Vergil and Eleanor walked along the dirt path, the faint morning chill brushing against their clothes as sunlight filtered through the trees. The village ahead was just beginning to stir—distant voices, the clatter of wood, and the occasional bark of a dog.
Vergil kept his eyes forward, but his thoughts wandered.
System, you've been pretty quiet lately.
[Because listening to you complain about your stamina and grunting while throwing fireballs isn't exactly entertaining.]
Wow. You could at least pretend to care. Emotional support would be nice once in a while.
[I'm not your therapist. I'm your System. You want support? Go hug a tree.]
Okay, rude. But fine. I've grown stronger without you nagging every two seconds.
[And yet you still talk to me. You lonely or just that dumb?]
Vergil smirked slightly.
Probably both.
[Glad we're on the same page.]
"Why are you smiling like that?" Eleanor asked, eyes narrowing.
Vergil blinked, quickly wiping the grin off his face. "Huh? Nothing. Just remembered something funny."
"Unlikely," she said flatly. "You don't seem like the type to remember anything useful."
Ouch. She's worse than you.
[She's got potential.]
Gilbert wiped his hands on a worn cloth as Vergil and Eleanor stepped into the forge. The air was hot, filled with the scent of metal and smoke. Sparks flickered near the hearth, where a sword lay half-forged on the anvil.
"You look like you've been through something," Gilbert said, gruff but not unkind. "Training done for now?"
Vergil nodded. "Yeah. I've pushed as far as I can for the moment. Figured it's time to prepare for the next step."
Gilbert's expression grew serious. "If you're going to keep walking this path, your gear needs to match your resolve."
Vergil glanced at Eleanor. "That's why we're here. Eleanor needs a weapon."
Eleanor raised a brow. "I'm a mage."
"And mages can still get stabbed," Vergil replied flatly. "You've got the instincts, but if someone closes the gap, spells won't always save you. Pick something."
She hesitated, eyes scanning the racks of weapons lining the forge walls.
Gilbert gestured with a thumb. "Take your time. I'll watch your stance."
Eleanor stepped forward, silently picking up a short sword. She gave it a few careful swings—light, clean—but frowned.
"Too heavy in the blade."
She swapped it for a dagger, flipping it between fingers with ease. "Too short. Doesn't feel right."
A curved saber, then a staff, then a pair of knives followed. Each time, she moved gracefully, but shook her head and set the weapon down.
Finally, her eyes landed on a slim rapier resting on a mounted rack. She drew it gently; the polished steel caught the light. Its balance was elegant, simple.
She gave it a few light thrusts, footwork smooth and measured. Then a quick spin—controlled, precise.
"This one."
Gilbert nodded. "That's a duelist's weapon. Fast, agile. Doesn't forgive sloppy technique."
"Good," Eleanor said, her voice colder than usual. "I don't plan on being sloppy."
Vergil gave a faint smile. "Fits you."
She shot him a sideways glance. "Don't get sentimental."
Gilbert stepped forward. "I'll tune the edge, make sure it's sharp enough to pierce light armor. Come back tomorrow. It'll be ready."
"Could I also get some arrows?" Vergil asked.
"Help yourself, they're in the corner," Gilbert said.
Vergil took about twenty arrows and filled his quiver.
As they turned to leave, Vergil paused. "Thanks, Gilbert."
The blacksmith nodded without looking up. "Don't die."
Outside, the wind had picked up, rustling leaves scattered along the dirt path.
She's going to stab someone one day.
[Probably you.]
Whatever you say… she needs me and I need her, Vergil muttered inwardly.
[Spoken like a fool in denial.]
Vergil rolled his eyes inwardly and walked beside Eleanor in silence as they made their way through the village. The morning was alive with vendors shouting, children weaving through stalls, and the steady rhythm of hammers ringing out.
Soon, they arrived at the Adventurers Guild—a tall stone building with ivy crawling up its sides and a wooden sign creaking in the breeze. Seasoned adventurers sat on the steps, chatting over worn maps and dented gear.
Vergil pushed open the door, the scent of parchment, sweat, and metal thick in the air. Eleanor followed without a word.
Behind the front desk sat a young woman with auburn hair tied in a neat braid and sharp green eyes that flicked up the moment she saw Vergil. Her nameplate read: Elina.
