The valley where Archer and Elenor had first crossed paths stretched for roughly five kilometres from end to end, a long trough carved between low, uneven ridges. The place had an oddly abandoned feel, as though something once lived here but had long since stepped aside and left only the wind to claim it. Its openness unsettled Archer in a quiet, instinctive way—too much sky overhead, too little cover to slip behind. Only scattered trees, thin and lonely things bent by years of mountain gusts, broke the monotony of the rolling grassland.
Grassland that, to his growing annoyance, was crawling with rabbits.
They bolted from every tuft of tall grass at the slightest sound, streaks of brown and white darting for new hiding spots. At first he'd thought it amusing—easy targets if he wanted practice. But after his tenth kill in as many minutes, the amusement soured.
The System hadn't budged.
Or rather, it *had*—just enough to reveal why nothing was changing.
His Ranger Class had indeed reached a full 100% progression. But instead of the neat, satisfying flash announcing Class 2, he'd received something less gratifying and far more irritating.
Raise Skill Rank To Proceed To Next Class.
That was it. No elaboration, no guidance. Just another cryptic order delivered in the usual cold tone. But this time, at least, the message actually told him something useful.
He muttered a curse under his breath. If he'd known he needed to level skills rather than simply kill things, he would've been using his Ranger techniques from the beginning instead of relying on basic shots. A sniper's instincts died hard—if a target was in range, why complicate the shot?
Now he chided himself for not digging deeper into the System's functions the moment he arrived here. He could've avoided wasting hours.
Testing his skills properly was eye-opening.
**Sureshot**, for instance, was nothing like he'd assumed. He had expected something akin to Snipe—an amplified precision shot, longer range, cleaner trajectory. Instead, Sureshot felt… invasive. It nudged his awareness like a quiet hand guiding his chin, shifting his aim left or right with subtle, instinctive pressure. It didn't choose 'whether' to shoot—the will was his—but it fed him an eerie certainty about where the arrow *would* land.
A heart, a throat, an eye. Tendons, vitals, gaps in bone.
It was less a technique and more a predatory instinct woven into his nerves.
**Snipe**, meanwhile, was blessedly straightforward. No anatomical suggestions, no strange pull on his muscles—just a general awareness, a whisper that straightened his aim and anchored his stance. It cared only about hitting the target, not where.
Both drained his Mana—10 points a shot—which made careless use a luxury he couldn't afford yet.
Mana recovery was another unknown the System had neglected to mention. Luckily Elenor filled in what she could, though even she lacked full understanding of a Contender's mechanics.
"Resting will replenish your Mana," she told him, her voice quiet as they walked. "A night of uninterrupted sleep should fill your pool. Food will help restore some as well, though only in small amounts. And it aids healing—mild injuries, at least. My father spoke of potions—Mana, healing, and others—but I know nearly nothing of them. They require crafting, and my people never needed such things."
So rest and food were his only options for now. No handy potion chugging. No magical refills.
That, combined with the open valley, made the idea of camping out here unacceptable. Elenor swore the goblins had found her by chance, but chance had a habit of striking twice. Archer wasn't about to light a campfire where anything within a kilometre could see them.
They kept moving.
The trek across the valley took hours, long enough for the sun to drift from harsh overhead glare to a softer, angled burn. By the time they reached the far end and climbed the rocky crest marking the valley's boundary, Archer's shoulders ached pleasantly from the walk, and his boots were stained green with crushed grass.
The view from the ridge stole some of his breath. Below them, the world opened into dense forest—dark, layered, seemingly endless. Meadows broke the tree line now and again, pale gold interruptions in a sea of deep green. In the far, far distance to the north, mountains rose like jagged teeth. Their peaks were white with snow, even at this distance, which meant they were either massively tall or brutally cold.
But the thing he'd hoped to see—a town, a village, any sign of civilisation—was nowhere.
He didn't know what he expected. Wooden fences, smoke from chimneys, maybe. A road. A tower. Something. Anything.
