The ravine's shadows pulsed like a living wound, Aether's thrum slicing the air like a honed blade. Dante stood at the cave's mouth, the black sword in hand, its etched flames flaring like a caged inferno. His chest was a torn ruin, gashes from the undead bear crusted with blood, but the pain was a faint echo, drowned by the power surging through his veins. Moments ago, he'd seized the blade, and his soul had ignited, a stat window burning in his mind, sharp as Guild-forged runes. He was no longer nothing. He was Dante, Blade of Darkness and Flame, a legend reborn to shatter Eryndor's scorn. Valewood's jeers, Mira's "Nothing? Really, Dante?"—they'd choke on their words when he stood alone, the strongest.
He summoned the stats window:
• Strength: 20
• Agility: 25
• Endurance: 15
• Intellect: 18
• Spirit: 22
Four years as a classless outcast, his stats were pathetic. Only 5 across everything. Now, they roared, the spark of his legendary class. A skill glowed below:
• Skill: Ember of the Void – Black fire wave. 10% chance for Corrosion (-5% Endurance, 30 seconds). Strength/Intellect scaling, stamina cost.
Dante: "That bear's still out there. I'll end it."
The beast's stench fouled the Great Wilds, a challenge he'd crush. Cold resolve hardened him—he needed no one, not Mira's Bladedancer grace, Kael's arrows, or Lysa's claws. He'd forge his name in Aetherion's Guild, alone, unmatched. He'd taunt foes and fools with icy precision, but when the moment demanded, he'd be steel, unyielding.
The forest loomed, its gnarled trees clawing at a storm-choked sky. Dusk bled into night, the moon a faint scar behind clouds. Dante's wounds throbbed with every step, but the sword steadied him, its flames eager, alive. The bear's trail was raw—earth gouged deep, black ichor staining leaves, a path of ruin leading deeper into the Wilds. His pulse was steady, a drumbeat of absolute hunger for battle. The air grew heavier, Aether's pulse thicker, as if the forest itself knew what was coming.
Rot stung his senses, a reek of death and Nether's taint. Red eyes blazed through the shadows, and the undead bear lurching forth, its flesh sloughing in gray, dripping strips. Bones jutted through torn hide, its jaws splitting wide, drooling black ichor. A Nether-spawned horror, too vast for these woods, its presence a violation of life itself. Dante gripped his sword, eyes hard as flint.
Dante: "You're in my way."
The bear charged, earth quaking under its bulk. Dante dodged, Agility a blur, claws missing by a hair's breadth. He slashed, Strength splitting rotting muscle, black blood spraying across the dirt. The beast's roar shook the trees, but Dante's gaze didn't waver.
Dante: "Pathetic."
Claws swiped, fast and deadly. Dante ducked, thorns ripping his tunic, a claw grazing his arm, blood hot and slick. His jaw tightened—time to end this. Aether surged in his veins, the sword's flames flaring brighter. He roared, voice raw and commanding:
Dante: "EMBER OF THE VOID!"
A crescent of black fire screamed from the blade, slamming into the bear's flank. Flesh melted, bubbling into steaming rot, shadows twisting in the wound like living serpents. The beast staggered, its gurgling roar choked with pain. Dante's stamina dipped, a faint pull on his strength, but he was relentless. The bear lunged, claws raking his shoulder, blood spraying in a crimson arc. Endurance held, pain a mere spark against his focus. He struck again, blade carving through bone, each swing precise, lethal.
Dante: "Die."
He roared again: "EMBER OF THE VOID!" The blade pierced the bear's skull, black flames erupting in a torrent. The head dissolved into ash, the body collapsing in a smoldering heap of rot and ruin. The air reeked of charred decay, the ground slick with ichor. The sword glowed, siphoning faint wisps of Aether from the corpse, its flames pulsing in sync with Dante's heartbeat. His stat window flared, a cascade of power:
• Level Up! Level 6 Reached!
• Strength: 30
• Agility: 37
• Endurance: 22
• Intellect: 26
• Spirit: 30
New skills seared into his mind, sharp and vivid:
• Skill: Ashen Reaver (Level 1) – Melee strike, fiery-shadow aura. Absorbs corpse Aether, boosting damage (scales with kills, resets on rest). Strength/Intellect scaling, moderate stamina.
• Skill: Cinder's Grace (Level 1) – Fiery Aether heals minor wounds over time. Intellect scaling, stamina and slight Aether cost.
Dante: "More. I need more."
He tested Ashen Reaver, shouting:
Dante: "ASHEN REAVER!"
The blade flared, a fiery-shadow aura cloaking it as it cleaved the bear's remains, bone shattering, ash bursting in a cloud. The sword drank deeper, its power swelling faintly from the corpse's Aether. Then Cinder's Grace—he bellowed its name, and his wounds glowed with faint embers, gashes knitting, blood slowing to a trickle. The pain eased, his body steadier, ready for more. His power surpassed F-rank novices, their feeble strikes no match for his, but fell short of D-rank veterans, whose experience he'd yet to rival. A Guild scout would mark him a raw prodigy, a spark of legend in a boy's frame.
Dante stood over the bear's melted corpse, the steaming ruin a testament to his first true kill. Three years ago, Mira's scorn had shattered him, her laugh a blade in his heart. Kael's smirks, Lysa's silence—they'd all left him behind, chasing ranks in Aetherion while he bled in Valewood's dirt. Now, he was a blade, honed alone, and he'd carve his path without them.
Dante: "Mira, your Bladedancer's nothing. I'll bury you all in Aetherion."
The Wilds watched, their silence heavy with menace. Blood dripped from his wounds, but Dante was unyielding, the sword's flames pulsing with his heart. The forest seemed to hold its breath, Aether's thrum a low hymn to his victory. He scanned the trees, senses sharp, half-expecting another beast to emerge. None did. The bear had been a fluke, a Nether-tainted stray too close to Valewood's edge. But it had been enough. It had awakened him, forged him in blood and fire.
He sheathed the sword, its weight a comfort against his hip. The ravine's shadows seemed to part for him, the path back to the Wilds clearer now. Valewood lay behind him, a cage of pity he'd never return to. Aetherion loomed ahead, its Guild halls a forge for legends. He'd march there, register as an adventurer, and climb the ranks—F, E, D, all the way to S—alone. No party, no allies, just him and the blade. Mira, Kael, Lysa—they'd see him rise, their names fading in his shadow. The thought didn't warm him; it steeled him, a cold promise.
Dante: "No one's carrying me. I'll stand at the top, or I'll die trying."
He stepped forward, boots crunching on ash and bone. The Wilds' dangers didn't faze him now. Wolves, boars, even Nether-spawn—they'd fall, their Aether feeding his blade, his skills, his legend. The sword's flames flickered, as if in agreement, a silent partner in his solitary war. Aetherion's gates waited, a challenge etched in stone and steel. He'd carve his name into Eryndor's soul, and no one—not Mira, not the world—would dare call him nothing again.