"Garrik, now that I think about it… we can't just let them get stronger than us."
The boy lets out a short laugh. "So what, you wanna kick them off the monster's head?"
"The stats… They're absolute, right?"
"Absolute?" Garrik raises a brow, clearly puzzled.
"The numbers. The higher your Agility, the faster you move. The higher your Strength, the harder you hit. And so on… That's how it works, isn't it?"
A sigh escapes him. "Gods, I never thought I'd have to explain this to anyone—even to a kid who barely knows anything... But yeah, you're right. Stats function exactly as you'd logically expect them to."
"Then we need to catch up," I say, bringing my blade down in a single, vicious arc. The undead before me crumples, the force behind my strike stronger than anything I've managed all day.
"So? What's the plan?" Garrik asks, his tone flat and unenthusiastic.
Unenthusiastic enough that I decide to turn the question around. "How old were you when you died again?"
"Probably around twenty-three?" he answers without hesitation.
"Jesus, you're young... If anything, it only explains your grumpy attitude."
"Jesus?"
"Forget it... Anyway," I raise a finger and point toward the far end of the chamber, into the thick darkness where none of us had dared to set foot. "Up until now, we still don't know just how massive this chamber truly is, right? And yet, the undead keep emerging from that direction, slowly but consistently."
"You're insane..."
Garrik mutters, rubbing his temple as if trying to ward off a headache—clearly, he already understands exactly what I'm planning.
But ignoring his exhausted reaction, I continue, piecing my thoughts together. "Come on… A battlefield with no competition, just for us? Are you seriously going to pass that up?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. After all, it's too dark over there... Too dangerous."
Before Garrik can finish, I reach down and yank a worn-out torch from the grasp of a fallen undead. Without hesitation, I speak the incantation.
"Ignirath!"
The ragged, pitch-black cloth wrapped around the torch erupts in a burst of fire, embers scattering as bits of charred wood splinter off in all directions. I had expected flames—but not an explosion. Apparently, neither had Garrik. His eyes widen in shock, beads of cold sweat forming on his brow as he takes an instinctive step back.
"I… didn't expect Ignirath to actually do that," I admit, feeling just a little bit guilty about something else. Apart from that, I honestly didn't expect the spell to actually work… especially since I had only used a single word. Really, I was just joking—hoping that my spell wouldn't take effect so that Garrik would feel bad for me, making this whole persuasion thing a lot easier.
And now, instead, I have an explanation to give.
"Deon, you're an agility main, right?"
"Yeah, my agility is higher than everything else, so I guess you could say that."
"And at the same time, you're proficient in fire magic...?" Garrik asks, his voice laced with confusion and brows furrowed, as if trying to make sense of something that shouldn't be possible… Like the idea of someone excelling in two seemingly opposing aspects was something that simply defied logic in this world.
But I don't know why or where this feeling is coming from… Somehow, I'm certain that it isn't all that strange—not in this world I barely understand, so I reply, "I don't know… it's not that rare of a thing to happen… is it?"
"Or could it be that you're actually..."
Garrik's words trail off as he bites his thumbnail, hesitation flickering across his face. It's as if he's second-guessing whether to ask the question at all. Then, with a look that practically screams dishonesty, he finally mutters, "No, you're right… Of course. I was just making sure, that's all."
"Parx… Sylvaris… Aetheris… Voz…"
As Garrik speaks the incantation, light bursts from his outstretched hand, forming an orb that hovers high above, far brighter than any other source of illumination in this chamber. It drifts lazily, following his movements, casting long, shifting shadows across the stone walls.
But that isn't what catches my attention the most.
"Sylvaris?" I ask, already knowing it translates to 'ornament.'
"Correct. You use it when summoning something unrelated to combat. Its placement in the spell structure is the same as where you'd normally put 'Akh' or 'Vael,'" he explains.
"Wow… That's new."
"Really? Didn't Siona ever teach you its counterpart? 'Baelgrith'? I mean, as a Paladin, she should use it often when summoning armaments in battle."
I pause, thinking back. "Now that you mention it… I have heard her say that before."
~~~~~
As we venture deeper into the darkness, I ask, "Does that thing continuously consume MP... I mean, your HP?"
