand crunched sickeningly as fingers broke, and the dagger shot from his grip. Vrax ignored the deep pain in his hand to twirl with his momentum out from under the descending yellow powder. Ending up in a half crouch a stride from Gregory.

  Gregory clawed at his eyes and mouth with his free hand, skin blackening slightly from where the powder had touched him. His gaze never left Vrax. The smoke bomb detonated above them just as Gregory let go of his sword, and it hovered ominously next to him. Vrax felt his heart thundering as the smoke descended, obscuring the guard as he activated his first skill of the fight. Vrax rolled more on instinct than anything else as the short sword shot out where he was a moment ago, spinning with such speed that his cloak billowed and tore from the gale it put off.

  Oh! That's what that skill does when he uses it for real. That will mulch me if it so much as grazes me. Honestly, I didn’t expect Gregory to have quite that much oomph to him. Really, really starting to think I should have gone with a newer guard.

  Vrax had observed Gregory hovering blades and shields around himself in practice before. Peacefully bobbing a half dozen deadly implements around himself in complex weaving patterns. Never at near-supersonic levels of speed and with such hateful intent, though.

  Vrax ran for the cover of the nearest booth, slamming behind it desperately. He scrabbled at the silks framing the stall. To unwrap the sturdy spear he had stashed. the screeching whoosh of the blade spinning in place, not far behind him, a constant reminder of how close he was to death right now.

  He almost sobbed in relief when his hand wrapped around the comforting wooden shaft of his spear. Vrax finished pulling it from the silks and went to dash to the next stall where he had a trap laid out. He didn’t make it. The merchant stall exploded, sending shrapnel tearing across his torso and demolishing the merchant stall he was going to run to.

  His lost dagger quivered violently. Embedded into the stone wall of a bakery after it demolished the two stalls. Then it tore itself from the wall as if by an unseen hand and whipped back to him to finish the job. Vrax dove for all he was worth, almost losing his spear in the ensuing tumble. He put his hand to the ground to lift his battered body up just in time to see Gregory burst from the cloud of smoke, mercilessly booting him in the chest, sending him careening. Through another wooden stall.

  Vrax felt the defensive talisman he had stolen. Burn out at the impact as he tore through the framing boards. He tumbled to a stop on the other side of the stalls, only alive by merit of the now smoking artifact. Vrax tried to keep the rising panic from boiling over. He steeled himself and tried to take a slow, deep breath, wincing at what had to be a cracked rib at least. He still had a chance; he just needed to draw blood.

  This will work! I just need a solid strike, he has to be halfway blind from the blister powder by now. Higher leveled or not, I got that squarely in his damned face.

  He stumbled toward the farthest stall while Gregory dashed to the other side to cut him off from escape.

  Gregory’s voice boomed out with an authoritative tone laced with tinges of power that rattled Vrax’s bones. “I do not know why you are doing this, but stand the fuck down. Drop your spear and submit to arrest. Or I will cut you down where you stand.” His whirring short sword whipped to hover over his shoulder to punctuate his point. The now mangled dagger joining over his other shoulder, now also whipping itself to untraceable speeds.

  Vrax's frantic gaze fell on the impossibly thin wire just inches from Gregory's feet, running from one stall to another. It was one hell of a risk, but Vrax needed this to work. He shifted into a fighting stance, spear tip pointed out, held in one hand, and began gathering mana in his free palm. While circling around Gregory. Thankfully Gregory matched his fighting stance, circling to match him instead of just bisecting him with the whirling blade.

  That's right, big guy, I'm a real threat, not a classless fool. Praying that guile can actually beat brawn. Square up and circle right into the webbing.

  The bluff paid off, and Gregory stepped directly through the wire, eliciting a grunt of confused pain as it sawed several inches through his armored leg and blood began streaming out. A small pool formed at his feet as he looked in disbelief at the wire and his rent shin guard.

  Vrax’s mouth hung open slightly at the efficacy of the [razor-weaver] webbing. Okaayy.. adding that to the list of use for traps from now on. Hells that stuff is scary.

  He stuffed his shock down and exploded into motion. Vrax immediately reached into his cloak, crushing a foul-smelling black plant bulb, and poured it over himself. At the same time, he whipped his body towards the fountain behind him. He hurled his spear towards a small hidden cage. Suspended from the duke's statue just below the stone wine jug. He held his breath as the glass cage shattered and a small circular creature bobbed free from beneath the stream of water.

  Come on, you beautiful little horror. I did my part. Doesn’t Gregory smell delicious? Go give your new friend a hug.