The city streets blurred past as Max walked aimlessly through the outskirts of New York, his backpack slung over one shoulder like an afterthought. It was a crisp afternoon, the kind where the advanced tech of the world hummed in the background—autonomous cabs gliding silently, holographic billboards advertising guild recruitment with flashy animations of Awakened heroes shattering monoliths. At school earlier, he'd endured the usual monotony: lectures on dungeon ecology, classmates whispering about weekend raids. Jake had cornered him in the hall again, that persistent grin on his face. "Hey, Max! Group's hitting the arcade later. You in? Could use a fourth for that new VR sim—feels like real dungeon crawling."
Max had mumbled something about errands, slipping away before the conversation could deepen. Friends. The word tasted like ash. In his old life, they'd been brothers-in-arms, until they weren't. Now, with power coursing through him like an untamed river, isolation felt safer. But the itch grew—the need to test this strength, to vent the pent-up rage from two lifetimes of betrayal. Elena's latest message burned in his wristband: *Back in a few days. Guild's pushing a three-star next. You holding up? Awaken vibes?*
*Fine,* he'd replied. *Study grind.* Lies, but necessary. She couldn't know. No one could.
His wanderings led him to the edge of Central Park, where a cluster of low-level monoliths dotted the landscape like ancient sentinels. The park had been repurposed years ago as a beginner's zone, cordoned off with energy barriers to keep civilians safe. A 10-meter tall monolith caught his eye—1-star, swarming with novice Awakened in training gear, chatting excitedly as they queued up. Yetis, from what he recalled from class. Snowy hellscape inside, basic mobs for grinding cores.
Max lingered in the shadows of a nearby tree, watching. Power like his in a place like this? It'd be a slaughter. But that's what he needed—a release, anonymous and brutal. He glanced around, spotting a discarded paper grocery bag tumbling in the wind. An idea sparked, absurd but fitting. He snatched it up, punched crude eye holes with his thumb—effortless now, with Strength at 410—and slipped it over his head. The bag crinkled softly, obscuring his features in a ridiculous veil. If anyone saw, they'd laugh. A masked idiot in a 1-star. Comedic camouflage for the monster beneath.
He approached the monolith, weaving through the crowd unnoticed. No guild tags, no flashy gear—just jeans, a hoodie, and his makeshift mask. A few glances his way, snickers from a group of teens. "What's with the bag-head? Halloween early?" one muttered. Max ignored them, his hand brushing lightly against the monolith's cold surface. A ripple of energy pulled him in, the world dissolving into white.
The dungeon materialized around him: a vast snowy expanse, wind howling through jagged ice formations, visibility cut by swirling flurries. The chill bit at his skin, but with Vitality at 410, it felt like a mild breeze. No interface ping for entry—no levels here, just raw survival. Footsteps crunched behind him. Max turned, spotting the first yeti: a hulking brute, eight feet tall, fur matted with frost, claws like serrated blades. It roared, charging with primal fury.
Max didn't move. The yeti swung, claws raking toward his chest. He sidestepped with Agility-fueled grace, the attack whistling past. Then he struck—a casual backhand. His fist connected with the yeti's jaw, and the impact echoed like thunder. Bone shattered, the creature's head exploding in a spray of crimson gore, chunks of skull and brain matter splattering the snow in a macabre Pollock painting. The body crumpled, twitching, as blood steamed in the cold.
A soft ping.
**[Yeti Core Absorbed: +1 Strength, +1 Vitality]**
Negligible. But he felt it—a tiny trickle into his already overflowing stats. More came. A pack of five yetis emerged from the blizzard, bellowing challenges. Max advanced, his movements a blur. He grabbed the first by the throat, squeezing until vertebrae popped like bubble wrap, blood erupting from its mouth in a geyser that painted his hoodie red. The second lunged; he drove his elbow through its chest, ribs cracking audibly as he yanked out its still-beating heart, crushing it in his palm. Warm viscera dripped between his fingers, the metallic tang mixing with the frost.
The third and fourth came together. Max leaped, Agility propelling him ten feet up, landing between them. He spun, fists blurring—left hook caving in one's skull, eyeballs popping free like ejected marbles, rolling into the snow. The right punch disemboweled the other, intestines spilling in steaming loops, the yeti howling as it clawed at its own guts before Max silenced it with a stomp that pulverized its head into a bloody pulp.
The last yeti hesitated, fear in its beady eyes. Max toyed with it, dodging swings effortlessly, the paper bag crinkling comically with each evasion. It slashed; he caught the arm, twisting until sinew tore and bone splintered, ripping the limb free in a fountain of arterial spray. The yeti screamed, stumbling back, only for Max to ram the severed arm down its throat, choking it on its own flesh until it gagged, convulsed, and collapsed in a heap of mangled fur and pooling blood.
