The system remained frozen, two skills displayed in front of him, waiting to be chosen. Devouring Bind. Laceration Bloom. Time had stretched itself thin, pulling this moment apart to give him a short space to decide. Without distractions or movement. Just his mind and his decision.

  His fingers curled at his side, out of habit more than anything. He some time— just a little. Enough time to analyze them and the answer had already started forming in the back of his mind.

  Devouring Bind.

  His body shifting into something else. Not just movement, not an extension of his swordplay, but something unnatural. His own form reshaping itself into something unrecognizable, turning into something that wasn’t fully his anymore. The thought sat wrong. He knew what mattered. Control. Precision. Mastery over his own form. Everything he had built, every technique, every refined motion—all of it required a body that moved exactly as intended.

  If his limbs weren’t his own, what did that do to his technique? If his form could shift, did that mean his footwork adjusted too? Did his balance change? Did his weight distribution shift mid-strike? There were too many unknowns. Even if the skill followed his intent, even if it didn’t disrupt his natural motion, the simple fact remained—it wasn’t his body.

  The drain effect was another layer. Stealing vitality from enemies meant nothing if it introduced hesitation. He fought with calculated movements, not attrition. If he had to rely on an enemy’s strength to sustain himself, that meant he had already given up his own endurance. His body didn’t need sustenance mid-fight. His skill dictated the outcome, not borrowed energy.

  Then there was the sharpening effect. Kills while the skill was active would refine his precision. That part had value. Every battle as an opportunity for advancement. Every execution tightening his technique further. But at what cost? He didn’t need refinement if the method compromised everything else. A sword was an extension of its wielder. His body was the foundation. If the foundation changed, the blade followed.

  No. Devouring Bind was unacceptable.

  His gaze shifted. Laceration Bloom.

  Weapon constructs formed from hardened sinew and shifting mass. That was the part that needed consideration. Whose sinew? Whose mass? If it had to come from himself, then the answer was already decided. A hard no.

  But if the skill pulled materials from the battlefield, from enemies, from something external, then it had potential. If the skill allowed him to use any sinew and organic mass, then its potential depended entirely on what it could draw from. His own body was out of the question—he had no reason to carve himself apart when Soul Sword already let him summon blades from his form without the grotesque drawbacks. But if Laceration Bloom could pull from external sources—fallen beasts, spirit creatures, even remnants of powerful foes—then it became something else entirely. A method of forging weapons from the strongest materials available, adapting in real-time. If he could refine that process, and control what it drew from, then it wouldn’t just be a tool for combat—it would be an evolving arsenal. The value wasn’t in the skill itself, but in what it could be turned into.

  The skill’s mechanics were better suited to his style. Rapid strikes from multiple vectors. An extension of his reach, allowing him to pressure opponents without breaking his own motion. The ability to merge the constructs into a single armour-piercing lance. That could be useful. Against opponents with heavy defences, closing the gap was one approach. A strike that bypassed their armour outright was another.

  Then there was the movement enhancement. Increased fluidity. More deliberate motion. That aligned with his focus. Movement dictated combat. Proper footwork, and properly executed technique—that was what allowed control over engagements. If Laceration Bloom refined his transitions and made his footwork even smoother, then that was a tangible advantage.

  If Laceration Bloom proved inefficient, it wouldn’t be permanent. He could merge it with another skill, sacrificing both to create something stronger. It wasn’t an ideal method—losing two abilities always carried risk—but if the constructs interfered with his swordsmanship or failed to integrate smoothly, then they wouldn’t be worth keeping. His path wasn’t about clinging to imperfect techniques. If a skill didn’t serve him, it would be reforged or discarded.

  But the constructs themselves had to be tested. If they moved separately from his own motions, if they acted on their own, they would only introduce interference. If they followed his exact intent, if they moved as seamlessly as his own strikes, then they could become part of his technique.

  It wasn’t perfect. The source of the material still needed to be confirmed. He had no interest in reshaping himself into something unrecognizable. But the fundamentals were stronger. The constructs extended his reach. The movement enhancement refined his footwork. The piercing effect provided an alternative answer to heavy defences.

  It fit within his combat style. That was all that mattered.

  Alex made his decision.

