Hope kept his feet light, wind blowing from his back toward his opponent, conjuring a sand screen that also lessened the threat of the thrown rocks.

  He zigzagged, spear held tight as he tracked the direction of his target. One last rock grazed his thigh—but he was upon her now. He grounded his right foot and thrust forward.

  The spear hit something hard.

  She blocked?

  Hope didn’t stop. He launched another quick thrust, building on the first. It was blocked too—but he leapt back, grabbed a rock, and threw it just as he intensified the wind, blowing sand into her face.

  A clang rang out—rock striking metal. But he kept going, one after another, circling his opponent. The constant use of Air Magika strained his mind, but the rocks were hitting true. She couldn’t deflect all of them. He heard a hiss of pain, caught the falter in her stance—and pushed.

  He pressed the range advantage with his spear. Thrust after thrust. The first few were blocked, weakly—but then he broke through her defense.

  The head of his spear punched into her chest.

  He stopped channeling the wind and yanked the weapon back quickly.

  As the sand settled, her eyes dimmed—and she collapsed with a thud. Moments later, she vanished.

  Only a pair of daggers, a black pair of pants, and a coin were left where she had been.

  ?? Ranged Combat (Level 1?2)

  Reflexes honed for pressure at a distance.

  ? 10% reduction in stamina drain during ranged combat.

  Ignoring the skill upgrade, Hope frowned as he noticed the pants had somehow adjusted to match his legs.

  Dark Hide Pants

  Rank 1 Gear (Grade: F, Type: Legs)

  Requirements: Longstride (Level 3), Physis 1200

  Effect: +60 Physis, +1 Longstride

  He threw aside the ones he was wearing—mostly rags by now—and pulled on the new pair, feeling the slight boost in strength.

  As he picked up the coin, it merged with the one he had, and the number changed to ‘25’.

  So each of them gives ten… twice as much as that big worm?

  Hope glanced up at the number glowing in the sky.

  26 / 50

  Practically half dead already.

  A faint headache lingered from the Magika strain, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

  He picked up the rocks and dropped them back into the bag at his waist, same with the coin. His gaze lingered on the pair of daggers—just for a moment—before he turned away, locked onto the next closest beam, and started marching toward it.

  It was a bit further this time, and he noticed the number in the sky kept ticking down, one at a time, as red beams vanished from the horizon. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Eve following at a distance. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

  He kept moving, running through dunes and cutting down the Sandmaws that popped out along the way. It took over twenty minutes, but eventually, his next target came into view.

  The Crawler stood ready—wearing the same black bracers and, this time, a chest piece too. That made Hope frown. He didn’t know how well his spear would punch through that hide. The guy was covered in fur across his arms and face, with small horns jutting from his forehead. An Yvernis. Tall. Strong. A spear in hand—same make as his own.

  Hope checked the prompt.

  ID: 151391

  Level 32

  One level lower than him.

  They stared at each other, circling slow, keeping distance.

  Hope didn’t rush it. He watched. Measured. Waited for a twitch, a breath, a slip in footing—then dashed forward.

  The Yvernis came at him just as fast. A heartbeat later, they clashed, spears snapping against each other in a blur. Hope ducked under the first counter and twisted away, but the Yvernis kept pressing in.

  His opponent was fast—no doubt about that. Each strike came with weight behind it, spear sweeping wide then snapping back in tight jabs meant to force Hope on the defensive.

  But Hope didn’t give ground.

  He let the shaft glide against his grip, deflecting one blow with the lower quarter of his own spear. He spun the angle slightly and turned the next jab away with a tight parry. His feet moved constantly, pressing through the sand with minimal drag, stepping inside and around each motion.

  The Yvernis snarled and thrust low, aiming for the hip.

  Hope twisted.

  The tip of the spear missed by a breath. He dropped his shoulder and countered with a fast stab toward the ribs—one the Yvernis barely blocked.

  A clang of metal on metal rang out as the shafts clashed, sending tremors down Hope’s arms, but he didn’t flinch. He saw the next attack before it came. A high swing—too wide.

  He slipped under it, pivoted hard, and let the butt of his spear strike the Yvernis’ shin just enough to throw him off balance.

  A grunt. A stumble.

  Hope didn’t pause. He kept low, stepped in again, and raised the spear as if aiming for the throat.

  The Yvernis’ eyes locked on the feint, bringing his weapon up to deflect.

  Too slow.

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  Hope dropped the motion halfway through, shifted his hands fast, and adjusted the angle. The tip of the spear slashed sideways with a sharp whistle—biting deep into the exposed wrist just above the bracer.

  A sickening snap followed as flesh split and tendons gave way.

  The Yvernis screamed in pain.

  The spear dropped from his ruined hand and hit the sand with a dull thud.

  Hope didn't give him time to recover.

  He took a half step forward and in one smooth motion slashed the spear diagonally, cutting clean across the Yvernis’ throat.

  The scream died in a wet gargle.

  Blood sprayed across Hope’s arm and chest, hot and reeking of iron. The Yvernis collapsed to his knees, both hands clutching uselessly at his throat, eyes wide and rolling.

  A few seconds later, he dropped face-first into the sand.

  Hope stepped back slowly, not looking away.

  The corpse twitched once. Then went still.

  A second later—just like the others—it vanished, leaving behind a hide chest plate, a pair of bracers, a spear, a coin, and a pool of blood already soaking into the sand.

