Hope locked eyes with the giant brute ahead.

  Scorchback

  Level 55

  Their levels weren’t that different anymore. But it wasn’t the levels that mattered—his stats had grown so much since that first fight, the one that now felt like a lifetime ago.

  And now—

  Hope ran toward it, his boots pressing down on the barren ground as his fancy coat fluttered in the wind.

  The brute turned, its huge slab of metal aimed toward him, but Hope didn’t stop. As he got closer, he channeled the wind around him. Air Gear activated and boosted him into a blur, his spear accelerating with momentum and wind alike, carving through the air without a sound and piercing the creature’s throat before it could complete its first motion.

  And just like that, the Scorchback was dead.

  Hope landed with a soft thud and kept going as the coin left behind merged automatically with the one in his pocket.

  If he wanted new gear, he’d need a lot of coins. For starters, he had to push all his gear to Grade D at least.

  And with that in mind, he ran through the volcanic region, dealing with the never-ending tide of Scorchbacks, each dispatched with minimal waste of energy—one strike each.

  He had noticed how the Scorchbacks respawned after a certain time, as if new ones were brought in by the fuckers in the sky, but that worked in his favour. The more there were, the faster he could grind levels and coins.

  So Hope went—through ridges, leaping across lava streams, blurring past jets of steam rising from the ground below, and most importantly—

  Searching for the tunnels.

  It didn’t take long for him to reach the first. Carved squarely into the depths of a mid-sized rocky hill.

  He went inside, his pace comfortable as he dealt with all the Scorchbacks inside until there was only one left.

  “We meet again,” he smiled as the giant came rushing toward him, mace held high, shield low.

  Scorchbrute [Elite]

  Level 62

  Since the last time they’d fought, Hope’s Physis was just slightly lower due to the change in gear—but his Magia... his Magia was leagues apart.

  Hope waited, the cold, sulfur-tinged air of the rocky chamber pressing against his skin as the creature advanced.

  The Scorchbrute’s steps were thunderous in the tight, uneven space—every impact sending shallow tremors through the cracked basalt floor. Its oversized mace dragged sparks where it scraped stone, iron shrieking against rock.

  Hope didn’t move. He measured the space between them—ten meters. Six. Three.

  The beast began to lift its mace.

  He triggered the shift.

  Hope reached for the slope—the local curvature of space-time around the brute’s lead foot.

  The spatial fabric bent under his will.

  A subtle tilt. Just enough curvature to betray balance.

  The Scorchbrute shifted its weight.

  Too late.

  Hope stepped in.

  His boot snapped off the stone with force, Air Gear surging alive. Wind curled around him like a slipstream sheath, locking onto the contours of his body. He moved with it, not against it—gliding between particles rather than pushing through.

  The brute’s foot slipped half an inch.

  But at the wrong time, half an inch was disaster.

  Its forward momentum skewed. The arc of its mace twisted out of line, forced to compensate. Its center of mass lagged, anchor lost.

  Hope was already inside.

  He closed the last meter in a sharp burst of compressed motion—feet barely grazing the fractured stone. Air Gear rebalanced his inertia mid-flight, twisting his approach into a tight spiral.

  Mid-air, he rotated. Legs tucked. Core braced. The wind gave him anchor—not lift.

  Then he reversed the slope again.

  This time, beneath himself.

  Space deepened. Gravity stretched.

  His weight surged in an instant.

  And all of that momentum flowed into the tip of the spear.

  Hope had already pulled the surrounding air clean—clearing any turbulence in front of the strike, neutralizing friction.

  No sound followed the thrust. Just motion and pressure.

  The point punched cleanly through the brute’s throat.

  Tissue parted. Wind split around it. Bone cracked from within.

  The Scorchbrute’s head jerked. Blood erupted in a geyser, spraying far in a single arterial arc, thick and steaming in the cold cavern air.

  Hope didn’t wait for the kill.

