The light hadn't changed. It never did here.
A dull, uniform gray. Eternal.
Neither day nor night. Just the world—frozen. Silent.
Aaron moved through the tall grass, shirtless, legs scratched, muscles tight like cables beneath his skin.
His clothes, torn by countless fights, covered almost nothing anymore.
His hair, too long, was tied back messily.
His gaze, hollow from lack of sleep, barely blinked.
He carried his spear over his shoulder. Black blood dried on the blade.
Aaron walked.
It had been an hour. Or five. Maybe more.
He no longer counted.
The plain stretched endlessly before him.
Always the same. Flat. Dead. Silent.
Not a bird. Not a whisper of wind.
Then suddenly, his body froze.
— "My body's given everything. My mind too. I've pushed myself to the limit every single day."
His voice was hoarse, almost unfamiliar to his own ears.
He stopped, scanning the empty horizon ahead.
— "I've gathered everything I could here. Beyond this, I won't last."
Noraa answered in a calm, clear whisper, as always:
— Then it's time to return. See if those points are enough to cross the threshold. Otherwise… all of it will have been for nothing.
Aaron didn't reply.
He resumed walking, spear on his shoulder, turning his back on the plains.
He didn't know exactly how long he had been walking, but it must have been close to three days.
He knew because night had fallen twice during his silent march.
Aaron had survived two months in this world.
Said like that, it didn't sound impressive.
In an ordinary life, two months were nothing more than a heartbeat, a single breath in the grand machinery of time.
But here, in this world without landmarks, where every minute was a battle in itself, every second a confrontation against the environment and against creatures whose sole purpose was to destroy and kill—two months became an eternity.
During his return journey in particular, night had fallen twice, plunging him into absolute darkness.
A darkness so total that he had learned to stop relying on his sight, to move beyond the need for vision entirely.
In that perfect black, his hearing had sharpened to the point that he could now perceive the faintest whispers of his surroundings—the subtle shifts in air pressure, the distant glide of grass blades under the step of some far-off creature—so much so that he now moved with total confidence, eyes closed, without hesitation.
Two months here didn't seem like much, but the only thing comparable to this level of intensity, constant vigilance, and omnipresent danger would be surviving two months on the front lines of the Second World War.
Where every second was a brutal fight to simply stay alive.
Where every moment carried the possibility of sudden, violent death.
Where the human mind was pushed beyond its natural limits into a state of pure, unrelenting survival.
Two months here meant just that: a silent, solitary war against the universe itself.
He kept walking for a while, slowly, as if giving his body time to remember everything it had endured.
Each step felt heavy—not because of physical exhaustion, for his body had long since stopped obeying human thresholds—but because of the weight of the days.
The plains hadn't destroyed him.
They had hollowed him out, like a tree turned into a drum.
When he crossed the final line of trees, it felt like plunging into a fossilized memory.
The forest.
Its familiar trunks.
Its dense shadows.
Its moist and steady scent.
He advanced slowly through the woods, aware that his steps were now silent by instinct—not caution—but habit. Every movement was precise, every gesture conserved, as if his body no longer knew how to function any other way.
His gaze swept the trees that once threatened him, the shadows that once made him flinch, and he wondered how a place could change so much in his perception in just a few weeks.
Just over a month ago, this same environment had been deadly to him—every broken twig a potential death sentence, every rustle in the leaves an immediate threat.
Today, the forest felt almost welcoming. Familiar.
Like a silent home rediscovered after a long absence.
And though the dangers remained, of course, they now felt insignificant compared to what he had endured in the plains.
Aaron felt a strange sense of relief as he realized he could finally relax his vigilance—if only slightly.
The constant tension, the ever-alert state he had maintained all month, could finally drop by a notch—not because the forest was safer, but because he had changed so much.
Grown so far beyond it that its threats no longer measured up to what he had become.
As he continued walking through those familiar woods, he caught, from the corner of his eye, the unmistakable silhouette of a Runner sprinting toward him at full speed.
Back when he was still level 8, he would've already been running for his life—facing this monster in open ground would've been pure suicide.
This time, he didn't even slow down to take a proper look.
He spared it only a detached glance—barely a flick of the eye—as if the creature no longer deserved any particular attention.
The Runner reached striking distance… but in a single blurred instant, there was only a sudden burst of motion, followed by an explosive eruption of flesh and blood flying backward from the devastating impact of his spear.
Aaron didn't even break stride to look back at what he had done.