  [Grade D Skill: Laceration Bloom (active) selected!]

  The moment Alex chose Laceration Bloom, the system’s hold shattered, and reality reasserted itself in an instant. His eyes opened to the sight of one of the summoned heroes stood right in front of him. Massive, scarred, built like a fortress. A great axe strapped to his back with golden-threaded ropes. His entire body was rigid, breath slow but heavy, muscles tight, a coiled pressure barely held in check.

  Fury burned through him—not loud, not wild, but heavy, controlled, something that settled deep in his stance. He had expected something, and Alex had denied him. Not by word, not by defiance, but by simply destroying what he wanted.

  Behind him, two more summoned heroes watched.

  The first, was the student, hands in his coat, eyes tracking the moment like it was an experiment in progress. No nervousness, no concern—just watching.

  The second, the shadowed figure, wrapped in shifting darkness, unmoving, unreadable. There, but saying nothing.

  None of them spoke. None of them moved.

  Looks like they’re just going to watch this play out, Alex thought, assessing the two. For now.

  He didn’t trust that would remain the same should things escalate; he didn’t know them, and their lack of aid to the skirmishes had already hinted at their potentially questionable morality. Or maybe that’s just because of the brainwashing? Alex wondered. From what he’d seen, the crown's influence was subtle but far from negligible, it ensured the heroes' general allegiance but left them otherwise free and unhindered. Alex somehow felt as though the man before him would’ve acted in the same dishonest manner with or without the crown's influence.

  The ground split open beneath the giant’s charge, cracks racing outward as he lunged for Alex’s throat. His fingers curled into claws, his speed too fast for his size, his sheer presence thick with the promise of violence.

  Alex raised an armoured hand and caught his wrist.

  Alex’s hand locked around his forearm mid-swing. Metal met flesh. The world buckled. A thunderous shockwave exploded from the impact. Dust blasted outward, the earth beneath them buckling beneath the force.

  The force behind the strike was several times stronger than what Alex’s base stats could bring to bear. It should have broken something. Crushed everything. But It didn’t, not with a dragon soul boosting Alex’s defence.

  The battlefield stilled.

  For a single breath, nothing moved.

  Then Alex felt it—the immediate shift in the giant’s body. His veins bulged, his muscles swelling beneath his darkening skin.

  A sharp, ragged breath left the man’s throat, heavy and shaking. Not from strain.

  Excitement.

  A grin stretched over his face, his teeth bared in something too wide, too eager. His fingers twitched inside Alex’s grip.

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  His chest rose, shoulders tensed. His free hand twitched toward his weapon, pausing only long enough to speak.

  “So you aren’t like the others,” he muttered. The words came slow, savouring them. “I get to kill something that’s not another rat.”

  The arm beneath Alex’s grip twitched. Veins rose and his body bulged, muscle stretching past human limits, skin darkening as veins surged beneath the surface. Massive. Heavier. His form finally warped, taking the shape of the name he carried in Alex’s mind.

  The Giant's hand snapped for his axe.

  “Finally.”

  ***

  Liora stepped forward, her eyes widening as she studied Alex’s armour. "He’s not like us," she murmured, half to herself.

  Osric snorted, his conjured bow slung over his shoulder. "You’re just figuring that out?"

  The moment the strike had been caught, the expectation of the inevitable had collapsed. The world had not followed the path it should have. It had broken. The force of the collision had ruptured the ground and sent shockwaves across the field. For the first time since the expedition had begun, the outcome of an engagement was not obvious.

  When the giant, Rythe had spoken, everyone had assumed Alex would give him what he wanted or be killed. Or both.

  Now, they weren’t so sure.

  They had all expected to watch a man die. Instead… they weren’t quite sure of what they were witnessing.

  Further down the field, some of the scattered hunters turned away from their own tasks and battles to look. No one moved to interfere. No one dared.

  ***

  Golden-threaded ropes snapped as the giant hero’s axe came loose. He didn’t swing it yet. His stance shifted, adjusting, his grip steadying over the colossal handle. The weapon was too large, too heavy for any normal man to wield, but in Rythe’s hands, it moved like an extra limb… Or a particularly large pocket knife.

  Alex’s fingers tightened around Eclipse, studying the enchantments embedded in the hero's weapon.