  He planted a foot against the brute’s chest, kicked off, and let the slope pull him back. Wind coiled behind him, riding the descending curvature of space like a slide no one else could see. His back skimmed the ceiling, his shoulder brushed broken stone.

  He landed softly beside a cluster of angular rocks, knees slightly bent.

  Before him, the creature staggered.

  It clawed at its ruined neck. But the damage was done.

  It collapsed.

  The floor shook with the impact, dust breaking loose from the ceiling in thin veils.

  A moment later, silence.

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  And then the body faded into nothingness, like it was never there.

  Only blood and a coin remained—glinting dully in the fading light.

  The Scorchbrute had fallen.

  Level 50 ? 51

  Hope exhaled softly as he stood still in the cavern, the smell of iron from the blood thick and annoying.

  He checked his stats and did the quick math. It seemed he was now gaining 31 Physis per level instead of 29, while Magia remained the same at 5.

  Only 2!?

  That was pretty stingy.

  Well, whatever. He shrugged as he turned toward Eve, who was silently carrying the backpack near the chamber's entrance.

  “What do you think?”

  Her face stayed unreadable for a moment. Hope caught a flicker of surprise in her expression—maybe even… amazement?

  “That… your control of Spacetime is incredible, Hope,” she said at last. “To make such use of it at Tier 1, not even a day since you got it… I don’t know what to say.”

  Hope narrowed his eyes. Was he showing off too much? He could hear it in her tone—Eve was trying to stay measured, but she was genuinely astonished.

  Hope sighed internally. They were expecting a Supreme Genius standard, but apparently he was two ticks above that. Did he have to start holding back his use of Spacetime? Would the fuckers in the sky notice something was off?

  Dammit.

  But he needed to use it to get better. Underperforming wasn’t an option he wanted.

  He gazed back at the pool of blood on the floor. He had to admit, even if Eve said there was so much he could do with Spacetime at Tier 1, it already felt like a cheat. Being able to shift an opponent’s weight at the right moment was all it took to create an opening. And exploiting that opening with Air Gear and a lightened body for speed… made the battle too easy.

  Heck, he couldn’t think of a counter against that himself—how would an unprepared opponent?

  And… he knew that was just the beginning. The potential of Spacetime would only grow with him.

  He stood still, letting the moment settle as he gave himself time to recover from the mental strain, thoughts racing through his mind. In the end, he said screw it—he'd keep using it. The hell with it. The rarity of a Magus would already raise questions, and even if there was suspicion… then what? Would they assume he was the most talented in history or some bullshit like that? Yeah… right. A Crawler like him.

  He grinned.

  Let them watch then. Let them see all they want.

  Hope smiled as he passed by Eve, and after taking a sip of water… his hunt continued.

  He avoided using Spacetime much against the weaker Scorchbacks, but against the Elites, he did—every single time. And every single time, it worked.

  He learned to refine his timing. He learned that the slope corresponded to a region of space he could fix, not a specific entity. He learned that denser things pushed further, and larger things pressed down, creating small, almost imperceptible slopes of their own—how everything with mass tilted space around it.

  He also learned that space didn’t need time to settle, unlike wind. It was there. Constant. Immediate. Actions carried no delay whatsoever.

  He learned his own limitations too. How large a space he could shift. How far. How the mental strain scaled with distance, volume, and curvature change.

  And try after try, he got better. Sharper. More precise.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed—eventually, the headache became too much to keep going.

  But he was satisfied.

  Level 52 ? 53

  Even if he’d only gained two more levels after killing so many Elites and creatures, his growth in technique was another story entirely. And that growth had been acknowledged by the System itself—his first Level 9 skill.

  ??Spacetime Handling (Level 8?9 + 5)

  You saw the frame beneath reality. What bends for others bends to you.

  ? 70% reduction in mental strain when manipulating Spacetime Magika.

  ? +14% to Magia while in the presence of Spacetime Magika (only the highest applicable Magika Handling effect applies at once)

  Hope made his way back to Gob, face tired but grin flashing all the same. After all—

  “Oi, get your junk out! I’m loaded.”