His eyes were already fixed ahead, his mind absorbed by one single thought, one crystal-clear goal:
Reach the altar.And find out if the points he had bled to gather were enough to finally break through the barrier that had stalled his growth for so long.
The clearing finally came into view. The altar stood there, unmoving, silent—exactly as he had left it.
It was strange, Aaron thought, how something so cold and lifeless could stir such anticipation in him—such quiet urgency.
He walked the final meters, slowing down slightly.
Maybe to savor the moment.
Maybe to delay the verdict.
He stopped in front of the dark stone.
At once, he felt its coldness—that faint vibration that seemed to recognize something different in him. Something denser. More real.
He slowly raised his hand, hovering over the surface for a few seconds, as if afraid that everything he had endured—all the pain, all the suffering, the endless fights—might not be enough to reach that crucial threshold.
He took a deep breath.
Then placed his hand on the altar with silent resolve.
BODY: 33MIND: 12Points: 790,230
Noraa's voice echoed faintly in his mind:
"This is the moment of truth. Go ahead."
Aaron closed his eyes briefly and allocated all his points into BODY at once.
For a moment, the numbers blurred—then stabilized:
BODY: 60MIND: 12Points: 17,180Level 61 – Next: 38,250
The moment the numbers settled in Aaron's mind, he felt a strange sensation crawl up his body.
A subtle but undeniable shiver, like an inner string being tightened again—with almost musical precision—to produce a sharper note.
His muscles gained tension and density.
His body felt more responsive, faster, more precise.
He could sense it in his very fibers.
Then everything froze.
Abruptly.
Like the process had just stopped—without warning or explanation.
Aaron opened his eyes slowly.
And in that hollow gaze, immune to everything, one could clearly see the exact moment the hope that had carried him so far…shattered.
Over 700,000 points spent.
A colossal effort.
Earned through blood, sweat, and pain in the endless plains.
And yet… he had failed to cross the invisible threshold he had sworn to reach.
Yes, there had been improvement. Subtle. Minimal.
But compared to what he had felt leveling from 15 to 20—it was nothing.
Now he had gone up over thirty levels, and the result felt like a cruel joke.
He stood there, unmoving, hands resting on the altar, breath shallow.
And for the first time in a long while, Aaron felt the silent presence of countless unseen eyes staring at him.
Watching.
Waiting for him to fall.
Predators, patient and hungry, sensing that the prey might finally crack.
The whole world seemed to hold its breath, ready to devour him at the first sign of weakness.
— "Noraa," Aaron whispered, his voice ragged, as if every word now cost him a monumental effort,
"I need to rest… I've fought for two months without stopping, without even a second to breathe or remember what it feels like to sleep… and now, I think I've reached the absolute limit of what my body and mind can take."
He paused, eyelids heavy, his shoulders slumping slightly under the unbearable weight.
Then he continued, with a deep, sincere weariness that touched every syllable:
— "I don't even remember what sleep feels like… or peace. Those things feel so far away now. So foreign. So just for now, Noraa… I'll let you take over. Handle the rest. Do what needs to be done. I trust you."
"Rest well, Aaron," Noraa replied.
"You can leave it to me now. When you open your eyes again… we'll have crossed the threshold."
Aaron slowly closed his eyes, letting darkness envelop him for the first time in two months.
But when his eyes opened again—it was no longer him who looked out at the world.
Something had changed.
That gaze no longer belonged to Aaron, but to another entity.
Cold. Lucid. Devoid of compassion—or even the slightest hint of humanity.
Where there had once been a flicker of determination, a fragile yet stubborn fire beneath the layers of exhaustion—there was now only a dark, empty void.
A hollow stare.
Like a corpse moving under orders.
At first glance, it still looked like the same man.
But a closer look revealed something deeply unsettling.
A void so complete, so absolute, that it felt like looking at something inhuman—something fundamentally alien to life.
Noraa stood still for a few seconds, her empty eyes scanning the surroundings—not out of curiosity, but simply to record useful data.
Once the analysis was complete, she turned sharply from the altar.
And without hesitation or a single glance back, she launched forward in a precise, fluid motion—rushing toward the plains like a merciless machine, unstoppable, undistracted.
On her way, at the edge of the forest, she barely registered two silhouettes:
A small child, maybe eight years old, frozen in fear, wide-eyed with incomprehension…
And a muscular man of middle age.
But she instantly dismissed them as irrelevant.
Filed them away as data without value.
And kept running.
Indifferent to everything that didn't directly serve her final objective.