The western forest did not sleep; it held its breath.

  To a normal human, this place was a labyrinth of oppressive darkness, a place where imagination birthed monsters from the shadows. But to Artham—to the thing inhabiting this body—the night was a canvas painted in agonizing detail.

  The scent of damp earth, sharp pine resin, and the faint metallic tang of dried blood flooded his olfactory senses. Above, the moon hung like a cold silver eye. Its light didn't just illuminate the path; it filled it.

  Artham could feel the [Nightcrawler] ability humming beneath his skin, a static buzz that made his muscles feel weightless and stretched his senses to their absolute limit.

  He didn't walk; he flowed between the shadows of the trees. His feet made no sound on the leaf litter.

  Snap.

  The sound of a twig breaking in the distance sounded like a pistol shot to his sensitive ears.

  Artham stopped, his body freezing to merge with the trunk of an old oak. His crimson eyes glowing in the dark scanned the underbrush. But it wasn't his vision that caught them first—it was the sound.

  Thump-thump... thump-thump...

  Two small hearts beating fast, rhythmic with raspy breathing.

  Then the smell hit him—rancid, like reptile skin left in the sun mixed with rotting meat. Two figures emerged from behind the ferns. They were small, hunched, with scaled skin that gleamed dully under the moonlight. Snouts like rats mixed with lizards.

  Kobolds.

  Artham held his breath, suppressing the hunger that suddenly jolted his stomach at the sight of veins pulsing in their necks. He moved closer, leaping onto a branch above them without a sound, observing his prey.

  They weren't silent. They spoke in a series of hisses and guttural barks that sounded painful to a human throat.

  "Krr-ssk... King... strong," the brown-scaled Kobold hissed, his voice like grinding stones. "Eat stone... again."

  The second Kobold, scaled in black, ducked his head, his tail twitching nervously. "Black... stone? Krr-tak... from God’s... Servant?"

  Artham narrowed his eyes. The language was rough, primitive, but Mire translated the syntactic patterns in his head.

  [Translating Low Draconic dialect...]

  "Shhh!" The brown Kobold smacked his companion's head. "Stone... broken. But... King break shell... level eight."

  "Level eight?" The black Kobold shivered, eyes widening. "Stronger... than Green King?"

  "Quiet! Krr-ssk! Green King... weak. Our King... eat all."

  Artham digested the information from his perch. The Kobold King reached level eight? And there’s a mention of a 'Black Stone' and a 'God’s Servant'... the same things Jooloo mentioned before he died.

  There was a pattern here. Someone was distributing power in this forest, creating unnaturally evolved monsters.

  The conversation halted. The brown Kobold suddenly stopped, his snout sniffing the air. "Smell..."

  He never finished the sentence.

  Artham dropped from the branch. Gravity was his weapon. He landed squarely on the brown Kobold, his knees slamming into the creature's chest with a sickening crack. Before the creature could scream, Artham's dagger was already buried in its throat, severing sound and life in one fluid motion.

  Black blood spurted, hot and smelling of copper.

  The black Kobold gaped, frozen by terror. He looked up, his eyes meeting a pair of crimson irises glowing within the shadows. Artham gave him no chance to run. With a twisting motion guided by Arthanis's lethal muscle memory, he slashed his second dagger.

  The steel blade drew a red line across the black Kobold's neck.

  Silence.

  The forest returned to its stillness, as if the violence had never happened. Artham stood between the two corpses, his breathing not even elevated. The adrenaline was cold, controlled.

  "Trash," he muttered, wiping blood from his cheek. There was no guilt this time. Only efficiency.

  The hunger in his stomach roared, demanding its share.

  "Time to eat."

  He placed his palm over the brown Kobold's corpse.

  [Feed.]

  Dark crimson essence seeped from the corpse's pores, drawn into Artham's palm like smoke inhaled by the wind. The body shriveled, drying into brittle gray skin. Artham felt a surge of energy—not the fullness of human food, but like injecting pure caffeine straight into his veins.

  He repeated the process on the second corpse.

  [You have consumed the blood of two Unawakened Kobolds.] [Your life countdown has increased by +2 hours 12 minutes 4 seconds.]

  Artham snorted, watching the numbers in his vision. "Two hours for two lives? A little better than Goblins, but still far from enough."

  He stood, his eyes fixed toward the north, into the darker part of the woods where the trail of the reptilian scent originated.

  "They mentioned their King has an essence stone," Artham murmured. "And that he 'ate all' the stones available."

  [Logical analysis: The blood of the Kobold King or said 'Essence Stone' would provide a significant time extension, Master,] Mire's voice sounded in his head, flat yet tempting. [Furthermore, the blood of this species appears to have unique compatibility with your physiology.]

  "What do you mean?"

  [Their blood doesn't just extend time. It... refines something. Check your status.]

  Artham frowned. "Status."

  A blue holographic screen materialized in the air. Artham's eyes swept the glowing text, stopping at the lines that had shifted.

