The storm had finally subsided, revealing a clear sky overhead. Nearly a hundred examinees had been swept away, fewer than Froy had anticipated. But he couldn't afford to wait any longer.
With his powers mysteriously inaccessible—perhaps due to Sethvyr, though it no longer mattered—Froy began crafting makeshift weapons. He collected sharp stones scattered by the storm, sturdy branches, and resilient vines to fashion stone axes. He continued this process, creating as many as he could carry.
Next, he foraged for familiar fruits to sustain himself. For unknown plants, he sampled tiny portions, observing their effects. If they proved poisonous, he planned to grind them into powder and coat his stone axes, creating venomous weapons.
As night fell, campfires dotted the landscape—a signal that it was time to hunt. Even if he chose not to kill, the question remained: why shouldn't he? An inexplicable primal instinct stirred within him, an excitement for nocturnal slaughter.
He identified a camp with four individuals. First, he gathered several stones from the ground, then tossed them into the air through the underbrush, creating distractions. He hurled a poisoned stone axe at one of the two night guards. If the first missed, he had a second ready. The first axe was deflected, but the second fell from above, striking the guard's head precisely as calculated.
Retrieving the first axe, Froy swiftly attacked the second guard. The guard managed to block, causing a commotion that awakened those inside the tent. Without hesitation, Froy grabbed a burning log from the campfire and hurled it onto the tent, igniting it rapidly. The ensuing chaos provided cover for Froy to engage the second guard, who, now exhausted, was overwhelmed. The tent's occupants perished in the blaze, unable to escape in time.
The guard's sword came crashing down.
Froy moved like liquid shadow, both hands gripping his twin stone axes—coated in poison, forged in silence. He twisted his body, deflecting the blade with one axe while the second came slashing upward.
The blade bit deep into the guard's shoulder.
He screamed—but it was too late.
The poison worked fast, seeping into the bloodstream. His movements faltered. His stance broke. The strength in his legs began to vanish, melting away like heat from a dying fire.
Froy stepped in.
No hesitation.
No mercy.
He brought the axe down across the man's neck, a clean and brutal execution.
Blood spattered across the leaves.
The body slumped like a puppet with its strings cut.
Froy stood above the corpse, breathing slowly—controlled. He wiped the blade against the guard's cloak, then bent to strip the armor piece by piece. Breastplate. Bracers. Greaves. It wasn't enchanted, but it was solid—ironwood reinforced with leather. Better than nothing.
The sword was average. Standard issue. But it gleamed in the firelight, and that was all he needed.
He strapped it to his side and tightened the armor. It was a little big, but it fit well enough.
He checked the mirror-shard they'd used for shaving—his reflection now armored, older-looking, more dangerous.
"Perfect," he muttered.
He wasn't trying to look heroic.
He was trying to look trustworthy.
Because the next group he approached wouldn't see a boy.
They'd see a survivor. A soldier. A possible ally.
A future corpse.
He gave one last glance at the burning tents, at the bodies still twitching in the smoke.
"Unlucky," he whispered with a smile. "Power without brains."
He turned away and disappeared into the night.
New weapon.
New disguise.
Same plan.
And the next group?
They wouldn't even realize they were prey until the axe kissed their throat.
The next morning came with no birdsong.
Just silence—and the stench of wet blood still clinging to Froy's boots.
He slept on a high branch, wedged between limbs like a predator watching its domain. The discomfort had kept him half-awake all night—exactly as intended. Every creak of bark, every rustle of leaves had filtered into his awareness.
Now, with light bleeding through the canopy, he moved again.
He gathered more herbs—venomous ones, bitter and oily—crushing them into a fine powder and sealing them into a small cloth pouch taken from the corpse the night before. He tested the edges of his stolen sword. Sharp. Stained.
Still deadly.
No interference from the Academy. No divine punishments. No "ethics."
Froy smirked.
So this was allowed.
He moved like mist through the trees, laying traps around his territory: sharpened spike pits buried in leaves, swinging logs coated in toxin, tripwires made from twisted vine. Each one a silent, merciless message.
You're not welcome here.
But Froy wasn't just playing defense.
When night fell, he hunted.
His eyes scanned for campfires—low flames, poor discipline. Not the Top 100. He had memorized their faces. If he saw one, he vanished. Ghostlike. Untouchable.
But the weak?
They were game.
He crept close to a small camp of three. They laughed. Bragged. Sat in a triangle of light.
He smiled.
His footfalls made no sound as he crawled into position.
Then, he struck.
From the brush, he exploded forward—his stolen armor catching the moonlight just enough to distract. He hurled himself into the circle, slashing one man's leg before rolling aside. Screams erupted.
Two remained.
One tried to conjure a fire spell.
Too slow.
Froy opened the pouch and blew powdered venom into his face. The boy gasped, stumbled—eyes watering, throat seizing. The third tried to run, but Froy was faster. A slash to the calf brought him down. Then—
A clean cut across the neck.
Silence returned.
Froy stood over the bodies, panting quietly.
He didn't gloat. He didn't revel.
He simply worked.
He looted what remained—better boots, a warmer cloak, two water flasks, and preserved food.
More than survival.
It was war.
He cleaned the blade. Reapplied poison.
Then melted back into the woods.
Froy was no longer part of the trial.
He was the reason people failed it.
Froy crouched by the dying flames of his latest fire, the blood on his gloves long dried to a dark, flaking rust.
His eyes gleamed with something unrecognizable—not joy, not hatred.
Something worse.
He wiped his blade on a patch of moss and stared up at the night sky—stars veiled behind clouds, the moon nothing more than a pale blur.
Then, he spoke aloud, voice calm… too calm.
"I never knew hunting could be this fun."
He smiled to himself—soft at first, then wider, almost boyish. Almost.
But his eyes betrayed him.
They weren't the eyes of a child.
They were the eyes of a predator.
A calculated, self-made monster.
Here, in the Garden of Eden, something had changed.
Out there, beyond this trial, he had played the part—innocent, clever, restrained.
But here?
Here, he had no mask to wear. No need for mercy. No need for a reason.
Male, female, elf, dwarf, beastkin—it didn't matter.
He killed them all the same.
Not because he had to.
Not for survival.
Not even for points.
But because—
"It's fun."
His grin lingered, even as the last of the fire died.
And in the darkness…
Froy vanished once more.
A shadow among monsters.
The real threat had never been the island.
It was him.