Lucien stayed calm.
The orc before him was different from the last one and heavier, broader, carrying not a blade but a massive war hammer.
It was faster than it looked. Dangerous.
But Lucien wasn't afraid.
He dropped to one knee, drove his sword into the ground, and pressed the hilt against his forehead.
A silent prayer.
A breath.
Then, he stood.
The orc roared and charged.
Lucien stepped aside just as the hammer came down. The impact cracked the stone where he'd stood a second before.
He countered, his blade sliding under the orc's arm, cutting clean through the flesh near the ribs.
The monster howled and swung again.
Lucien ducked, pivoted behind it, and struck twice, the first blow biting deep into the neck, the second severing it completely.
The orc's head hit the floor with a dull thud. Silence followed.
Lucien stood still for a moment, sword dripping, then called out his skill.
[Appraisal]
Durability: Minor Damage Detected.
Integrity: Stable.
The blade had survived. Barely.
He waited for a moment, expecting something maybe a new message, a flicker, maybe a vision.
Nothing came.
The strange skill with the question marks stayed the same: 0.003%.
He sighed softly, wiped the blade clean, and left the dungeon.
Outside, the air felt lighter.
Near the checkpoint, Léon and the others were waiting.
"Sir Lucien!" Léon called out.
Lucien smiled faintly. "I told you to drop the sir."
"Alright then… Lucien. Can we exchange contacts?"
Lucien hesitated, then nodded. On his phone, two names appeared: Mr. Roger and now Léon.
Nothing else.
On his way back to the De Beaumont estate, his mind returned to that vision he'd seen after the last boss.
Was it divine… or was it the System itself?
And that percentage... how could it grow?
As he reached the manor gates, a shiver ran down his spine.
A strange, cold feeling it is as if unseen eyes were watching him.
He turned around.
Nothing. Just the whisper of the wind.
Lucien walked back toward the forge. The warmth of the fire embraced him again.
He studied his sword: more durable now, but still not sharp enough.
The System may call me a blacksmith,
but God made me a Templar.
He reached for his hammer and relit the flames.
A frozen wind swept across the plains of northern Russia.
The ground was scarred, blackened, and still steaming in places. Broken weapons littered the snow.
Mira de Beaumont stepped out of the transport helicopter, the long muzzle of her musket gleaming under the pale sun. Allan Rey followed close behind, coat fluttering in the icy air, his expression grim.
Waiting for them was a tall man in a fur-lined uniform, the President of the Russian Hunter Association.
He greeted them with a deep sigh. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. The situation is… difficult."
Mira glanced at the massive rift in the distance. Even from here, it shimmered like a wound in the world, pulsing faintly.
"How long has it been open?" she asked.
"Twenty-five days," the President replied. "We've sent in five teams. None made it to the Boss Room."
Allan frowned. "Five S-class teams, all failed?"
The man hesitated. "It's not just that. When someone approaches the rift, the System displays a countdown."
Mira raised an eyebrow. "A countdown to what?"
"We don't know," he said. "But there are only five days left. Less now."
A cold silence settled. The sound of the wind against the snow was all that remained.
Mira adjusted the strap of her long musket across her shoulder. "I want to see it for myself."
The President's eyes widened. "Impossible. The area around the rift is crawling with monsters. Dozens of breakouts from smaller rifts have merged here. We're talking hundreds—"
Allan stepped forward. "Hundreds? How the hell did that happen?"
The President shook his head. "We managed to contain most of the lesser portals, but not all. The creatures that escaped… gathered here. As if drawn by something inside the rift. That's why the entire region has been quarantined."
Mira smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the horizon. "Then we'd better not keep them waiting."
She started walking. Allan cursed softly and followed.
Moments later, the snow erupted. Dozens of beasts burst from around the drifts, fanged, clawed, snarling.
Allan raised his hand. A wall of light materialized in front of them, the Aegis Shield glowing bright blue as the monsters crashed against it.
Mira drew her short musket, spun it once around her wrist, and fired.
Each shot found a target in the head, heart, throat... elegant, precise, deadly.
In seconds, the snow was littered with corpses. Mira reloaded smoothly and smiled.
"Apparently," she said, lowering her weapon, "we're not exactly welcome here."
Allan gave her a look somewhere between awe and exasperation. "You think?"
Together, they pushed forward. The ground trembled under their boots as they reached the edge of the rift.
A faint chime echoed in their ears... mechanical, emotionless.
[System Alert]
Rift Category: S
Time Remaining: 4 Days, 22 Hours, 18 Minutes, 31 Seconds.
The glow of the rift pulsed once, as if reacting to them.
Mira's expression hardened. "Four days, then," she whispered. "Let's find out what's waiting inside."