The wind swept across the ridge with steady violence, hurling sheets of snow that reduced visibility to only a few meters. Anastasia could clearly distinguish the terrain in the darkness, but the swirling particles blurred the shifting outlines that encircled her. The silhouettes were not hiding. They advanced slowly, forming a deliberate, methodical ring around her.
She remained still.
The Umbraëls drew closer without unnecessary sound. By day, they would have resembled massive alpine predators. Night had altered them. Their fur had turned an absolute black, swallowing the light, and blue-black fissures pulsed beneath their skin as though unstable matter sought to emerge. Their backs had lengthened, shoulder blades protruding sharply, and two additional pairs of legs supported their distorted mass. Behind their shoulders, bony appendages swayed in slow, deliberate arcs.
They were not excited.
They were calculating.
"Then… I'll finally be able to test this body."
Her voice was nearly swallowed by the wind. She closed her eyes for a few seconds and steadied her breathing. Since awakening in this world, she had never pushed her body to its true limits.
She made a simple decision.
She would not use magic.
This fight would be physical.
She possessed no technique, no formal training, no true experience in hand-to-hand combat. She was fully aware of that. She had no refined stance, no established strategy. She would rely on raw strength and instinct. She would fight like a beast.
When she opened her eyes again, they shone with a faint blue glow in the night.
Nearly twenty Umbraëls now surrounded her within ten meters. Black saliva dripped in viscous strands onto the snow, leaving dark marks that melted the frozen surface. Their shadows, stretched beneath the moonlight, did not perfectly align with their bodies. Some seemed to move a fraction of a second out of sync.
One of the Umbraëls bent its front legs.
The circle tightened almost imperceptibly.
Then it lunged.
Its massive body crossed the distance instantly, eight legs tearing through the snow in a brutal surge. The others followed nearly at once, converging on the center with instinctive coordination.
But Anastasia was no longer there.
Her katana remained planted vertically in the snow, exactly where she had stood a second before.
She appeared in front of the first Umbraël before it could complete its movement. Her slender hand closed around the top of its skull with cold precision. She immediately felt the unnatural heat of its mutation beneath her palm—the internal pressure, the dense resistance of bone.
She squeezed.
The first crack was sharp, superficial.
The second was deeper.
The bones of its skull gave way beneath her fingers, collapsing like a fragile shell. Her hand sank into the structure, crushing the cranial cavity with a force that surprised even her. Skin split under the strain, tearing into wide strips. A jet of thick, black blood burst outward, splattering across her face and staining the snow around them.
The monster released a guttural rasp, cut short as her fingers pressed deeper. She felt the brain pulp collapse under compression. Viscous, burning matter spilled between her knuckles.
She pulled.
The top of the skull tore loose with a wet, tearing sound—a mixture of fractured bone and ripped flesh. Fragments of bone and gray matter fell heavily onto the snow, staining the white ground with dark red-black sludge.
The body remained upright for a fraction of a second, still animated by dying spasms. Its extra limbs struck uselessly at the air, uncoordinated.
Then it collapsed at her feet.
Blood continued to flow.
It slid down her wrist, dripped from her fingers, tracing thick lines across the snow. The metallic scent, mixed with something harsher born of the nocturnal mutation, filled the air around her.
Anastasia studied her hand, coated in dark matter.
She measured the pressure she had exerted.
So this is my true strength.
A faint smile curved her lips—not from cruelty, but from understanding. The gap between herself and these creatures had just been quantified with precision.
She slowly lifted her head.
The remaining Umbraëls did not retreat.
This time, they attacked all at once.
They converged from every direction.
Eight legs clawed through snow, appendages whipped through the air, jaws opened wide for her throat. Their trajectories were calculated to crush her beneath sheer mass and tear her apart within seconds. Their coordination was nearly flawless.
The world slowed.
It was not a visible magical phenomenon. It was a sensation. The Umbraëls' movements became distinct, segmented, readable. She perceived muscle contractions before impact, the precise angle of each claw, the tension in every bony whip preparing to strike. Her mind processed faster than their bodies moved.
She shifted.
Her body slipped out of the path of a closing jaw at the exact instant it snapped shut. She drove her elbow into the base of a skull, and bone collapsed immediately under the impact. The creature was hurled sideways, rolling through the snow with its neck broken.
Another surged at her flank.
She did not aim for precision. She struck like a predator. Her fist drove into its ribcage with absurd force. Ribs buckled inward with a dull crunch, collapsing toward the lungs. The torso deformed under the blow, and the beast fell, vomiting black blood and crushed organs into the snow.
They began to understand.
She did not stop.
A bony appendage lashed across her shoulder. She seized it mid-swing, wrenched hard, and tore it free with a wet, ripping crack. Shards of bone and torn flesh clung to her fingers. The creature's scream was brief; she rammed the appendage into its throat with brutal precision, driving it deep.
