The ground was red.
Red like spilled guts.
Red like the pain twisting in Lior's stomach.
He lay there, eyes blank, unable to scream. Even his throat seemed to have given up.
The ogres had finally grown bored of impaling him with the tree trunk.
He was just a shattered mass now, drowning in a pool of his own blood.
And the silence—oh, the silence—it screamed louder than death.
He felt his life slipping away.
Each drop of blood echoed like a cursed hourglass.
— "Dean…" he whispered, barely audible.
But no one was coming.
His body trembled, powerless to move.
And in that void, a voice returned. Cold. Neutral. Unforgiving.
> [Skill – Healer Level 3 – Emergency Activation.]
Healing: 10% of injury. Pain Reduction: 30%.
A faint green glow emerged on his stomach where the trunk had pierced through.
It wasn't enough. It wasn't miraculous.
But it was just enough to open his eyes again.
Just enough to grit his teeth.
And in a dying breath, he muttered:
— "You can leave, Dean… but I'm staying."
The system responded without delay.
> You've reached Level 10.
All base stats increased.
Strength: +7 | Agility: +7 | Endurance: +7 | Mana: +7
Unused stat points available: 37
> Manual Distribution Activated…
+15 Strength | +10 Agility | +5 Endurance | +7 Mana
> Final Stats:
Strength: 36 → 58
Agility: 30 → 47
Endurance: 46 → 58
Mana: 37 → 51
> Skill "Telluric Condition" upgraded to Level 3.
Range: 200 meters. Enhanced accuracy.
His hands trembled, but he raised them.
And then, threads appeared in the air—nearly invisible.
Thin, glimmering, terrifyingly alive.
They vibrated like violin strings.
> Active Equipment: Puppeteer's Son – Rank: Illumination.
His fingers danced slowly, like a conductor orchestrating death.
The threads stabbed into the ground, reading vibrations, scanning masses around him.
He felt everything.
Nine ogres. Their steps. Their breath. Their disdain.
They still thought they'd won.
But Lior stood up.
He wasn't a punching bag anymore.
He wasn't just a body.
He was a will. A weapon. A legend in the making.
And he moved.
Newfound speed. Surgical precision.
He dashed forward, sliding between an ogre's legs—and unleashed his threads.
A clean snap.
The giant's throat was sliced clean, like paper.
It collapsed.
The remaining eight turned, shocked.
But Lior was blind.
Yet he could feel. He could control. He could danse.
And his threads—they craved blood.