The air was so frigid that Marc's breath emerged as a thick white cloud, dissolving into the morning stillness just as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the treetops. Marc was immersed in absolute concentration. His eyes, now precision tools, overflowed with icy determination. He knew exactly what to do; his body had become a weapon after days of relentless repetition.
"The reason I tore you from your reality is because you possess exactly the ambition needed to wear a crown."
The God's words echoed in his mind like a mantra.
I feel motivated, determined... yet a strange tranquility envelops my mind.
Fifteen days had passed since his arrival, and his progress was undeniable. He had mastered an intermediate-level spell: an ice projectile capable of piercing a boar's hide. His Mana reserve had expanded, and his precision no longer relied on chance. He had explored other grimoires, successfully manipulating gravity subtly and weaving basic barriers, though these concepts still felt more elusive than the brute force of the elements.
...I can feel the cold crystallizing in my palm, the flow of magic racing through my nerves like a river of mercury...
He wasn't just hoarding spells; he followed Zylos's regimen with religious discipline. Meditation and endurance training had paid off: the collapse of the second day was a distant memory. And most importantly: he no longer needed to shout at the wind for magic to obey. At least, not for the spells he already felt as part of his own anatomy.
Before setting out, he had draped a thick black cloak over his shoulders. The hood cast a deep shadow over his face, hiding his indigo eyes and giving him the appearance of a forest deity. He ventured into the thicket without a compass, relying on fragments of hunting tactics remembered from movies and video games.
Ambition of a King? That's right, I have it. And this is nothing more than a small trial by fire... or by ice.
After an hour of silent stalking, moving with a caution his new body made easy, he found his target: a deer twenty-five meters away, grazing oblivious to the death haunting it. Marc tried to remember something about wind direction to hide his scent, but in the end, he trusted his new nature.
I don't need to recite the damn spell. I just need to know I am capable of it. Distance is irrelevant.
He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the indigo glow lit up the gloom of his hood. He raised his hand with lethal calm. A shard of ice, sharp as a bolt, materialized in the air. The deer snapped its head up, catching a change in the atmospheric pressure, but its fate was already sealed.
"I'm sorry," Marc whispered.
The ice projectile struck the deer's neck with surgical precision, piercing through it completely. The animal collapsed instantly, its life flickering out before its body even hit the carpet of dry leaves.
Marc approached slowly. He knelt before the creature and watched it in silence for several long seconds. He felt a pang of pity he hadn't expected. He was mentally prepared to kill; he knew that in this world, violence was legal tender, but he realized that defending oneself from a threat was not the same as taking the life of a defenseless being.
He placed a hand gently on the deer's head, feeling the warmth fading from its fur.
"I promise you it won't be in vain," he whispered. "I will use every fiber of your meat. I won't waste anything."
With mechanical movements, he took the ropes he had prepared. He tied the animal's legs and hoisted the body onto his right shoulder, feeling the real, solid weight of death. As he began the trek back to the cabin, he noticed a strange absence: the euphoria that usually intoxicated him after every magical achievement had evaporated, replaced by an icy sobriety.
In my old world, I never had to get my hands dirty; it was enough to walk a couple of blocks to the market. It was a comfortable, hygienic, and distant existence, Marc reflected as branches crunched beneath his boots. But here, hunting is the heartbeat of survival. Until now, I've lived in a glass bubble, in a cabin with every comfort, but that has an expiration date. When I march toward the demon territory, the forest will be my only provider. I must harden my spirit. I must learn not only how to kill, but how to survive.
The snap of a dry branch under considerable weight shattered the forest's silence. From the bush where Marc had hidden minutes before, a figure emerged that he only knew from National Geographic footage: a wolf with snow-white fur, imposing, and far larger than any terrestrial canine. Its fixed gaze and the growl vibrating in its throat left no room for doubt: it was in hunting mode.
Shit, it's huge. But if I could handle the deer, I can handle him. I just have to be fast with the ice...
Marc began to raise his hand with calculated slowness, but the forest had other plans. A second wolf, twice the size of the first, emerged to his right, bristling its back in a perfect attack stance.
Shit, this is getting complicated. If I shoot one, the other will tear me apart before I can even blink.
Before he could map out a strategy, a third growl to his left turned his blood to ice. And then another behind him. It wasn't two, or three. It was a full pack. Seven pairs of hungry eyes surrounded him in a perfect circle.