  Then the axe moved.

  Adaptive Flow Engineering activated with a thought, and Alex’s perception shifted, tracking and mapping the flow of raw mana through the giant’s bloodstream, noting the violent fluctuations. Power condensed and surged from the giant’s mana heart and into his axe, priming the release of a devastating Skill.

  Alex moved first.

  The axe swung a petasecond later.

  A diagonal cleave, faster than a boulder hurled from a siege weapon, came crashing toward him. The weight behind it alone threatened to fold the air in half.

  It missed, but the first swing shattered the battlefield.

  The impact crushed the dirt, tearing through layers of stone, creating a rift that spread outward in a brutal cascade of force. The resulting quake nearly toppled some of the distant hunters.

  The second swing came faster, the giant's angry eyes blood red and twisting.

  Internal Energy Refinement. Alex felt his circuits surge, every ounce of mana condensing into a sharper, denser flow. The air around him crackled with power, the pressure felt even to the hunters behind him.

  Shifting his stance as the axe came crashing down, he employed a sword technique, the Uke Nagashi. It was a technique designed to receive and deflect, not through brute force but by guiding the opponent’s weapon away. His blade tilted at a precise angle, the edge catching the descending strike and redirecting it with a fluid turn of his wrists. The weight of the axe, meant to crush through steel and bone, slid uselessly past his body, its momentum wasted into empty space. The deflection forced the giant forward, his balance shifting, his body momentarily open. Alex’s blade, already positioned for the next motion, cut through the opening without hesitation.

  Alex slipped past his reach, blade flashing up.

  A severed hand hit the dirt.

  Rythe’s axe fell with it.

  The enchanted axe hit the ground. Stone shattered and a crater caved inward beneath the sheer impact.

  The giant barely paused. He reached down, thick fingers curling around the severed wrist, lifting the limb like a man retrieving a misplaced gauntlet. Flesh knitted together before Alex’s eyes, muscle fibres lacing like taut ropes pulling a bridge into place, bone fusing with a molten glow that faded as fast as it appeared. The cut vanished, seamless, as if it had never been.

  The wound closed instantly.

  Regeneration.

  Alex exhaled. “Annoying.”

  That was hardly a skill, the giant's mana circuits had barely even flared. That was natural. Inhuman. A violent biology designed for war, and a body that refused to acknowledge destruction.

  The giant flexed his fingers, testing the restored limb with a slow, deliberate roll of his knuckles. The giant’s voice was jagged stone, dripping with contempt. His grip flexed, squeezing tighter. “I’ll tear the bones from your skin.”

  Alex exhaled, adjusting his stance. SwordSaint’s Domain spread outward, every detail of the battlefield flooding his perception.

  “Try.”

  The giant lunged, the raw force behind the strike enough to cave in a fortress wall. His axe carved through the air, an executioner’s blow, the weight behind it warping the space around the blade’s descent.

  The axe was a blur, but Alex had already read the motion, Sword Sense processing every twitch in the giant’s arms before the swing even began.

  Alex didn’t move immediately. He studied the swing, traced its trajectory in his mind, and let it fall. The instant before impact, his body shifted effortlessly. Alex did not move back. He did not step away. Instead, he moved forward. The axe tore into the stone below, rupturing the ground in an explosion of dust and fractured rock. A shockwave blasted outward, sending loose debris flying.

  Before the dust settled, his blade was already in position, Eclipse humming with eager, inevitable death.

  Alex’s sword lifted.

  A single clean cut. Then another.

  Eclipse entered through the chest. Exited through the spine.

  Then reversed, separating the giant's head from his body.

  The impact of the strike sent a pulse of energy outward, shaking the battlefield one last time.

  The giant hero staggered. His breath left him in a long, slow exhale, body locked in place for a second that stretched too long.

  Then, he fell in three pieces.

  [You have defeated level 643 Vanir ‘Rythe Hagan’ (D). Bonus experience due to level difference)]

  [Level 219 > 221]

  [Strength +8, Dexterity+8, intelligence+12, unassigned stats +8]

  Vanir… so that’s what he was.

  A cloud of dust and blood marked the point of impact.

  Alex flicked the blood from his blade.