The formation broke.
Now she advanced toward them.
One Umbraël leapt over her to strike from behind. She bent slightly, seized its abdomen mid-air, and slammed it into the ground. Snow erupted beneath the impact. She pinned its body against the frozen surface and brought her fist down violently, smashing its skull against rock hidden beneath the snow. Bone shattered. The head collapsed inward.
She smiled.
A short, almost light laugh escaped her as she rose, drenched in black blood. Every fiber of her body responded with perfect precision. No fatigue. No hesitation. Strength flowed without limit.
She cut through their formation.
She moved so fast their attack lines crossed empty air. She passed between them, striking as she went. An elbow crushed a jaw. A knee pulverized a joint. A hand plunged into an eye socket and tore out the eye along with part of the face.
The snow turned black.
Chunks of flesh, bone fragments, and ruptured tissue littered the ground. Some Umbraëls tried to rise despite their wounds, their mutated bodies convulsing beneath the moon. She gave them no time. Every movement was final.
She grabbed one by both dorsal appendages.
She pulled.
They tore free with a prolonged ripping sound. Blood poured out in thick streams. Before it could flee, she wrapped the appendages around its throat and pulled in opposite directions. Vertebrae snapped one after another beneath the strain. The body went limp.
The massacre lasted only minutes.
When silence returned, only three Umbraëls remained standing. The others lay around her, dismembered, split open, unrecognizable. The wind swept over the blood-soaked snow, scattering dark fragments across the white expanse.
She inhaled deeply.
Her chest rose slowly. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, leaving a dark streak across her cheek. Her blue eyes shone in the night—clear, fixed, almost luminous amid the carnage.
She looked at them.
Not like prey.
Like a predator assessing what remained.
"I'm coming."
Her voice was low, perfectly audible.
The three Umbraëls hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then instinct overtook them. They turned and fled into the storm, their eight legs tearing frantically through the snow.
She pursued.
She vanished into the gusts, her steps faster than theirs. Within seconds she overtook the first. She leapt onto its back, driving it violently into the snow. The ground cracked beneath the impact. Before it could rise, her fist descended vertically onto the back of its skull.
The head exploded.
Fragments of bone and black matter scattered across the snow.
She rose immediately.
The second veered toward a steep slope. She caught it in three strides, slid along its flank, and seized its dorsal appendages. She tore them free, then wrapped them around its throat. She tightened slowly, fingers sinking into flesh as the creature thrashed desperately, claws scraping the snow in a final struggle.
The last crack was swallowed by the wind.
The final one was already fleeing, frantic.
She accelerated again.
In an instant, she stood before it. It tried to stop, but its momentum drove it into her. She seized its upper jaw with one hand and its lower jaw with the other.
She pulled.
Ligaments stretched.
Then snapped.
She forced its mouth open beyond anatomical limits, tearing the corners apart toward the cheeks. The skull split under the pressure, collapsing into two halves while a mass of torn flesh and bone hung loose between them.
The body fell.
Silence returned.
Anastasia stood motionless for several seconds among the shattered corpses. The unstable gleam in her blue eyes gradually faded. Her features settled back into their usual apathy. Her face became composed, controlled.
The interest she had felt moments before disappeared just as quickly.
The massacre no longer had purpose.
She turned away from the bodies and retraced her steps through the blood-darkened snow. Her pace was steady, unhurried. The corpses she stepped over inspired neither lingering satisfaction nor disgust.
Her katana still stood embedded in the snow where the battle had begun. She approached it calmly, observing the extent of the destruction. Nearly twenty Umbraëls—creatures considered deadly for an entire clan—now lay dismembered and ruined.
It had been easy.
She did not speak the thought aloud, but the conclusion formed clearly. Even without magic, even without technique or strategy, she had slaughtered them one by one with overwhelming superiority. They were not the strongest creatures in these mountains—far from it. She knew that. Yet the gap had been undeniable.
A metaphor from her former life surfaced naturally.
An ant before a human.
Even against a thousand ants.
She likely would not have lost. She had suspected it. Now she was certain. This body—born of the First Heroine, enhanced with the former Demon King's additions, shaped over centuries by the finest scholars, mages, and savants of the Empire—surpassed ordinary standards entirely.
She was not merely strong.
She stood at the summit.
She stopped before her weapon and placed her hand on the hilt. The cold metal produced no reaction. She withdrew the blade in a smooth motion. The black blood staining her fingers contrasted sharply with the quiet sheen of the steel.
She lifted her gaze toward the dark mountains.
She felt neither intoxication nor exhilaration. Only a clear realization. In a world filled with violent creatures, ancient demons, and primordial forces, she occupied a higher position. She dominated the food chain with a comfortable margin.
She was above.
The conclusion stirred no visible emotion. She turned her back on the field of carnage, leaving the frozen corpses behind.
The night was not yet over.