"Well, well," she said, folding her arms. "You're back. And… not alone this time?"
Eleanor raised a brow. "Problem?"
"No, just surprised," Elina replied, eyes narrowing. "I'm used to him brooding alone. Who's the shadow?"
"Eleanor," Vergil answered flatly. "She's with me."
"I can see that," Elina said, tone even. "Bringing someone on a quest makes you responsible if they get hurt, you know."
"I won't," Eleanor said coolly. "I'm not a liability."
Vergil sighed. "We're looking for a mission. E-rank, straightforward. No basements."
Elina reached under the counter and pulled out a few parchments. "Lucky for you, we just got something in. Should suit your level."
She handed him a dark-gray quest slip.
Mission: Eliminate the Ashen Gravetalon
Location: Ashwood Forest
Rank: E
Type: Beast Hunt
Details: Skyborne predator nesting in the dead forest ridge. Known to ambush travelers and livestock.
Reward: 3 silver. Additional pay for feathers, talons, or beak fragments.
Note: Creature shows signs of corruption. Proceed with caution.
Vergil scanned the details and said, with a smirk, "We'll take it."
Eleanor leaned in. "Flying, corrupted, territorial... sounds lovely."
Elina offered a thin smile. "Try not to get torn apart midair."
Vergil tucked the parchment away. "We'll be back before sunset."
"And if you're not?"
Eleanor stepped forward slightly. "We'll still be alive."
Elina blinked, then shrugged. "Whatever helps you sleep. Good luck, brooding duo."
As they left, Vergil muttered, "She's warming up to you."
[Or sharpening the knives for your funeral.]
Before heading out, Vergil made a quick stop at one of the village's general stores—a cramped little place nestled between a baker's stall and an old herbalist's hut. The sign above the door had long since faded, but the interior was neat and stocked with essentials.
A bell jingled as they stepped inside. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with dried meat, travel bread, basic potions, flint kits, and water skins.
Vergil moved with practiced ease. He grabbed two water flasks, a pouch of dried jerky, three flat loaves of long-life bread, and a bundle of dried fruit. Enough for a day's travel—and maybe a night outdoors, just in case.
Eleanor leaned against a shelf, silent but watchful.
He set everything on the counter. The shopkeeper, an older man with a lazy eye and a missing tooth, gave a crooked smile. "Thirty copper for the lot."
Vergil handed over the coins without a word.
As the supplies were bagged, he unstrapped the dagger from his belt. Worn but still sharp—it had served him well during earlier subjugations. He held it out to Eleanor.
"This is for you," he said quietly. "If the monster gets too close."
She blinked in surprise, then took the dagger. Her grip was steady. "Got it," she replied with a faint smile.
She glanced at the supplies. "But where are you going to put all that?"
Without a word, Vergil opened his inventory with a thought. The food and water shimmered out of sight.
Eleanor blinked. "...That's convenient."
"Don't ask questions," he said, tightening his cloak. "Just listen."
Her eyes narrowed. "Got it."
[That was almost tender. Almost.]
'Let's just focus.'
The dirt road stretched ahead, flanked by tall grass and crooked trees bent under the wind. The air smelled of pine and damp soil—clean, but quiet. Too quiet.
Their destination: the outer edge of Ashwood Forest, where sightings of Ashon Gravetalon—plural—had been piling up. One bird had turned into several. The guild had bumped the request to a Rank E subjugation, still manageable for a low-tier party.
Vergil walked at a steady pace, bow slung over his back, quiver at his shoulder. Eleanor walked beside him, fingers occasionally brushing the dagger at her hip—the one he'd given her.
"So," she said casually, "what's the plan when we run into them?"
"We kill them."
"Plural. That's reassuring."
[Very comforting leadership. Morale at an all-time high.]
Vergil didn't respond aloud. 'They're birds. Just fast ones.'
[Fast, territorial, coordinated, talon-bladed flying knives. But sure. Birds.]
Eleanor glanced over. "You always this talkative on missions?"
"Only when I'm irritated."
"...That explains a lot."
The forest grew denser. Trees arched overhead, weaving a canopy that dappled the sunlight. Twigs snapped underfoot. Eleanor paused once or twice, scanning the treetops.
Vergil noticed it first—thin streaks of blood on a mossy trunk. Deep claw marks gouged into the bark. Aerial spacing.