  Hope exhaled through his nose. Not satisfaction. Not rage. Just breath. Controlled. Cold.

  He wiped the blood from his fingers on his pants, then crouched to inspect the gear.

  Dark Hide Vest

  Rank 1 Gear (Grade: F, Type: Chest)

  Requirements: Close-Quarter Combat (Level 3), Physis 1200

  Effect: +60 Physis, +1 Close-Quarter Combat

  He put it on, finally covering his chest, which had been bare for days. The boost in strength felt a bit larger this time.

  He checked the enhancements and his Physis stat.

  ?? Close-Quarter Combat (Level 6 + 2)

  Instinctive adaptations for tight engagements.

  ? 40% reduction in stamina drain during close quarter combat.

  ? +250 Physis permanently

  Level 33

  Physis: 2112 (+127) [+340]

  Magia: 270 (+16)

  Altogether, it was over 2500—more than six times what he’d started with.

  He clenched his fist, feeling the superhuman strength running through him. It was insane how much he’d changed. As much as he hated the way it had all started, Hope couldn’t lie—the power felt good. More strength meant more freedom, and he knew that.

  And yet…

  He looked up at the sky.

  Would freedom really come, even after all this? After everything? He thought back to the voice—the ultimate right… to live. It had made sense, in its own twisted way.

  He exhaled sharply, grabbed the coin, and as it merged with the one he already had, the number rose to ‘45’.

  An extra twenty?

  He didn’t dwell on it. Just tossed it into the bag and moved on.

  The spare bracers he picked up—he tried slipping them over the ones he had, awkward as it felt. But nothing changed. No boost, no effect. So he stripped them off and left them in the sand.

  The spear was identical to the one he had. He slid it into the holder at his back. Always good to have a backup.

  When he was done, he took a moment to breathe.

  He hadn’t used any Magika during that fight—saved it, just in case. The strain had eased, slightly.

  He looked up again.

  12 / 50

  Only 12 left?

  He scanned the horizon—and this time, spotted two red beams just next to each other, closer than the rest. Both were moving. And both… were coming straight toward him.

  They’d joined hands?

  Strange. He would’ve thought that kind of teamwork would be the first thing to go in a slaughter game like this.

  He gave it a second of thought. The others were too far off. Taking a detour around these two wasn’t going to be easy.

  So…

  He faced their direction.

  Having Magika—actual control over it—felt like a damn good advantage, especially when the others didn’t seem to get it at all. But still, he couldn’t assume. As unlikely as it was that another “Eve” was out there helping some poor soul to read, much less grasp what those glowing dots meant… chances were never zero.

  It didn’t take long for them to face each other.

  Hope scanned the pair—one girl, one boy. They had flattened torsos, and inward knees, similar to the berserk girl from before.

  Level 31 both. The girl had twin daggers. The boy held an axe.

  Armor-wise, they both had boots and bracers. One wore the vest, the other had the pants. Nothing new—no gear he didn’t already have. Was that the whole set? Just four pieces?

  His eyes dropped to their hands—both were shifting subtly, reaching for the bags strapped at their waists.

  Rocks. Of course.

  They were planning to pelt him before he got close. Smart, but…

  Hope launched forward, boots kicking up sand as he sprinted down the dune, spear held tight. The moment the rocks came up—he channeled the wind.

  A gust burst from behind him, kicking up a swirling screen of sand that swept wide. The two hesitated just a second—but it was enough.

  Hope pivoted sharp to the right, rocks flying past his left shoulder. He didn’t stop. He turned the wind again, tighter this time, a spiral that wrapped the three of them in dust and grit. It stung the skin, bit at the eyes.

  He was already between them before they could react.

  First thrust went low—pierced the boy’s gut, twisting through flesh until he jerked back with a wet, ugly sound.

  The girl screamed. He spun on her, reversed the grip on his spear, and slammed the shaft against her wrist. The dagger flew.

  She reached for the second but Hope had already stabbed her thigh. The blade sliced clean. Blood spurted as she fell.

  He didn’t give her time to recover.

  A final thrust—angled up—slammed through her ribs into the heart. Her eyes widened. Then dimmed. She crumpled.

  The boy had tried to crawl away. Hope walked over, stepped on his back to pin him, and dragged the spear across the side of his neck. Warm blood sprayed, hissing onto the sand.

  He exhaled through gritted teeth, pulled the spear free, and wiped it once across the boy’s torn tunic.

  ?? Slayer (G6?G5)

  You’ve ended the lives of 10 indexed entities.

  ? +40 Physis permanently.

  ? +10 Magia permanently.

  Level 33?34

  Both bodies vanished a second later, coins and gear left behind—none of it useful.

  He picked up the coins. They merged into one. Number climbed to ‘105’.

  He glanced at the sky. Only six left.

  The red beams were too far. No way he’d make it before they tore each other apart. Not that he had any pressing need to, either. He had the full gear—probably. That just meant one thing.

  He had to wait. Wait for the last one.

  So he sat down at the top of a dune, far from the smell of blood. Closed his eyes. Slowed his breath. Tried to soothe the pounding in his skull, let his mind cool and recover.

  Five minutes passed. He opened his eyes.

  The number had changed—4.

  Another five.

  3 / 50

  And then… 2.

  Hope rose to his feet. The right to live, huh.

  He gripped his spear tighter, felt the wind shift across the dunes.

  Then ran toward it. The last red beam.