  ─ Innate Abilities: 「Extraordinary Smell, Sight, And Hearing」Level 1 (31.81%) 「Feed」Level 1 (21.28%)

  "The percentage is rising faster than when I fought the Goblins," Artham muttered. He clenched his fist, feeling the new strength flowing through his muscles.

  Before moving deeper, Artham smirked. He grabbed a goblin axe he had taken as spoils of war, then deliberately snapped the handle and tossed it between the desiccated kobold corpses. He then tore into the bodies further, making it look like a savage animal attack or... a goblin raid.

  "This should be enough to stir up trouble between the Kobolds and Goblins," he muttered darkly. "Let them slaughter each other while I reap the benefits of the chaos."

  The scent trail led him to a gash in the earth—a hidden ravine choked by thorny brush. Below, the faint, sickly glow of a campfire flickered against wet stone.

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  Perched high on a thick oak branch, Artham looked down into the pit. It wasn't just a camp; it was a nest.

  Roughly a dozen Kobolds moved through the subterranean cavern with a hierarchy that mimicked civilization. They weren't mindless beasts. Some sharpened crude spears against whetstones, the rhythmic shhk-shhk sound echoing off the walls. Others tore into a deer carcass, arguing over the choice cuts in guttural, snapping barks.

  Artham’s enhanced eyes dissected the scene. He saw the muscles bunching beneath their scaled hides. He saw the intelligence in their yellow eyes.

  They are organized, Artham thought, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. They have a society. A life.

  But then the hunger flared in his gut—a cold, demanding void that cared nothing for sociology. To the [Feed] skill, they were not living beings with families or cultures. They were batteries. Containers of time waiting to be cracked open.

  He took a slow breath, letting the [Nightcrawler] ability flood his veins. The moonlight didn't just illuminate him; it weaponized him.

  "Time to dine," he whispered.

  He didn't drop silently. He dropped with the intent of an avalanche.

  Artham landed in the center of the camp, his boots crushing the skull of a sleeping Kobold with a wet, sickening crunch. The impact sent a shockwave of dust and ash into the air.

  For a split second, the cavern fell silent. The Kobolds stared at the intruder—a pale demon with white hair and eyes like spilled blood standing atop their kin.

  Then, chaos erupted.

  "Krr-RAK! Intruder!"

  "Kill! Kill soft-skin!"

  They didn't run. They swarmed.

  Three Kobolds charged him simultaneously, their spears thrusting with surprising coordination. Artham didn't retreat. He stepped into the attack.

  His perception, accelerated by the night, saw the spears moving in slow motion. He slapped the first spear aside with his bare hand, the force shattering the wooden shaft, and drove his sword into the creature's open mouth.

  One.

  The second Kobold lunged for his legs, claws aiming for his femoral artery. Artham pivoted, his movement fluid as water, and delivered a spinning kick. His boot connected with the creature’s jaw, unhinging it and sending the beast flying into the cavern wall.

  Two.

  But the third was smarter. It didn't attack; it threw a handful of burning ash from the fire into Artham’s face.

  Artham hissed, squeezing his eyes shut as the embers stung his skin. Blinded for a heartbeat, he felt a sharp pain graze his ribs—a stone dagger slicing through his leather armor.

  Pain.

  It was electric. It was grounding.

  "Clever vermin," Artham growled.

  He didn't need eyes. The [Extraordinary Smell and Hearing] painted a 3D map in his mind. He could hear the rasp of scales sliding over stone to his left. He could smell the rancid breath of the attacker.

  He lashed out blindly, his hand closing around a scaly throat. With a roar of exertion, he slammed the creature into the ground, pinning it. He opened his eyes, now clearing of ash, glowing with predatory fury.

  "My turn."

  He didn't just kill it. He ripped the life out of it.

  The skirmish devolved into a massacre. Artham moved like a blur of violence, a dancer performing a choreography of death. He dodged primitive axes, parried bone knives, and answered every clumsy strike with a lethal, surgical counter.

  He wasn't fighting for honor. He was fighting for time.

  [Life countdown increased by +1 hour 12 minutes...] [Life countdown increased by +58 minutes...]

  Within minutes, the sounds of battle faded, replaced by the heavy silence of the grave. The ground was slick with black blood. Artham stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving not from exhaustion, but from the intoxicating rush of the essence flooding his system.

  He wiped his blade on a dead Kobold’s tunic. He felt strong. He felt fast.

  He felt like a monster.

  And then, a small sound broke the silence.

  Scritch. Scritch.

  Artham turned.

  Hiding behind a stack of crates, trembling so violently that the wood rattled, was a Kobold. A child. No taller than his knee, its scales were soft and unformed, its eyes wide, shimmering pools of absolute terror. It clutched a sharpened stick—a toy spear—in its tiny hands.

  Artham approached slowly, his boots squelching in the mud and blood.

