Phew!
The tip of Minori's sword slid into the wild boar's flesh, striking clean through the narrow spot Le'er had pointed out—just behind the ear and below the skull. A firm twist, and the beast let out its last rattling breath. Blood oozed, not spurted, confirming the strike had ruptured the central nerve without breaking any major vessels.
A familiar notification appeared.
Gained 15 experience points!
The shimmering text pulsed briefly before dissolving into the corner of Minori's vision. He blinked.
[Capability Table]Innate Ability:PlayerOverall Level: 2LvExperience Slot: 95/100Profession:Basic Occupation:Genius 1Lv (Warrior, Priestess/Priest)Intermediate Class:Sword Master 1LvSkill Points: 0
Passive Skills:Item Box, Slashing Increase (1%)Active Skills:Warrior – Instant Reflection, Four Lights Slash, Quick SlashMagic – Minor Injury Treatment (Lv1)
Only 5 more experience points to level up.
Minori exhaled quietly, suppressing the satisfaction curling in his chest. Much faster than I expected. A few wild beasts were all it took. Of course, it wouldn't last. Early levels always scaled faster. The grind would eventually steepen into a mountain.
A low hmph snapped his attention toward Lizzie Bareare.
Her earlier approval had vanished without a trace. Her lips were pursed, and her gaze was sharp with reproach. She had expected her warning to be heeded, not ignored.
Minori simply pretended not to notice.
After all, how could someone like Lizzie understand?
In this world, reaching level 29 meant stepping into the realm of "Heroes"—the upper echelon of humanity.
But even with talent, effort, and miraculous luck, level 40 was the racial limit. Anything beyond it…
Abnormal.
The Four Elderly. Fluder. The Black Scripture's First Seat. Those rare humans who nudged past the natural barrier—each one burdened by something unhuman, unnatural, or inhuman altogether.
But to Minori?
That "limit" was only the beginning.
This world was just another stage. He was not bound by its rules.
Destined.
No matter how he approached the inevitable conflict with the Great Tomb of Nazarick, one truth remained:
No human could be his equal.
That was why, back in the royal capital, he had agonized over which path to begin with—magic or martial. Committing to a singular path left glaring weaknesses. Weaknesses Nazarick would exploit.
Without allies, without comrades… he had to become both shield and spear.
"I'm much more skilled than when I started."
Le'er looked up from the half-dressed carcass with a smirk. "But monsters are another level. Don't forget that."
He nodded with a polite grin and poured water from his pouch into a small porcelain jar—borrowed from Nfirea. It had once been a container for dried herbs, now repurposed as a kettle. A makeshift solution. Efficient.
He placed it over the fire and leaned back.
"You like drinking hot water that much?" Nfirea tilted his head curiously. "I've seen you boil river water every day. Even in a rush."
"It's not really about liking it," Minori answered casually, sitting cross-legged. "It's just… tradition."
That seemed to satisfy Nfirea. He didn't press further. In this world, curiosity about another's culture could easily become a grave insult.
Minori's eyes wandered to the flames licking the base of the jar.
In this world, the dominant belief was in the Six Great Gods.
And rightly so.
Without them, humans might have been wiped out.
Six hundred years ago, humanity was on the brink of extinction. Then came the first players—the Six Great Gods. They were divine not by nature, but by overwhelming power. With relic-tier artifacts and level caps far beyond native races, they had carved out a haven in the northwest corner of the continent and given humanity a second chance.
The foundation of human society today… was built atop the corpses of monsters they'd slain.
Of course, five of those gods had been mere mortals—players with lifespans as short as anyone else. They died, one by one, within a century.
Only the so-called God of Death remained longer—until he was slain by the next wave of power:
The Eight Greed Kings.
Where the Six had given humanity hope, the Eight had drowned the continent in chaos.
They were more… player-like. Hedonistic. Wild. Dangerous. And strangely enough, though many of them weren't human, they'd treated humanity far better than expected.
Even now, centuries later, human nations whispered only neutral or even respectful legends of the Eight Greed Kings.
Why?
Because players—true players—warped reality by simply existing.
"Six Gods arrived 600 years ago… Eight Greed Kings 500 years ago… Demon Gods, 200 years ago… Thirteen Heroes, sometime after that… And then—Nazarick."
Minori's brow furrowed.
Almost every hundred years, a player descends. A cycle of upheaval.
And now, it was happening again.
Only this time… I'm the one who arrived early.
He stared into the fire, thoughts churning.
The True Dragon Lords likely knew of this cycle. They had to. Immortals with racial classes and ancient memories—they were probably preparing even now for Nazarick's eventual rise.
But they wouldn't be expecting a variable like him.
"If I can incite the True Dragons to act against Nazarick preemptively…"
A grin tugged at his lips.
"…I might be able to profit while they bleed each other out."
No matter which side won, Minori would be the one who stood last.