How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly) Chapter 37: How to Be Judged by Silence

The forest at night was already a problem on its own. But when you’re covered in scratches, wearing your newly acquired clothes—now torn—mana drained, and a girl screaming sowhere in the distance like she’s about to beco a tragic statistic, the problem gains a face and a na (and that na wasn’t mine).

I ran without thinking, only the sound of my own breathing in my ears and my eyes trying to pierce through the shadows. The trees seed to lean closer with every step, and the ground beneath felt like it could open up and swallow whole at any mont.

I reached a clearing—if you could even call it that. A patch where the moon managed to drip through the canopy, lighting the floor of roots and dead leaves. The shadows stretched like fingers, and the air slled of burnt wood and dried blood.

I stopped.

Listened.

Nothing.

No scream. No creature. No Thalia.

Only the sound of sothing breathing. Heavy. Wet.

"I hate this place," I whispered, gripping the pickaxe with both hands.

| CONDITION REPORT |

Health: Moderately Injured (scratches, bruises, overall wear)

Mana: Critically Low (last reserves being burned in pinpoint spells)

Equipnt: Cracked pickaxe, torn clothes, no support tonics

ntal: Fully focused, protection instinct triggered

StatusEffects: Accumulated fatigue, soaked body, mud = movent penalty

| LIMITATIONS |

→ Cracked pickaxe: may break with continued use

→ Insufficient mana for large-scale or ritual spells

→ No access to healing or external magic boosts

My body ached. My lungs begged for a break. But I knew stopping ant dying. And dying ant leaving the girl in the hands of whatever the hell was hunting us.

That’s when I heard the first snap. To the right.

I turned.

The second ca right after. To the left.

"Oh, perfect," I muttered. "A duo. How wonderfully balanced."

Two of the wood monsters erged, crawling between the trunks with the jerky movents of broken puppets. Their red eyes glowed, and their bodies—even partially charred—still moved with terrifying strength. They circled fast, forming a semicircle as the forest sealed behind.

No room to run.

I raised the pickaxe.

The first ca in fast, claw extended like a spear. I rolled to the side, landed on a thick root, and nearly smashed my nose into the dirt. It missed, but hit the trunk behind , gouging a deep line through the wood with disturbing ease.

I scrambled up, spun around, and—on pure instinct—swung the pickaxe in an arc. It hit right where the creature’s "mouth" should’ve been. Bark shattered. Tooth-like bits flew. It staggered back.

| ENTITY PROFILE: BARKLING (BURNT-VARIANT) |

Type: Forest Symbiote

Classification: Persistent Lurker / Damaged Scout

| ATTRIBUTES |

Strength: 15

Durability: 12 (parts of body charred; partial armor loss)

Speed: 18 (still fast, but hesitant due to injuries)

Packlink: Active (awaiting Alpha’s signal to coordinate attack)

| ABILITIES |

► Residual Fla Agony [Passive]

→ Burned creature enters irrational retaliation mode, ignoring pain for 1 turn after taking fire damage.

► Pack Rejoin [Triggered]

→ When retreating, attempts to reach Alpha’s summoning point (Scion or superior entity).

► Scrape-and-Pin [Active]

→ Fast, low-angle lunges aim to knock down targets and pin them with segnted limbs.

| WEAKNESSES |

→ Unbalanced after losing a limb

→ Vulnerable to terrain manipulation (logs, rocks, mud)

→ Unable to process visual spells (flash, sudden burst)

The second creature didn’t hesitate.

It leapt over its wounded companion, arms raised—and I did what any sane person would do: I threw dirt in its eye. Or rather, in the hole where its eyes were supposed to be.

It was enough.

It hesitated for a second, and I dove between two large roots, twisting my body to escape. I tumbled down an embanknt. Rolled. Slamd into every damn rock and branch on the way down until I landed flat on my back in a shallow mud pool.

But I was alive.

I dragged myself to a fallen tree and leaned against it. The two monsters appeared above , staring down with that constant expression of emotionless hunger.

I grabbed a rock. Big enough.

Threw it hard.

Not at them.

At the tree beside them.

The wood was rotten. The hit brought down a smaller trunk right on top of them. One went down. The other stepped back.

I got up again, legs shaking, and struck the slower one straight in the chest with the pickaxe. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t clean. But it worked.

It stopped moving.

And then the second one crawled back, and for the first ti, it didn’t attack .

It retreated.

It stopped at the edge of the clearing, turned its glowing red eyes upward, and let out a strange sound. A crack, like wood being twisted. Then louder. Then deeper.