But the world remained stubbornly wild and indifferent.
Elenor stood beside him, her silver hair catching the light. She didn't seem surprised by the emptiness. Archer supposed centuries of captivity didn't leave much room for homesickness.
The forest welcomed them with shadows and damp air. Almost immediately, signs of goblin territory announced themselves—not with tracks or markings, but with sound. Harsh, guttural screeches carried through the trees, distant but unmistakably alive.
Elenor stiffened. "Goblins," she whispered. "They argue. They do little else. There is a leader with them—a Hobgoblin. Larger, stronger, but equally foul. I saw nothing resembling settlement from the ridge, so they are likely hunting."
Archer drew an arrow, not hesitating. "This'll be their last hunt then."
He moved ahead silently, bow raised, his breathing slow and controlled. The forest floor was a minefield of dry leaves and brittle twigs, but years of practice had trained his feet to find the soft patches, the bare soil, the moss-covered stones.
He spotted them through a curtain of foliage—eight of them in total. Seven goblins and one noticeably larger creature: the Hobgoblin. Its skin was thicker, a darker shade of green, its shoulders broad, chest plated with mismatched scrap armour.
Archer marked targets in order.
Leader first.
Then farthest threat.
Then closest.
Then the cluster.
He attacked before Elenor could. Her magic was impressive, but also loud—bright, fiery, and impossible to hide. He preferred subtlety.
His first arrow pierced the Hobgoblin's throat cleanly, silencing its barked command. Before the creature even collapsed, he'd loosed a second arrow. It struck the farthest goblin in the chest, knocking it backward into a patch of dead leaves.
Screeches erupted from the remaining six.
Good. Panic made them stupid.
He dropped two more with clean headshots before the others fully understood what direction the attack came from. The last four, in classic goblin fashion, huddled together, trying to form a crude defensive knot.
It was the worst possible decision they could have made.
A flare of heat brushed Archer's cheek as Elenor's fireball arced over his shoulder. It hit the ground in the centre of the cluster, exploding upward with a sharp whoosh that momentarily lit the trees like lightning.
When the light died, all four goblins were little more than smoking remains—blackened bone where the flame had struck hardest, charcoal flesh still glowing faintly red.
Archer glanced at Elenor. She didn't look apologetic.
He didn't blame her. Not after centuries of slavery.
They looted the remains quickly. Goblins rarely carried anything worthwhile, but Archer was grateful to learn that identical items—like crude daggers, coins, scraps of fabric—stacked neatly within his inventory instead of cluttering it with dozens of near-useless objects.
The Hobgoblin had a small pouch of coins—copper mostly, a few silver—which Archer pocketed without ceremony.
There was no sign of whatever the goblins had been arguing over. No carcass, no tracks indicating they'd caught something. Just their bodies cooling in the dirt.
They moved on.
They walked another hour before stopping for the night, choosing a small clearing partially shielded by a cluster of boulders. The air grew colder as the sun dipped, the forest bleeding heat faster than the valley had. Archer felt the chill sink through his clothing, prickling his skin, urging him to get a fire going.
But a surface fire was suicide.
Elenor handled the matter with a quiet competence that made Archer glad she was with him. She found a suitable patch of earth and began digging, her movements methodical. The first hole she carved was about two feet long and two feet wide—large enough for a small fire but still contained. Two feet away, she dug a smaller, narrower hole. Then she connected the two with a short tunnel, carved at an angle.
A Dakota fire pit. Archer recognized the design. Hidden flame, strong heat, minimal smoke. Smart.
When she lit the fire, the flames burned low and fierce, the surrounding earth insulating the glow so that only a faint shimmer of heat escaped upward. Anyone in the forest would need to practically stumble into their camp to notice it.
They sat close to the warmth, eating strips of game meat Archer had collected earlier. The heat thawed the stiffness in his hands. The smell of cooking meat eased some lingering tension in his shoulders.
