When Clayton shouted his question, the ragged group of gaunt strangers exchanged glances—then broke into smug, victorious grins.
"Isn’t it obvious? We want your valuables," one of them sneered.
They had clearly noticed how weakened Clayton was and saw the perfect opportunity to strike.
"That’s right. Just hand them over, and we promise we won’t kill you," another added with mock sympathy.
Clayton felt cornered. His earlier spectacle with the sword had clearly drawn attention. The fact that he had managed to pull it farther than anyone else marked him as soone special—soone carrying sothing valuable.
Considering that, he asked, half-curious, "Aren’t you afraid I’ll co back for revenge?"
They scoffed at the idea.
"Hah! How would you take revenge if you’re dead?"
"Enough talk—get him!"
The group lunged from all directions, unleashing a chaotic flurry of uncoordinated attacks.
Clayton sighed and shook his head. "Seriously... why are people always this stubborn?"
He began to chant softly. Moisture in the air condensed around him, forming a faint whirlpool that spiraled outward.
The attackers laughed. They thought it was nothing more than a light mist and charged in faster, hoping to break through.
But once inside, sothing shifted.
At first, it felt like walking into a headwind. Then, the air thickened. A crushing pressure descended from all directions.
"Arghhh!"
Their bodies were shredded in an instant, as if invisible blades had flayed them from within the watery vortex.
The remaining attackers froze in horror, watching their companions reduced to crimson mush. Panic surged. They turned to flee—but the vortex’s pull was far too strong.
One by one, they were dragged in and torn apart without a trace.
Clayton stood silently, expression unreadable. He gave a small nod, turned, and walked away. His body was spent—he had no strength left for another fight.
Back near the stone where the sword still stood embedded, a few people glanced in his direction. So furrowed their brows, but quickly returned to their own business.
To them, Clayton was probably already dead—just another naless victim of bandits. Not worth a second thought.
...
Deep in a quiet forest clearing, Clayton rested beside a modest camp, accompanied by skeletal familiar, a deer, and his loyal dog.
A day had passed since the encounter at the sword site. After a full night’s rest, he felt much better. His familiars had also recovered, and he figured it was ti to explore and gather supplies.
He decided to head out after lunch.
He traveled cautiously, surrounded by a protective formation of mini skeletons. Dingo, the dog, scouted ahead—his ability to burrow made him safer and more effective. Gemma, the deer, stayed close for combat support.
As they road the wilderness, Clayton noticed most of the materials he ca across carried fire or dark attributes. His own affinity was water—fire being its natural opposite. Still, he collected anything valuable. If he couldn’t use it, he could sell it.
There weren’t many threats in the area—either it had already been picked clean, or it was remote enough to be overlooked.
Eventually, he picked up a strange, intoxicating scent in the air. Curious, he followed it.
An uneasy feeling settled in his chest as he reached the source. Towering pine trees surrounded him, their bark dark and dense, the canopy so thick it swallowed the light.
He deployed his skeletal scouts to scan the area. Once he confird it was safe, he approached one of the trees and consulted his Observation entries.
Grave Pines. A species capable of breaking down living organisms. However, their resin could temporarily boost ntal and physical strength, as well as restore energy and spirit.
Excited, Clayton began collecting the resin—small, translucent globs with a black sheen, like sinister candy. The resin could be burned for light and fragrance, consud for a temporary boost, or refined into advanced materials.
Once satisfied, he left. The trees weren’t directly dangerous, but the oppressive atmosphere was enough to keep him from lingering.
He continued exploring, hoping to find sothing valuable—but luck wasn’t on his side. Days passed with little success. He wasn’t reckless enough to risk venturing into deeper, more dangerous zones.
The opening of the Third Trial Gate was only a few days away. Not wanting to fall behind, Clayton began making his way to the trial site.
Along the way, he was ambushed several tis—by ragged bandits and even so well-dressed ones. Each ti, he was forced to kill to survive.
Though his personal harvests had been disappointing, the spatial pouches of the bandits turned out to be treasure troves. His mood lifted as he traveled on in peace.
When he arrived, a large crowd had already gathered. A long line snaked toward the stone where the sword still stood.
So people approached him, asking if he had already attempted the trial. Clayton answered truthfully. A few recognized him from before and left him alone, assuming he was just minding his own business.
Many were surprised—so thought he had died during the earlier chaos. But that was old news now. No one really cared anymore.
Clayton found a quiet spot, pitched his tent, and rested with his familiars.
As he lounged, he gazed at the crowd and muttered, "Will sothing unexpected happen this ti too, when the gate opens?"
He doubted it. The elites from Sunlight City surely had backup plans. One such precaution had been forcing everyone to attempt the sword trial. They likely had other safeguards in place to avoid another embarrassnt.
...
A few days later, the mont finally arrived—the gate was set to open.
Clayton packed his things and returned his familiars to their dinsional space. The crowd was more orderly now, thanks to enforcent by the elite factions.
Clayton assud everything would go smoothly... until the ground suddenly shook beneath his feet.
Panic erupted instantly.
He tried to steady himself, but before he could react, several distant mountains exploded—molten red lava spewing from their peaks.
Clayton froze.
Screams filled the air as people scattered in every direction, chaos falling like a thunderclap.
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