Aren stepped out onto the cracked pavement, hands stuffed casually into his coat pockets like some lazy delinquent trying to intimidate turf rivals. His eyes narrowed slightly as the scent of scorched rubber and faint magic still clung to the air. The street buzzed with residual mana, and flickering flames licked at twisted metal nearby.
'Time to test out this vessel's actual power…'
'Right… I never bothered to check it properly last time.'
He lifted his chin slightly and barked out the familiar command with a touch of anticipation.
"Status!"
A crisp, translucent blue panel appeared before him with a faint chime, glowing softly in the chaos-lit air.
[Aren R. Castillo]
Rank: E
Class: Fighter
Level: 12
Stats:
STR – 7
AGI – 9
END – 6
MAG – 3
Active Skills:
[Speed Boost] – C-Rank
[Critical Hit] – B-Rank
Passive Skills:
Weapon Mastery – D-Rank
Battlefield Perception – C-Rank
Titles:
Weakest Hunter – E-Rank
Aren stared at the panel in silence, his eye twitching ever so slightly.
'How shameful…' he laughed bitterly in his mind, lips curling upward in faint mockery.
His gaze drifted over the numbers again, then back to the "Weakest Hunter" title flashing like a cruel joke.
"…Inventory," he muttered with less enthusiasm.
Another panel shimmered into view beside the first, opening like a digital vault.
[Inventory]
1 Ogre Cleaver – B-Rank
1 Steel Sword – D-Rank
1 Bow of Swiftness – B-Rank
56 Iron Arrows – E-Rank
532 Gold – MISC
Without a word, Aren reached forward and plunged his arm into the panel, fingers slipping through the light like water. When his hand emerged, it gripped the Ogre Cleaver, which immediately shrunk down to a manageable size, adapting seamlessly to his grip.
The blade pulsed faintly, its jagged edge glinting like a hungry fang.
He slung it over his shoulder, letting the heavy weapon rest against his back with a practiced ease.
Then he looked up—finally addressing the pair of bickering B-Rank Hunters in the middle of the street, still locked in a heated, ego-fueled spat.
"Can you two stop?" Aren called out flatly, voice dry and unimpressed.
Both men turned toward him in synchronized disbelief.
"Huh!?" they snapped in unison, their expressions almost cartoonish in their outrage—like he'd just told them to sit and roll over.
"The hell did you just say?" the Fighter barked, eyes bulging.
"Hell no! He's a mage—he doesn't even need that sword!" the Fighter growled, his grip tightening on a massive steel hammer he summoned from his back. The weapon hit the ground with a thud, cracking the pavement.
"You already have a weapon!" the Mage hissed in retort. "And you can't deny that the boss gave this one to me!"
His staff flared with fiery runes, flaring like a warning signal.
"Just give it!" the Fighter roared—and then he launched himself forward in a blur of speed, another blazing fireball hurtling toward him from the mage's staff in retaliation.
Aren sighed, shoulders slumping.
"Negotiations failed…" he muttered to no one in particular as he shifted his weight, posture loosening like a spring.
Then a wicked grin flickered across his face.
"But at least I get to fight again."
He burst forward—closing the distance in seconds, cleaver gleaming.
After all, what could be more thrilling than fighting?
For a god who had spent eons watching mortals struggle and fall from afar, finally experiencing it firsthand with weapons of his own… that was something different entirely.
The Fighter batted the incoming fireball aside with a sweep of his hammer like he was swatting away a bothersome fly.
Unfortunately, the forceful redirection sent the blazing sphere straight toward Aren.
BANG!
The explosion hit him dead center.
Aren's body was flung backward, the fireball tearing through his abdomen with a deafening blast, flames curling around his frame. Pieces of flesh and blood splattered across the asphalt.
His torso was obliterated on impact.
"Holy crap, man! I think you just killed him!" the Mage shouted, his voice cracking as he turned on the Fighter.
"Shit…" the Fighter muttered, face paling. "I didn't think he was that squishy…"
But before either of them could consider the real consequences—murdering another registered Hunter, in front of witnesses no less—the smoke began to clear.
Their words died in their throats.
Out of the grey fog, a horror emerged.
Aren's ruined corpse stood limply at first—then began to knit itself back together, tendons snaking through air, bone cracking into place, and charred flesh regrowing in waves. Detached limbs twitched, organs realigned.
His head—previously knocked clean off—snapped back into position like a puzzle piece locking into place.
"I'm not done yet," Aren said calmly, rolling his neck as it fused. His voice was soft but chilling, like wind brushing past a gravestone.
The Ogre Cleaver was still in his hand.
Smoke curled from his shoulders, but his eyes burned with fresh intent.
The two Hunters stared at him in stunned silence.
Their knees stiffened.
Their mana flared involuntarily.
They were looking at someone who had just been blown to pieces… and was now standing fully intact in a burning warzone, surrounded by wrecked cars and howling sirens—like a villain from a post-apocalyptic horror movie.
"The hell…?" the Mage whispered, frozen in place.
The Fighter glanced at him, then back to Aren—sweat now sliding down his temple.
"Is that an S-Rank?"