Max stood in the center of the ruined camp as the morning sun crept over the treeline. The Hobgoblin’s corpse and the last remnants of its soldiers had already been reduced to ash. Now only gutted huts, charred watchtowers, and piles of refuse remained.

  He set the place ablaze one final time, tossing burning timber into each hut, watching as fire licked along the thatched roofs. Within minutes, black smoke curled into the sky, thick and acrid. He stayed long enough to make sure nothing remained standing.

  The smell no longer turned his stomach. The sight of burning bodies and ruined villages no longer made his hands shake. Instead, there was only a dull weight in his chest — the recognition of how numb he had become to it all.

  Killing used to come with adrenaline, even guilt. Now it just felt like cleaning up trash. He caught himself staring at the flames, the smoke stinging his eyes, and forced the thought to the front of his mind: Don’t lose yourself in this place. It’s only the tutorial. Just survive.

  When the last hut collapsed into embers, he turned his back on the fire and started walking.

  The coastline trek was brutal. With the barrier cutting straight across the island’s heart, the only way forward was around, hugging the cliffs and weaving through dense jungle. The ground alternated between sharp, rocky ridges and soft, waterlogged stretches where tide pools collected. The sun beat down mercilessly, the air hot and wet, each breath heavy.

  Max paused often to drink from his waterskin, sweat dripping from his chin. Birds cawed overhead, and the crash of waves echoed from below, but every sound had him on edge. After weeks of ambushes, patrols, and goblin tricks, open travel felt unnatural — too quiet, too exposed.

  By noon, the quiet shattered.

  A komodo dragon lumbered out of the underbrush, tongue flicking, heavy body swaying side to side. Its mottled scales glistened in the sunlight, and its yellow eyes locked on Max with hungry intent.

  Instead of reaching for his sword, Max stilled himself and drew on his mana. Threads of light formed around his hand, lengthening, sharpening, until a glowing sword hummed into existence. The energy blade felt both weightless and heavy, thrumming with raw power.

  The lizard lunged. Max stepped forward and swung. The blade bit clean through scales and bone as if slicing water, shearing deep into the beast’s neck. It collapsed instantly, blood steaming where the mana blade had cauterized the wound.

  Max frowned, letting the weapon dissolve. “Too much mana that time.” The fight had lasted only seconds — overkill. If he wanted to master this skill, he needed finesse, not brute force.

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  The second komodo came an hour later. Bigger. Faster. Its hiss reverberated through the trees as it lunged low, jaws snapping.

  This time, Max shaped his mana differently, condensing it into a blunt mace. The glow was duller, the weight solid in his hand. He met the lizard’s charge with a sideways swing, the impact cracking scales but leaving only a shallow wound.

  The beast shrieked and twisted, tail whipping toward him. Max ducked under the strike and adjusted, feeding more mana into the weapon. The glow brightened, humming as the weight doubled in his hand.

  When he struck again, the mace crushed bone, caving in the creature’s skull with a wet crunch. It collapsed, twitching.

  Panting, Max let the weapon fade, sweat stinging his eyes. “Getting better,” he muttered. “Control. That’s the point. I can’t burn myself out every time I fight.”

  He forced himself to keep practicing on fallen branches and rocks, adjusting the flow until he could make the weapon flicker dim or blaze bright, lighter or heavier, depending on how much mana he pushed into it. By the time he resumed his trek, he could at least feel the difference. Not perfect, but progress.

  By evening, the coastline opened into familiar ground — a stretch of sandy beach where the small hut sat. The same hut where he had once spoken to the Aura Image of the System Administrator.

  It looked even smaller now, weathered by salt air and time. The roof sagged, and half the shutters hung loose, but it still stood strong against the elements.

  “This’ll do,” Max said, stepping onto the sand.

  He set up a proper base around it, pulling canvas tents from his storage ring and staking them in a wide circle around the hut. Within an hour, he had a sprawling camp: firepit dug in the sand, tents stretched between driftwood poles, supplies stacked neatly near the hut wall. Compared to the caves he had lived in, it felt like luxury — like a little fortress carved from nothing.

  For the first time in weeks, Max allowed himself to sit still and breathe. He even pulled out the goblin chair he had taken, setting it down in the sand like a trophy. He sank into it and let the fire’s warmth seep into him, listening to the waves crash against the shore.

  But rest never lasted long.

  The next morning, Max set out again, this time heading inland from the beach. He wanted to know what lay beyond the hut, to understand why the System’s Aura Image had been here at all.

  Hours of cautious exploration paid off. Among the rocky hills, he found them — tracks. Large, clawed footprints pressed deep into the dirt, leading up a narrow trail toward a dark cave mouth in the cliffs.

  Max followed, heart pounding. The air grew damp and foul as he entered, the stench of sweat and rot unmistakable. Torchlight flickered faintly against stone walls. Not far in, the tunnel narrowed to a makeshift gate of lashed logs and sharpened stakes.

  And there, slumped against the barrier, was a goblin. Asleep. Its crude spear leaned against the wall, drool running down its chin.

  Max’s hand drifted to his sword. It would be easy. One clean strike.

  But he stopped himself. Not yet.

  Rushing into an underground nest unprepared was suicide. He backed away, careful not to disturb the stones beneath his boots, and slipped outside into the sunlight.

  By the time he returned to his beach camp, the decision was made.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, staring into the waves as the sun dipped low. “Tomorrow I tear that place apart.”