"Parx… Vael… Xerathil… Vythros… Voz…"
I hear Garrik chanting from a distance, his breath coming in slightly ragged. Understandable… He probably isn't used to wielding heavy weapons in close combat, especially against this many enemies.
He's a mage, after all.
His reputation as a deadly killer likely stems from his magic—magic he currently can't use due to his depleted mana… But does he really need to recite the full structure of that spell just to recover his stamina?
"Xerathil… Vythros…"
I whisper the words under my breath.
Three tiny lights flicker into existence around me, spinning briefly before vanishing with a soft pop. A surge of energy courses through my flesh—my stamina restored.
Once again, it works with fewer words.
Was this really that unusual? I wonder…
"Agh! To hell with all these bastards! Thyren… Vorthar!"
The boy's childish roar suddenly cuts through the chaos, yanking the attention of every living—and nonliving—thing around us. Even I freeze mid-strike, my gaze snapping toward him.
Then, in an instant, the air just ahead of Garrik is violently sucked inward, collapsing into a single point like a vacuum in space.
Less than a second later, that same air detonates outward in a thunderous blast.
A shockwave erupts, launching dozens of undead skyward, their rotting bodies flung ten meters into the air. The rest are hurled back in all directions, scattering away from Garrik like ragdolls caught in a hurricane.
"I leveled up! Deon, I leveled up! Where are you!? Let's get the hell out of this shit hole!" Garrik's voice rings out through the chamber, his breathing still heavy as he whips his head around, frantically searching for me.
"We've only been here for two damn minutes! What the hell are you talking about!?" I snap back, my voice laced with disbelief.
"I can't fight without mana! Can't you tell from the way I'm swinging this damn sword that this isn't how I fight!?"
Damn him for playing that card… With that, I have no right to force him to keep going.
"Fine. You win… I'm coming," I mutter, relenting. My voice carries through the dark, but I know he won't be able to see me from where he stands, bathed in the glow of his floating light. Meanwhile, I can see him perfectly, hidden away in the consuming shadows and the undead that still pour in, shambling forward in endless waves, their lifeless eyes locked onto the only source of light in the chamber.
"Sylvaris… Aetheris…"
I raise my hand, summoning another orb of light identical to the one Garrik carries. The moment it flares to life, his gaze snaps toward me.
"It's fine. Just extinguish yours, Garrik," I say, my tone calm—almost persuasive.
The hesitation in his expression lasts only a second before he obeys, snuffing out his light. "Vekir…" he whispers.
And the moment that cancellation word leaves his lips, just as I expect, every undead in the chamber turns in unison, their lifeless eyes locking onto me…
I've unknowingly spared Garrik a burden I hadn't even considered until now. And let's just be honest—I doubt he even realizes it himself. Not until this very moment, when he suddenly finds himself no longer as cornered as before.
"Can you keep going if we do it like this?"
I try persuading him one last time before giving up.
"I don't know… Maybe I can?"
"Come on, Garrik. I know you can do it. I mean we can't afford to fall behind in levels from those people who will try to kill us."
With a heavy sigh, he finally relents, though his expression still shows reluctance. "I know… I know… I'll try. Just relax."
Then, I have to admit—I see him gripping his sword tighter, firmer than before. And his eyes sharpen with renewed focus… He whispers a chant, calling forth his status window. Most likely he's checking one of two things—how far he is from his next level-up, or how much more magic he can cast by sacrificing what little HP he has left.
Luckily, I haven't taken a single hit all day, meaning I still have plenty of health—something that makes me confident enough to ask, "Do you need me to heal you?"
The kid looks at me, startled, as if he isn't used to hearing that question.
"You can do that?"
"Three times," I answer bluntly.
But I don't say that at random. Based on my previous experience, healing 20 HP costs 20 MP. And if I use HP instead of MP, the cost doubles.
In other words, to heal Garrik for 20 HP, I'd have to sacrifice 40 of my own. That means I can heal him exactly three times before I'd be left with just around 10 HP—all thanks to the spell I cast earlier to summon the glowing ornament above and to restore a bit of my stamina.
And that's only assuming, of course, I manage to avoid taking any damage until the end of the trials… Though, if it's just these weak undead, that shouldn't be a problem.
So without hesitation, I casually cast the first of the three healing spells, pointing forward as I speak. "Akh… Xerathil… Vithara…"
Technically, I could've shortened the incantation to just two words, like I did with Xerathil vythros. But I don't want to risk messing it up and accidentally healing myself instead—especially not in a situation like this, where every single HP matters.
Anyway, after that, I refocus on fighting the undead around me—slashing one, then the next, using my fists when necessary and my legs when required. Where I have to admit, the difference in my strength now compared to when I was still level four is almost surreal.
The greatsword that I once had to drag across the ground now swings freely in my hands, carving through the air with ease. With both hands gripping the hilt, I can cleave through multiple enemies at once—perfect for dealing with clustered foes directly in front of me.
But when no more undead are within reach of my heavy blade, I simply discard it and instead grab a one-handed sword lying nearby, dashing toward the next wave of enemies still beyond my range… I sprint at an absurd speed for someone my size, leaping almost my own height effortlessly and weaving past incoming attacks with precise movements—dodging left and right and then left again without tearing a single muscle or tendon.
And all I can say at this very moment is simply… I love this.
I love the risk.
I love how this body of mine can finally move as fast as my reflexes and thoughts.
I love the thrill of consequence-free killing—no need to worry about evading the law, covering my tracks, or plotting an escape. After all, these are nothing but soulless undead, the enemies of humanity, existing only to be slain.
And I love how every slash of my blade, every drop of sweat I shed, has tangible rewards—measurable gains recorded in absolute, undeniable numbers.
Order…
A single word that best describes the numerical data as such—the foundation of status, stats, levels, limits, and rules… And then, there is chaos.
CLANK!
Without warning, my rusted one-handed sword shatters in two, unable to withstand the pressure of both my strike and the undead's own. A natural, logical outcome. Something that makes sense. Something that happens because it was bound to happen—beyond numbers, beyond data input… something real… something natural.
A world where both aspects coexist.
A world that isn't just a game, nor purely governed by scientific principles.
Or perhaps… it's both, merged into one.
Basically a world where I can once more feel my abilities grow… Where strength isn't something artificially grafted into the body—yet has no limits, evolving through sheer effort and sweat, with numbers as the ultimate measure.
As I move forward, all the confusion I've been burying—every unanswered question, every quiet doubt about whether this world is real or just some elaborate simulation—begins to fade. Slowly, undeniably, it becomes clear.
This is real… Not the safe, mundane world I once knew—where magic was just myth and numbers belonged to screens.
No, this is reality. And I've come to love it.
It's a truth I'll fight for. A life I'll protect.
As if I died just to live for this.
~~~~~