He scrolled through his System interface, reviewing his stats. Less than a day in this world, and he still had no hint of whether going home was even possible.
**Steven Archer**
Contender Rank – **1 (100%)**
Class – **Ranger**
Age – **37**
**HP:** 250 / 250
**MP:** 0 / 150
**Strength:** 8
**Constitution:** 9
**Dexterity:** 9
**Intelligence:** 9
**Ranger Skills:**
– *Sureshot* (Rank 1 – 100%)
– *Snipe* (Rank 1 – 90%)
**Ranger Passive Abilities:**
– Locational Map
– Terrain Analysis
– Tactical Distance Assessment
He needed one more kill to rank up.
A deer, a rabbit—anything would do. But his Mana was spent, and using raw instinct alone wouldn't guarantee the shot he needed. He'd burned everything he had during the goblin attack, but it had been worth it. Better precision meant fewer threats reaching them alive.
Steam rose from his bowl of meat. It wasn't seasoned or particularly pleasant, but it filled the aching void in his stomach. Elenor ate daintily beside him, her posture graceful even after hours of walking. For someone who'd spent lifetimes imprisoned, she carried herself with unsettling poise.
Between bites, she told him of the **Infestation**.
"Every three hundred years," she said, eyes reflecting firelight, "the world changes. The ambient Mana rises—sometimes slowly over decades, sometimes suddenly. But every cycle ends the same way: beasts multiply. Creatures grow unnaturally bold. Even the lesser races—goblins, kobolds, gnolls—breed at impossible rates."
Archer poked at the fire with a stick. "And this has been going on how long?"
"As far back as our history reaches. More than five millennia."
He grimaced. "Let me guess. The dungeons overflow too."
Elenor nodded. "Indeed. Dungeons react to Mana the same way beasts do. Their cores swell, producing more monsters. Sometimes even new types. In the old kingdoms, when the cycle began, every settlement braced for the same outcome."
"Everything goes to hell."
"Yes."
She went on, describing how towns fortified their walls and sent out Adventurers and Contenders. People like him. They took contracts—quests to cull certain monsters or collect materials—and received coin or goods in exchange.
Archer leaned back and stretched his tired legs. "Sounds like a simple system."
"It is. Effective as well. Those who fail to uphold contracts are barred from giving more, preventing fraud. And there were always more quests than there were Adventurers."
Her voice trailed off at the last sentence, emotion flickering briefly across her expression. She had left her world just before a cycle, before her capture. She'd never seen the cycle fully unfold.
Archer didn't push the topic. He recognized the fragile tone of someone walking the edge of old memories.
The night passed quietly. No predators, no distant calls, no rustling beyond the occasional shifting wind. Archer suspected they were lucky—possible the goblins avoided this portion of the forest or hunted elsewhere tonight.
In the morning, after another meal of meat that tasted progressively worse, Archer longed for something green. A salad. A berry. Even boiled tree bark. Anything that wasn't roasted rabbit.
They buried the fire pit, filling the holes until the ground looked untouched.
They hadn't been walking fifteen minutes before Archer spotted movement through a gap in the trees—a deer. A normal deer. It lifted its head from grazing and stared at them, ears twitching.
Perfect.
He raised his bow, Sureshot activating with a gentle tug on his awareness. His muscles aligned automatically, his breath slowed, and his aim drifted until a faint sensation whispered: **heart**.
He released.
The arrow flew silently and struck the deer clean through the chest. The animal dropped without even managing a cry.
The System flared to life.
**Contender Rank Increased – Rank 2**
**HP +50**
**MP +25**
**Strength +1**
**Constitution +1**
**New Passive Skill Gained:** *Flora Identify*
A pulse of warmth surged through Archer's body—not painful, but intense, like a sudden adrenaline spike. His limbs felt momentarily weightless, then solid again. Stronger. More responsive.
He checked his updated stats.