Seven against one. This isn't practice anymore; it's a slaughterhouse. I have to break the circle or I die right here.
Instinct took over. Marc didn't wait for the circle to close. He aimed at the smallest wolf—the weakest gap—and channeled a surge of pure adrenaline into his magic. A shard of ice, denser and sharper than the last, shot from his palm with a dull thud. The projectile pierced the wolf's chest, which let out an agonizing howl before collapsing.
Marc ran. He ran with a desperation he had never felt, still carrying the deer's carcass without realizing the weight was slowing him down.
The deer! I have to drop it! he thought frantically. I promised to use its meat... and saving my life is an excellent way to fulfill that.
But before he could drop the prey, a brutal impact on his back sent him straight to the ground. The jaws of one of the wolves closed with hydraulic force onto the body of the deer Marc still wore over his shoulder. If it hadn't been for the prey, those fangs would have severed his spine.
In an act of pure reflex, Marc used the deer's body as a shield, shoving it against the two wolves now fighting over the meat. With a guttural scream, he pressed his palms against the side of the deer and fired two ice spikes at point-blank range. The projectiles tore through the animal's carcass and shattered the predators' skulls in an explosion of blood and frozen shards.
The victory lasted only a heartbeat. As he tried to get back up, a fourth wolf clamped down on his right arm. The pain was an electric shock that tore a harrowing scream from his throat. He lost his balance, and before hitting the ground, another wolf sank its fangs into his leg.
The world became a whirlwind of agony and white fur. In a final burst of will, Marc reached out his left hand toward the side of the wolf mangling his leg. This time there was no ice; from his palm erupted a torrent of white, furious fire.
"Die, you miserable son of a bitch!" Marc roared, as the smell of burnt fur and scorched meat filled the air.
The wolf's howl of agony tore through the air as the flames forced it back. Panic spread through the pack like a wildfire; the "human" they thought was easy prey had just turned into a volcano of fire and hatred. Marc stood up, arms outstretched, his eyes injected with a murderous indigo glow. The wolf struck by the flames collapsed in one last spasm before falling still. The others, terrified, broke formation and fled into the thicket.
But Marc's rage did not extinguish with their flight.
"You think you can attack me and just leave?!" Marc roared. His voice, harsh and broken, sounded more like a growl than a human word. "I won't let you out of here alive, you sons of bitches!"
Consumed by a blind fury, Marc began firing ice projectiles with a frantic cadence. Two more wolves were pierced mid-run, falling like sacks onto the snow and dirt. Only one managed to disappear into the depths of the forest, escaping that whirlwind of death.
Marc gasped, his heart hammering against his ribs at a suicidal speed. As the adrenaline ebbed away, the pain returned with redoubled cruelty. He squeezed the wound on his arm, feeling the warm blood seeping through his fingers.
That was too intense! I don't know how the hell I survived that...
Suddenly, a dry laugh erupted from his throat, transforming into a hysterical cackle that echoed in the clearing covered with corpses. He had looked death in the eyes and, somehow, he had won. He looked at the mangled remains of the deer and sighed.
Dammit. The deer is pure mush now; it's useless. I overdid it... but those bastards wanted to eat me.
His gaze fell on the first wolf he had killed. It was the smallest and the only intact body. What does wolf meat taste like? he thought with dark pragmatism. I came to hunt, and I'm not going back empty-handed after this hell.
He recited a minor healing spell. The bleeding slowed, and the sharp pain transformed into a dull throb, but he was far from okay. He hoisted the wolf onto his left shoulder and began the trek back, dragging his wounded leg. Every meter was agony. His vision began to blur, and the forest chill seemed to want to claim him.
I can't pass out... not here. Any other creature would kill me in this state. Amir made me special, I have affinity for healing... I just need to get to the advanced books...
He stopped to lean against a tree, his breath hitching. That's when he saw it: a blurred silhouette, human-shaped, silhouetted against the filtered forest light. It was approaching slowly.
Shit... not again.
—"Don't come any closer..." Marc whispered, trying to summon one last spark of magic in his trembling hand. "I'm warning you... I can use magic..."
But will was not enough. The world tilted, the light went out, and Marc sank into absolute darkness before hitting the ground.