That’s when the whole forest seed to tremble.

A sound.

Not branches.

Not footsteps.

But sothing big.

Sothing that made the ground vibrate beneath my feet, even with all the mud. As if the forest itself had just held its breath.

The red eyes vanished.

And above, through the oldest trees, a shadow moved. Gigantic. Like a walking trunk. Like a living monolith.

I froze.

Because the next scream wasn’t Thalia’s.

It was sothing answering the call.

The forest, once rely hostile, now felt aware—an accomplice to sothing ancient and furious that had just awakened.

The sound ca from beneath the earth, from inside the trunks, as if the roots were whispering among themselves about my presence.

The air grew heavier, filled with a gray pollen that floated like ash without fire. And then it appeared.

The creature didn’t walk—it glided.

As if gravity did not apply to it.

| ENTITY PROFILE: VERDWYRM, THE FOREST JUDGE |

Type: Primordial Arboreal Entity

Classification: Ancient Root Guardian / mory Sentinel

| ATTRIBUTES |

Strength: 28 (erratic attacks, but as destructive as earthquakes)

Durability: 35 (ancestral trunk, armored with living resin and layered runes)

Magic Resistance: Very High (judgnt runes nullify lower-tier direct spells)

Mobility: Unique – Gravity Ignored (glides instead of walking)

Perception: Total (detects intent, fear, and evasive patterns)

| ABILITIES |

► Judgnt Spiral [Passive – Inscription Field]

→ Every clearing is a runic field. Nullifies or distorts magic cast without symbolic permission. Dante does not possess the seal.

► Root Lance [Active]

→ Launches spiral-shaped roots at unpredictable speed. Hits targets even outside direct line. Causes piercing damage montary paralysis.

► Thorn Crown Pulse [Ritual – Environnt Triggered]

→ When attacked ineffectively, activates surrounding roots to form an organic containnt wall. Prevents escape through natural terrain.

► Silent Gravity [Passive – Presence Field]

→ Each step Verdwyrm takes reduces enemy morale (psychological effect) and applies perception and initiative penalty.

Its form resembled a twisted tree totem, with branches shaped like segnted arms and a head with two deep-set eyes that glowed a dark amber—like a hungry fire burning inside.

Each ti it moved forward—or rather, advanced, since "steps" didn’t apply—the ground trembled, but made no sound.

It was silence being broken without noise, a presence that pressed against your ribs.

I tried to think.

What was the plan?

I was in a shallow clearing, with a cracked pickaxe, low mana, and a body begging for rest.

No loose rocks. No natural traps. Not even the chance of an ambush.

And to make matters worse, this thing wasn’t made of the sa wood as the others—it was darker, denser, like it had absorbed centuries of magic and hatred.

It rose a little higher, revealing thorny roots that ford a kind of crown around its chest. The first move wasn’t an attack—it was a gesture.

A branch extended from the creature’s shoulder, spiraling out like a living lance, aiming to impale from above like a wooden serpent.

I jumped to the side, and the lance pierced the ground where my shoulder had been two seconds before, cracking the earth with a dry snap.

I rolled, scrambled up in an awkward leap, and instinctively raised the pickaxe. Not as a weapon—but as a shield.

The creature tilted its head toward , studying like so strange insect. Then it struck again—this ti with both arms at once.

One from above. One from the side. I ducked, slipped in the mud, and grabbed onto a fallen trunk, using it as an improvised shield.

There was no rhythm to the attacks—they ca in pulses from the forest itself: erratic, but accurate. I was fighting sothing that wasn’t ant to be fought directly.

A guardian, maybe. A spirit of root and stone. Or worse—a remnant of so ancient curse that had just begun moving again.

Panting, sliding in the mud, I stepped back and shouted the spell—even knowing it wouldn’t work right.

"Ignis fractum!"

A weak blast shot from my palm, briefly lighting the monster’s trunk. It didn’t even flinch. The light only revealed ancient inscriptions, carved in spirals, like runes of imprisonnt—or surveillance.

And that’s when I understood: this thing wasn’t just attacking .

It was judging . Watching. Evaluating.

And in the distance, beyond the trees, more eyes opened.

The creature spread its arms, and the roots around the clearing began to writhe like snakes stirred by an invisible drum. The ground began to shift. A living wall was forming behind , cutting off my escape.

I stood still. Breathing hard.

Alone.

Surrounded.

And completely at the rcy of sothing that, until recently, I would’ve called impossible.