**Steven Archer**
Contender Rank – **2 (0%)**
Class – **Ranger**
**HP:** 300 / 300
**MP:** 175 / 175
**Strength:** 9
**Constitution:** 10
**Dexterity:** 9
**Intelligence:** 9
**Ranger Skills:**
– *Sureshot* (Rank 2 – 0%)
– *Snipe* (Rank 2 – 0%)
**Ranger Passive Abilities:**
– Locational Map
– Terrain Analysis
– Tactical Distance Assessment
– Flora Identify
He stretched, rolling his shoulders. His body 'did' feel different. More efficient, somehow. More balanced. His muscles tightened and loosened with smoother motion than before.
He glanced at the forest around them, suddenly hopeful.
"Flora Identify, huh? Maybe I'll get that salad after all."
Elenor raised a brow politely, not understanding the term.
Archer simply smiled, the first light expression he'd worn all day.
Archer approached the fallen deer, boots sinking slightly into the damp forest soil. Morning fog clung to the undergrowth in thin grey strands, drifting lazily around the body. The shot had been perfect—clean heart puncture, instant kill. Instinctive or not, the skill had done exactly what it promised.
He retrieved the arrow, wiping the blood on a patch of moss. No reason to waste equipment, especially when he still didn't know how scarce supplies were in this world.
Elenor watched from a few paces back. She didn't flinch at the kill, nor at the blood. For someone who had been enslaved for centuries, she faced violence with an unnerving calm. Perhaps she'd simply seen too much of it to react anymore.
"Your abilities are improving," she said softly as Archer tied the deer's legs for easier dragging. "Your shot was even faster than yesterday."
"Or maybe the deer just stood still and cooperated," Archer replied dryly. He slung the animal over his shoulder and adjusted his posture to distribute the weight. "Either way, we've got breakfast."
They walked until they found a small stream, narrow enough to step across but deep enough to wash the blood from Archer's hands. The water was icy, sending a sharp jolt through his fingers. The cold seeped into the cuts on his knuckles, stinging sharply, small reminders that he hadn't truly rested since arriving in this world.
He knelt by the bank, letting the cold numbness settle.
Elenor knelt beside him and touched the surface of the water with two fingertips. Frost crawled over the top layer and spread outward in delicate shards.
Archer raised a brow. "I thought you used fire."
"I use Mana," she corrected. "Fire was simply the spell most useful at the time. I am aligned with all natural elements, though my control has weakened… considerably."
"How much is 'considerably'?"
Her expression tightened. "Before my imprisonment—I could freeze a river in a heartbeat."
Archer stared at the thin sheet of frost she'd just created, brittle and already cracking. Years of captivity had drained her—physically, magically, maybe even spiritually. He didn't push the topic.
"Let's cook," he said instead.
They built another small Dakota pit, quick and efficient. The smell of roasting venison drifted through the air, richer and less gamey than rabbit. The fat crackled as it cooked, and despite the monotony of constant meat, Archer's stomach growled.
Elenor ate quietly, methodically, as if eating were a discipline rather than comfort.
After the meal, Archer poked at a cluster of low shrubs. With the new *Flora Identify* passive, information flickered at the edges of his awareness—names, uses, edibility. Most plants so far were labelled as "non-toxic," but nothing screamed *salad*.
Still, the passive made the forest feel a little less alien.
He rose, brushing soil from his palms. "All right. We should move."
The forest changed subtly as they continued—less open, more tangled. The trees grew closer together, their branches forming a partial canopy overhead. Shadows thickened, and the air cooled as the sun fought its way through layers of green.
Archer paused, scanning the undergrowth. Something felt… off. A shift in the wind? A wrong sound?
Elenor sensed it too. Her hand drifted toward the silver-threaded sash around her waist.
A low snarl rolled through the trees.
Not goblins. Not anything he recognized.
Archer unslung his bow in one smooth motion. Elenor stepped behind him—not out of fear, but out of tactical sense. She needed space to cast. He needed clear sightlines.