"Just a little. It's there, but barely noticeable. It's low-tier magic, after all," Garrik replies, gesturing ahead. And sure enough, a sizable group of undead has gathered in the pitch-black depths of the chamber. The bright orb above us also acts like a beacon, drawing their attention far more effectively than the dim, reddish glow the Karthmere had set up near the chamber's center.
And so, our EXP grinding begins as planned, far away from the others. But wait… Why am I only thinking about this now?
Suddenly, I turn to Garrik again for yet another question. "Sorry… Can you explain what actually makes someone level up?"
"Uh… In simple terms, the main source is… how do I put this…" Garrik hesitates for a moment before continuing, "Basically, every time you consume or reduce any kind of points—whether your own or someone else's—be it Health, Stamina, Mana, Eidolon, anything… the total accumulates until it reaches a certain threshold, and then you level up."
"Alright… Parx. Vael. Xyren—"
"Deon." The boy suddenly cuts me off. "You only need the full spell if you're trying to see someone else's stats... But if it's just your own, a single word will do."
"Ah, so that's how it works?"
"C'mon... You cast Ignirath with just one word, but you need the full incantation just to check your own stats?" Garrik chuckles, then shifts his gaze around, subtly calculating the distance between us and the undead closing in from all directions.
"Ugh, fine… Xyren…"
╔════════════════════════════════════════════ ╗
║ ⌈ Status Window ⌋ ║
╠════════════════════════════════════════════ ╣
║ ▶ Name: Deon Ravenheart ║
║ ▶ Race: Human ║
║ ▶ Level: 4 (EXP: 2,157 / 5,000) ║
║ ▶ Class: Unassigned ║
║ ▶ Title: [None] ║
║ ▶ Energy Orientation: [None] ║
║ ▶ Destiny Bind: [None] ║
║ ║
║ ▶ HP: 152 / 152 ║
║ ▶ SP: 195 / 210 ║
║ ║
║ ▶ MP: 1 / 54 ║
║ ▶ EP: 1 / 97 ║
║ ║
║ ▶ Strength: 21 ║
║ ▶ Agility: 49 ║
║ ▶ Arcane: 17 ║
║ ▶ Essence: 15 ║
║ ▶ Sanity: 27 ║
║ ▶ Intelligence: 21 ║
╠════════════════════════════════════════════ ╣
║ ⌈ Skill and Effect List ⌋ ║
╠════════════════════════════════════════════ ╣
║ ▶ [Soul Infection] - Passive ║
║ - This existence's soul is in an unstable condition ║
║ due to infection from another soul (effects unregistered). ║
║ ║
║ ▶ [The Root of Nyxthorn] - Passive ║
║ - The Withering Blight has spread to this body, ║
║ caused by the Nyxthorn root infection. ║
║ ║
║ ▶ [The Nullbrand Hex] - Passive ║
║ - This entity loses 5% MP and EP per minute ║
║ and cannot regenerate its own mana and eidolon. ║
║ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ║
║ [The Withering Blight] ║
║ Status: Active ║
║ + Infection Progress: 89% ║
║ + Base stats amplification: 1.5 ║
║ + Level up stats amplification: 1.75 ║
║ + Time Remaining Before ║
║ Vessel Expiration: 3 years, 3 months, 13 days ║
║ ║
║ [The Irreversible Holy Sacrament] ║
║ Status: Permanent ║
║ + Defiance Progress: 0% ║
║ ║
╚════════════════════════════════════════════ ╝
"Less than half. But it's fine. This should be easy. See you on the other side, Garrik!"
I shoot forward at high speed, diving straight into the horde of undead, leaving the boy behind with nothing but his floating orb of light for company.
"Hey, wait! You're supposed to protect the mage! And… And your only light source! Hey, where the hell are you going?!"
His whining vanishes from my mind in an instant.
How could it not? I'm already too focused—lost in the rhythm of battle, my body moving on pure instinct.
And honestly? I don't even feel sorry… Because thanks to that, in less than a minute, I've already cleaved through over thirty undead, my blade cutting through rotting flesh and brittle bone with ruthless efficiency.
I force my body to move as much and as fast as possible, pushing myself to the absolute limit. Every slash, every dodge, every ounce of movement is intentional—I'm burning through my stamina on purpose, making sure I exhaust as much energy as possible.
Until suddenly—the level-up window appears.
It pops up way sooner than I expect, almost catching me off guard… If I can keep this pace, then without a doubt—I could push for at least one more level before this trial ends.
~~~~~