  Then he turned, stepping past the bodies and broken earth, heading back toward his party. Osric, Liora, and every hunter within a mile stood frozen, their wide eyes tracking him, their breath caught in their throats as they struggled to grasp what they had just seen.

  The battlefield had gone silent. The nearly 200 hunters who were spread out in fragmented teams across the mountain ridge, once engaged in their own struggles, now fixed their eyes on the scene before them. They stood frozen, scattered across the terrain in fragmented parties, each gaze locked onto the towering corpse that had, moments ago, been a force beyond reckoning. Their blades hung limp at their sides. The breath that had been quickened by adrenaline was now stolen by what they had just seen. Some stood as if caught between instinct and disbelief, their postures half-ready for more bloodshed and violence, and Alex didn't blame them.

  He half expected it too.

  ***

  The student hero crouched near the corpse, his head bent, eyes sharp and thoughtful as he observed the aftermath. His fingers tapped idly against the wound's entry point, observing how the dead giant's flesh still attempted to regenerate, as though he were mentally taking notes on the scene before him. He made no attempt to join in the hushed murmurs of the surrounding hunters, nor did he display anything resembling awe or fear. Instead, he let out a measured hum, his lips curling into the faintest ghost of a smirk. “Fascinating,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

  The hero shrouded in shadow stood a short distance away and remained unnervingly still. The dark, shifting haze around its form rippled in subtle waves, its expression hidden. It did not react like the others—during their journey it never had. Instead, it watched. The growing tension in the air did not concern it. The broken body at Alex’s feet did not alarm it. But it felt compelled to act. The immortal nobles leading the campaign would have to respond to this in some way. They were out of the crown’s jurisdiction. But an Assessor was still an Assessor— still an agent of the king. How would House Dreymoore respond? It couldn’t be sure.

  It observed Alex himself, the way he moved, and wondered if the nobles leading the campaign would order them to kill him.

  The shadow wondered how many of the summoned heroes it would take.

  He hissed a guess in inhuman tones.

  “Maybe half?”

  ***

  Alex exhaled, breath steady, muscles controlled. The fight had ended the only way it could. His enemy had surged forward with every wound, regeneration outpacing destruction, flesh reknitting the instant it was torn. Severed limbs reattached as if never lost, bones latching together with unnatural speed, muscle fibres weaving back into place mid-motion. Strikes that should have slowed him had only given him more force, more speed, more momentum.

  How many times did I cut him? The question lingered, buried beneath the weight of every strike. Once. Twice. More. His blade had carved through his body, yet every gash had only pushed him harder. He had moved with no hesitation, wielding his own injuries as weapons, answering force with relentless, growing power. Pain had not hindered him; it had propelled him forward, stronger. A berserker. A regenerating berserker.

  When his body reformed without pause, when his strength escalated beyond restraint, the answer had been clear. There had been no retreat, no slowing, no stopping. The first strikes had done nothing. The next had only forced him to adapt. In the end, the only path forward had been complete destruction.

  Alex turned his gaze toward the shifting mass of figures beyond the gathered hunters. The summoned heroes and their retinue of nobles began their slow approach, parting the onlookers with their presence alone. The frontier was supposed to be lawless. Out here, contracts mattered more than kingdoms, and yet, he wasn’t na?ve enough to think his actions wouldn’t draw attention. His employers might have something to say about this. The Sanguine nobles had hired him, but did they even care about the summoned heroes? They had left them to linger at the rear, watching, waiting—what for? They were already locked in a silent war with the crown, manoeuvring for power behind veils of politeness and ritual. Maybe this would be ignored. Maybe they would seize the opportunity for some petty posturing. Maybe they would try to make a statement. Try. If they intended to arrest him, well—he’d like to see them try. His stance didn’t shift, his grip remained relaxed, but he was prepared for any outcome.

  Still, they kept coming, and within seconds, Alex would have to meet them head-on.

  He walked up to Liora and Osric, their eyes locked onto him, stunned into silence, their bodies rigid with the weight of what they had just witnessed.

  Alex turned to them both, his posture loose, face hidden beneath his helm, his head rising as if waiting for them to speak.

  “What? He started it!”

  The is up and running. So if you like, you can read ahead there!