The snarl came again, closer this time. Leaves rustled. A branch snapped.
A shape emerged from between the trees.
It was a wolf—or it had once been a wolf. Now it was something else entirely. Nearly twice the size of any wolf Archer had ever seen, its fur patchy and thick with scars. Foam bubbled from its mouth. Its eyes were a sickly yellow, wild and erratic.
"Mana-sick," Elenor murmured. "Some beasts cannot survive the increase. They become unstable."
The creature lowered its head.
Archer didn't wait.
He activated Snipe—felt the instinctive stabilization settle over him—and fired.
The arrow struck the wolf high in the shoulder, embedding deep but not stopping it. The creature howled and charged.
"Back!" Archer barked.
Elenor's hands ignited with pale blue flame—not fire, but something colder. She thrust her palms forward. Frost erupted in a sharp blast, coating the ground in jagged crystals. The wolf skidded, paws sliding on the sudden ice.
Archer drew again, arrow nocked before the wolf regained footing.
Sureshot activated—he didn't consciously call it; it simply reacted to the danger. His awareness narrowed, guiding his aim to the creature's throat. He loosed.
The arrow flew true.
The wolf collapsed with a choking whine, skidding to a halt at Elenor's frozen patch of earth.
Archer exhaled slowly, tension bleeding from him. He approached the corpse with caution and nudged it with his boot to ensure it was dead.
The System chimed faintly.
**Snipe – Rank 2 (15%)**
**Sureshot – Rank 2 (8%)**
Progress was progress.
Elenor studied the body. "It is fortunate we encountered only one."
"Don't say that," Archer muttered. "That's the kind of line that tempts fate."
"If fate wished to tempt us," she replied evenly, "it has had centuries to try."
He gave her a sideways look, unable to tell whether she was being literal or darkly humorous.
The wolf was too dangerous to eat. Elenor confirmed that Mana-sick beasts carried corrupted energy—poisonous to humans and Fae alike.
They moved on.
The forest remained quiet for another hour. The air was heavy, humid, almost claustrophobic beneath the dense canopy. Moss-covered logs lay scattered like fallen barricades. Archer stepped over tangled roots, careful not to twist an ankle in the uneven terrain.
He checked the map passive occasionally. It didn't show roads or settlements, just terrain outlines and their approximate position within it. Useful, but not enough.
They needed direction.
"Is there any town near here?" Archer asked.
Elenor hesitated. "There was. Though not a town. A small scattering of homesteads, an area they called Rellinford. Humans lived there. Farmers mostly. It should lie to the east… if it still exists."
"How far?"
"Half a day's travel. Less, if we quicken our pace."
Archer nodded. "Then that's our next stop."
A town meant information. Supplies. A chance to understand more about this world—and possibly about returning home.
If that was even possible.
They followed a deer trail, the faint path flattening the worst of the brush. Sunlight thinned the deeper they went, until only scattered rays broke through the canopy in narrow pillars of gold.
The forest felt older here. Wilder. More aware of them.
Archer didn't like it.
At midday they stopped by a fallen log. Archer took a drink from his waterskin, the lukewarm water washing away the dryness in his throat. Elenor perched on a smooth rock, eyes scanning the woodland.
"We are being watched," she murmured after a moment.
Archer stiffened. "Goblins?"
"No. Something else. Something larger."
He stood slowly, bow in hand, every sense sharpening.
But no attack came. Only silence—thick, waiting silence.
Whatever watched them wanted to keep its distance.
"Let's move," Archer whispered.
They walked faster now, sticking close, the forest pressing in around them like a living thing.
When they finally broke free of the denser growth, the world seemed to breathe again.
Before them lay a long slope downward, the forest thinning as it descended. At the base of the decline, Archer spotted the faint outline of something man-made—straight lines, wooden posts, structure.
A fence.
Buildings.
No smoke though.
His chest tightened—not with fear, but with something dangerously close to relief.
Civilisation. Finally.