Look at all these corpses surrounding me.
Don't stare at me like that.
Yes — I've killed a few people in this world. But not these ones.
And truth be told, this isn't even my preferred style of killing. When you take a life, there's an art to it. You should savor it — draw it out, make it mean something. If not physically, then mentally. Break them from the inside before you extinguish the outside. Don't just kill someone — respect the thrill stirring in your chest as you do it.
But none of that matters right now.
The blood is everywhere. Pooling between the roots of ancient trees, soaking into the dark earth, glistening under the pale light filtering through the canopy above.
And that is more than enough.
I feel euphoric. Like every nerve in my body is singing.
I know you want to understand what happened here.
The truth is — I had grown bored.
Fourteen years. Fourteen long, suffocatingly quiet years living in this world. So when these fools made their move and tried to kidnap me, I didn't resist.
I surrendered willingly.
I wanted some entertainment.
Over thirty of them. All laughably low-leveled — ranging somewhere between fifteen and twenty. Children playing at being dangerous.
Allow me to explain how things work here.
Ever since I leveled up for the first time — by killing monsters and surviving battles — I've been able to raise my abilities and refine my skills. One of the first things I upgraded was Status. I pushed it further than its base form, because knowing everyone around me isn't a luxury.
It's a weapon.
So I glanced at one of these sons of — ...these men, and I activated it.
Name: Rashad
Title: The Reckless
Race: Human
Level: 17
Occupation: Thief & Highwayman
Specialization: Warrior
Abilities: Thunder Strike
Feelings toward you: Greed. Avarice.
With the upgraded Status, I can now see titles, specializations, levels, and abilities in full detail.
None of them can perceive levels the way I do. They measure strength by other means — experience, reputation, scars. The number floating above a man's head is mine alone to read.
I already knew they'd take me through the forest. Kidnappers always favor the dense routes — faster, harder to track, easier to disappear. What none of them knew was that I had prepared something very special for them along the way.
Hahahaha.
You already know what my surprises look like. The blood tends to give it away.
They moved between the towering trees with practiced ease, navigating the undergrowth like men who had done this a hundred times before. The forest around us was ancient and thick — massive oaks and blackwood trees stretching so high their canopies swallowed the sky whole. Roots like gnarled fists erupted from the mossy ground. The air smelled of damp earth and something faintly rotten, as forests this deep always do.
One of them carried me slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
And I was crying.
Magnificently crying, I must say.
Trembling lips, wet cheeks, the whole performance. One of them called me a cowardly little fool.
If only he knew. In my previous life I killed ten men like him every single day before breakfast. The shock alone would have dropped him.
But I said nothing. I am still a child in this world's eyes — and no one must ever think otherwise.
Let me tell you what I've learned about this world in fourteen years.
There are four races sharing this earth:
Humans — occupying the eastern half of the world. They are divided into three specializations: Warriors, Mages, and Beast Tamers. Each branch has its own sub-disciplines, but a human may only master a single specialization in their lifetime — except under very particular circumstances.
Demons — ruling the western half. They too are split into three paths: Warrior, Mage, and Shapeshifter. The same restriction applies.
Monsters — they roam freely across both territories, bound to no borders. Their power is measured not in levels but in age. The older the beast, the more terrifying it becomes.
Hybrids — half-human, half-monster, or half-demon, half-monster. They live among humans and demons alike, but they are the weakest of all four races. Because of this, both humans and demons have reduced them to one thing:
Slaves.
I had expected war between the humans and demons. Honestly, I had hoped for it. War means blood — and in war, nothing is forbidden. Children, women, the elderly — everyone becomes fair game. The rivers run red and the fields turn black.
Such a beautiful image.
But fate denied me that fantasy. There is peace between the two races. A fragile, political, suffocating peace. Humans do not kill demons. Demons do not kill humans.
They kill monsters instead.
How terribly disappointing.
But today — today I am kidnapped of my own free and enthusiastic will.
Hahahaha.
I waited patiently, still performing my tears, until we reached a specific point in the forest I knew well. Very well.
This is where it starts.
I slid the dagger I had concealed within my clothing silently into my palm. With my other hand — coated with a paralytic poison I had prepared in advance — I covered the mouth of the man carrying me. Simultaneously, I drew the blade across the side of his neck in one clean, practiced motion. Left. Right. Fast.
The blood erupted.
He couldn't scream. The poison had already stolen his voice, his limbs, everything. He crumpled toward the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut all at once.
I crouched beside him as he fell and whispered with a small, genuine smile:
"I know it hurts. But don't be afraid — I'll let you go now so you can rest."
I pressed the dagger into his left eye.
Held it there for a few quiet seconds.
Then drove it into his chest.
One down. Twenty-nine remaining.
Today is going to be a beautiful day.
I slipped back into the shadows of the trees before anyone noticed.
The forest here was dense enough to swallow a man whole — ancient trunks wide as houses, branches interlocked overhead like the ribcage of some buried giant, the undergrowth thick with dark ferns and low-hanging vines. Perfect cover.
And waiting for me within that darkness —
My cats.
Beside me crouched a massive red-furred beast the size of a small horse. His coat was the deep, burning crimson of smoldering coals, his amber eyes sharp and ancient, his body radiating a subtle warmth that the forest around him seemed to lean away from. Behind him, thirty more of his kind — slightly smaller, but built from the same fire-touched blood.
The Qaraween. The Fire Cats.
Their fur isn't red merely by nature. Hehe.
The great one beside me had lived for over seventy years. Measured in human terms — Level 25. The others ranged from Level 10 to 17.
More than enough.
Once I confirmed my beloved cats were ready, I returned to the corpse and resumed crying.
Loudly.
Dramatically.
I was genuinely surprised it took them this long to find us.
A few seconds later — they emerged from between the trees.
Every one of them drew their weapon the instant they saw the body. Hands tightened around sword hilts and spear shafts, eyes scanning the dark spaces between the trunks. The forest had gone very still. Even the insects had stopped.
Rashad stepped toward me. His expression was cold beneath the shadow of his hood, jaw set, dark eyes narrowed.
"Who did that, you little idiot?"
I wiped my false tears slowly with the back of my hand.
And looked up at him.
He moved closer. Closer still — until only the corpse separated us, his boots nearly touching the pooled blood spreading across the roots.
Perfect.
In one motion I drew the dagger, gripped it in my right hand, and drove it upward through his mouth with everything I had.
He dropped.
Before the others could process what they'd witnessed, I wrenched his tongue free — and from my left palm bloomed a tongue of fire, small and precise and hungry. I burned what I held in my hand until it was nothing but grey ash.
All while my right hand continued its work — methodical, unhurried — finding the soft places between his ribs.
I held his gaze the entire time.
Then I scattered the ash across his face.
And smiled at him softly.
"Who's the coward now?"
I watched the light leave his eyes completely before I stood.
I turned to face the remaining men.
Twenty-eight faces. Twenty-eight expressions of pure, paralyzed shock.
A child — a child who had been sobbing sixty seconds ago — had just killed two of their own bare-handed without blinking.
They had stopped moving entirely.
I let the silence stretch a moment longer than necessary.
Then I tilted my head and said, quite pleasantly:
"Two dead. Twenty-eight remaining."
I glanced upward at the thin sliver of sky visible between the black branches overhead.
"What do you say — shall we make it rain?"