  The child didn't run. It couldn't. It was paralyzed by the sight of the white-haired reaper who had just butchered its entire clan.

  Artham stopped three feet away. The hunger in his stomach murmured, 'Take it. It is weak. It is time.'

  But the human part of him—the part that remembered his mother’s cooking, the part that had comforted Miyera and Ciyera—recoiled.

  It’s a child, his mind screamed. It’s defenseless.

  Artham looked at the small creature. He saw the fear. He saw the innocence.

  But then, he looked at the toy spear in its hands.

  He remembered the forest. He remembered the arrows raining down on Ofero. He remembered the glee in Jooloo’s eyes as he trapped the girls.

  This child is innocent now, Artham thought, his expression hardening into cold granite. But innocence is temporary. In five years, it will hold a real spear. In ten years, it will ambush a carriage. In ten years, it might be the one who kills Ciyera.

  Mercy to the monster was cruelty to the human.

  "The world isn't cruel," Artham whispered to the trembling child, his voice devoid of malice, devoid of warmth. "It's just efficient."

  The child whimpered, raising the stick in a pathetic attempt to defend itself.

  Artham didn't hesitate. He didn't look away. To look away would be an insult to the life he was taking.

  His blade flashed—a quick, merciful arc in the darkness.

  There was no scream. Just the soft thud of a small body hitting the earth.

  [You have consumed the blood of a young Kobold.] [Countdown increased +52 minutes.]

  Artham stared at the corpse. He waited for the guilt to crush him. He waited to feel sick, to vomit, to cry.

  But he felt... nothing. Just the calm satisfaction of a hunger sated.

  "And that," he murmured, touching his chest where his heart beat a slow, steady rhythm, "is the scariest part."

  He turned to leave the silent tomb he had created, his boots slick with the aftermath of his efficiency.

  [Master.] Mire’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and urgent. [Behind you.]

  "I know," Artham replied softly.

  Thud.

  Something heavy hit the cavern floor. It wasn't the sound of a weapon dropping, but the sound of knees hitting stone—a sound of collapse.

  The air in the cavern instantly changed. The metallic smell of copper and rot was suddenly overpowered by something heavier—a suffocating density that pressed against Artham’s eardrums. It wasn't just the pressure of power; it was the crushing weight of raw, bleeding emotion. The atmosphere grew thick and oily, vibrating with a low frequency that rattled the teeth in his skull.

  A raspy voice sliced through the darkness. It didn't bark or snap like the others. It hissed with the quiet, trembling cadence of suppressed rage.

  "Human..."

  Artham turned slowly.

  At the edge of the flickering firelight, a massive shadow knelt beside the headless corpse of the kobold child. It was a towering creature, nearly seven feet of scarred green scales and corded muscle, wearing armor fashioned from the bleached bones of great beasts.

  But he wasn't attacking.

  With a hand large enough to crush a human skull, the creature reached out. His clawed fingers, sharp as razors and stained with old wars, trembled as they gently touched the child's small, scaled shoulder. It was a gesture of heartbreaking tenderness—a general checking a fallen soldier, a father checking his sleeping son.

  The creature picked up the stick the child had held. The toy spear.

  "Wood..." the creature hissed, his voice cracking like a breaking branch. "Not steel. Just... wood."

  He looked up.

  The eyes that met Artham’s were not yellow and beastly. They were violet, glowing with a corrupted, ethereal light. But that alien glow was swimming with moisture.

  Tears. Thick, silvery tears leaked from the monster's eyes, sliding down his scarred snout and dripping onto the dusty floor.

  "He... small," the creature rumbled, the vibration shaking the stones of the cave, resonating deep in Artham’s chest. "He... not warrior yet. He... play."

  Artham tightened his grip on his daggers, but a cold spike of unease drove itself into his gut. He had expected a beast protecting its territory. He had expected a savage animal.

  He hadn't expected a father mourning a son.

  "He attacked me," Artham said, his voice sounding hollow, clinical, and pitifully small against the creature's grief. "It was him or me."

  The creature slowly rose to his full height. The tenderness vanished, instantly replaced by an aura of violence so potent it felt like the air itself was burning.

  He didn't drag his mace; he lifted the massive sphere of spiked iron with a single hand, pointing it directly at Artham’s heart. The violet light intensified, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to dance across the cavern walls.

  "You speak... of survival," the creature growled, his broken common tongue dripping with venom. "But you... have cold eyes. Dead eyes."

  The violet energy flared, illuminating the tears that still stained the monster's face—a terrifying juxtaposition of sorrow and wrath.

  "I am Krotak," he roared, the sound echoing like a war drum, shattering the remaining silence. "And you... you are the monster here."

  Artham shifted his stance, cold sweat breaking on his neck. The logic of his survival—the countdown, the necessity, the efficiency—suddenly felt fragile against the crushing weight of the creature's grief.

  I missed one, Artham realized, looking at the devastation in the creature's violet eyes. And he doesn't just want to eat me.

  He wants justice.