  But there was something off in the flicker of the weird merchant’s expression.

  “I’m sure you are…” Gob muttered, eyes narrowing a touch too long.

  Hope’s grin faltered.

  The way the bastard looked at him—like he was seeing through him. Like he knew but wasn’t sure.

  Had his talent slipped out? Were the fuckers in the sky getting suspicious?

  Didn’t matter. Hope had already made up his mind.

  He squared up.

  “What’s with the funny face, huh?” he said, voice casual.

  “Just wondering,” Gob said, lips curling into that strange little smirk. “What you’d buy with all that cash.”

  “I need a new spear.”

  “I figured as much. Ash Piercer?”

  Hope shook his head. “Nah. You got anything that gives one on Spear Handling and one on Spacetime?”

  Gob smiled, sly as ever. “Now that’s a rare ask. Not exactly something you find on every stall. I mean, how many folks you think are out there flinging spears and bending Spacetime at tier 1?”

  “Well, save the chit-chat. You got it or not?”

  “I actually do,” Gob said, as a long-ass box floated over, longer than the little ash-skinned freak himself. “Ever since your recent ‘pop,’ I figured I’d stock up on some Spacetime gear. For my one and only customer, you know.”

  As Gob cracked the box open, Hope leaned in—and his eyes widened.

  Twilight Vector

  Rank 1 Weapon (Grade: C, Type: Spear)

  Requirements: Spear Handling (Level 6), Spacetime Handling (Level 6), Physis 2400, Magia 360

  Effect: +300 Physis, +30 Magia, +1 Spear Handling, +1 Spacetime Handling

  The spear was long and lean, its surface a dark indigo with faint violet undertones, and fine grooves lined the shaft—so subtle they were almost invisible. The head tapered into a sharp point, seamless with the rest of the body, and right at the base of the blade, space bent—just slightly.

  Hope liked it. A lot. The stats were perfect, exactly what he needed.

  But…

  “Grade C?” he muttered, frowning. “Thought you only stocked up to D.”

  “Well, a supreme genius deserves better, don’t he?” Gob said with that ever-present grin.

  “Fair.” Hope tilted his head. “Then what—no Grade B? Or A?”

  Gob’s smile faded. “Even if I did, you couldn’t equip it. Far as I know, you’re Grade C. That’s your cap.”

  Hope blinked. “Cap? What d’you mean?”

  Gob clicked his tongue. “Tsk. So your little guide hasn’t told you squat yet, huh?” He leaned back like he had all the time in the world. “Alright, free lesson. Listen close kiddo.”

  He lifted a finger, expression turning just a bit more serious.

  “Your Grade? Ain’t just for stats. It decides everything—how many stats you get per level, the highest Tier you can reach, the kind of gear you can handle, how easy you pick up skills, and even how well you find natural treasures. The System spoils high-Grade kids rotten. No contest.”

  He gave Hope a slow once-over.

  “Unfair? Yeah. But that’s how it is. You, though? You got lucky. Grade C, coming from where you did? That’s one in a billion, maybe a trillion. Means somewhere down the line, your genes hit the jackpot. Old blood cleaned itself up and popped out something rare.”

  Hope’s brow twitched. “Old blood? Genes? What are you talking about?”

  Gob just waved him off. “Eh. Don’t worry about it for now. What matters is this—your Grade’s locked. Ain’t changing. And believe me, C is a blessing. Even in decent families, they throw feasts when someone gets a C. So don’t go whining.”

  Hope didn’t say anything back. Just stood there, staring at the spear.

  Because if those bastards in the sky ever found out he could change his Grade—

  Yeah. Best not to ask too many questions.

  Still… it sucked knowing he couldn’t equip B-grade gear. And A? Forget it.

  “Alright, so… how much for this one?”

  Gob bared those sharp little teeth. “Ten grand, kid.”

  Hope looked down at his coin count.

  ‘10,160’

  Tch. Fuckin’ money gobbler.