More cores absorbed, stats ticking up by fractions. The dungeon deepened, waves of yetis assaulting him. Max waded through, a whirlwind of gore. He tore throats with his bare hands, arteries jetting blood like broken fire hydrants. Smashed faces into unrecognizable mush, brains oozing between his knuckles. One yeti he lifted overhead, slamming it onto an ice spike—impaled through the gut, writhing as organs slid down the frozen pole in wet, glistening clumps. The snow turned red, a slaughterhouse canvas under his feet.
Exhaustion? None. Endurance at 410 made this child's play. But the release—the catharsis of unleashing pent-up fury—stirred something deep. Alex's betrayals fueled each strike, memories of dust and death. Yet in the absurdity of the bag mask, a dark humor lingered. If Elena saw this... no. She couldn't.
The core chamber loomed: a cavernous arena, blizzard raging. The boss emerged—a colossal 15-meter gorilla, white fur rippling over muscles like corded steel, ferocious fangs gleaming, wielding a giant war hammer crusted with ice. It bellowed, shaking the ground, hammer raised high.
Max stood still, the bag fluttering in the wind. The gorilla charged, hammer swinging in wide arcs that cratered the snow. Max dodged lazily, toying with it—sidestepping blows by inches, leaping over sweeps that would pulverize lesser men. He landed light punches, each one cracking ribs with wet snaps, but holding back. The beast roared in frustration, fangs snapping close enough to tear the bag's edge.
Then it committed: a overhead smash, hammer descending like judgment. Max raised an arm casually. The impact thundered—metal met flesh, and the hammer shattered. Shards exploded outward, embedding in the gorilla's own fur, drawing rivulets of blood. The beast staggered, staring at the splintered haft in disbelief.
Max's eyes narrowed behind the bag. Playtime over.
He blurred forward, Agility maxed. Leaped onto the gorilla's chest, fists pounding like pistons. Punches caved in the sternum, bones fracturing in a symphony of cracks. Blood erupted from the impacts, soaking Max as he burrowed deeper. The gorilla swiped; he caught the arm, twisting until joints dislocated with gruesome pops, then tore it free at the shoulder—muscle ripping, tendons snapping like overstrung cables, blood hosing from the stump.
The beast howled, fangs gnashing. Max vaulted to its head, grabbing a fang and yanking— it snapped free with a spray of ichor, which he used to stab into an eye. The orb burst, jelly-like fluid mixing with blood cascading down the fur. The gorilla thrashed, but Max was relentless. He drove his hand into the other eye, fingers piercing the socket, scooping out the optic nerve in a slick pull, the beast's screams echoing.
Dropping down, Max targeted the legs—kicks shattering kneecaps, femurs buckling inward with explosive fractures, bone shards protruding through fur in jagged spikes. The gorilla toppled, crashing into the snow, sending up a plume of red-tinged powder. Max mounted its chest, raining blows: fists pulverizing the face, nose collapsing into a bloody crater, fangs shattering like glass under the assault. He punched through the jaw, grabbing the tongue and ripping it out— a wet, slurping tear, the organ flopping aside in a pool of saliva and gore.
The final strike: Max plunged both hands into the chest wound, gripping ribs and prying them apart like a cage. Crack after crack, the ribcage splayed open, exposing heaving lungs and a pounding heart. He seized the heart, squeezing until it burst in his grasp—hot blood fountaining up, drenching him in a visceral shower. The gorilla convulsed, then stilled, its massive form a ruined husk amid the carnage.
**[Boss Core Absorbed: +10 Strength, +10 Vitality, +10 Mana, +10 Endurance, +10 Agility]**
**[Skill Book Dropped: Frost Claw]**
Max picked up the glowing tome, absorbing it instantly.
**[Skill Acquired: Frost Claw 0/1]**
He exhaled, the bag mask sodden with blood, crinkling wetly. Power surged, but the melancholy returned. This was him—destroyer in the dark, hidden behind paper-thin pretense. He exited the dungeon, emerging into the park as the monolith shimmered. The crowd stared at the blood-soaked figure in the bag, whispers turning to uneasy laughter. "What the hell happened to bag-boy?"
Max slipped away, discarding the mask in a bin. Back to normalcy. Back to shadows. But the gore lingered on his skin, a reminder of the beast within, caged by choice. Elena would be home soon. He'd smile, pretend. Trust no one. Survive alone.