"Claw marks," he muttered. "Recent."
"Think they're close?"
"No. I think we're already in their territory."
[And here I was hoping for a peaceful bird-watching walk.]
Vergil rolled his shoulders and drew an arrow. The tension wasn't magical—it was instinct. The weight of being watched.
They walked on in silence. Then Eleanor pointed upward. "There."
Wings rustled high above. A dark blur moved between branches—followed by another. A third silhouette glided above the canopy.
"Ashon Gravetalon," Vergil confirmed. "They're circling."
"They look smaller than I expected."
"They're fast. And they cut through leather."
Eleanor's grip tightened on her dagger. "I'm not leather."
"No," Vergil said flatly, "but they don't care."
[You should write motivational speeches.]
He stepped forward, boots crunching dead leaves. He lowered his stance, eyes scanning the canopy.
"We bait them. One will dive first. The others follow once we're distracted."
"You sure?"
"I've seen it before."
Eleanor exhaled. "So what's the plan?"
"Don't die."
[Classic.]
Eleanor smirked faintly. "You've got a way with words."
He nocked an arrow. "Let's see how many there are."
Vergil raised a hand to signal her. Silence hung heavy among the high branches and shifting winds.
Then he activated [Analysis].
---
Name: Ashon Gravetalon
Level: 6
Race: Monster
Class: None
Stats:
Strength: 26
Constitution: 25
Dexterity: 28
Magic Power: 3
Mana Capacity: 3
Intuition: —
Passive Skill:
Piercing Talons (E) – Partial armor penetration when using talons
Active Skills:
Screeching Dive (F+) – Disorienting dive attack
Wing Cutter (E-) – Mid-range feather slash
---
Three targets.
One perched above. Another rustled in the underbrush. A third glided across the canopy.
Vergil moved fast. Bow unslung. Arrow nocked.
Twang.
The arrow sliced through the air and struck the lead bird's wing joint. It screeched, spiraled, crashed through branches—hit the ground hard.
The others responded instantly.
One lunged at Eleanor. The other dove at him.
"Eleanor. Left side."
"I see it." Her eyes flared faint green. "Entangling Snare."
Tendrils erupted from the earth. Vines lashed upward, wrapping around the diving Gravetalon and slamming it into the dirt. It screeched and thrashed—trapped.
Vergil dropped his bow and drew his sword mid-step.
One clean motion.
Steel flashed. The Gravetalon's head dropped limp.
One down.
He turned.
The last bird flitted through the air, injured, still fast.
Vergil nocked another arrow.
The Gravetalon veered, trying to dodge.
Didn't matter.
Twang.
The arrow punched through its chest. It crashed into a tree, then tumbled to the ground.
Still.
Vergil approached, sword drawn.
Nothing moved.
He exhaled slowly.
Eleanor walked over to the fallen bird, a faint grin on her lips. "That was clean."
Vergil retrieved his bow. "Too slow on the second one."
"You're impossible," she muttered—but she was still smiling.
He didn't respond.
There were more important things to do—like harvesting their Astralyth stones, talons, and feathers.
Vergil crouched beside the fallen beasts. Their blood was still warm. Feathers twitched from the last nerve spasms. He worked quickly, carving out talons, plucking intact plumes, and reaching deep into the chests to extract the Astralyth crystals—each one faintly glowing with condensed life force.
Once the valuables were secured in his inventory, he stood, gaze cold and unreadable.
Time to feed.
He raised his hand, palm outstretched. A black, corrosive energy spiraled into existence—then fractured into a cluster of gaping void-mouths, lined with jagged, unnatural teeth. They writhed like starved serpents, spewing from his skin.
The moment they touched flesh, they devoured it—bone cracking, muscle tearing, feathers dissolving into smoke as the corpses were dragged into the abyss.
[You have gained 3 Dexterity points and 1 Constitution point.]
[You have gained 3 new skills. 2 are unsuitable for your path. Converting into Evolution Points...]
[10 E-Rank Evolution Points obtained.]
[10 E-Rank Evolution Points obtained.]
---
Vergil closed his fist. The mouths vanished instantly, leaving only bloodstained grass behind.
He exhaled.
It wasn't much. But it was progress.
Eleanor stood nearby, silent, watching the last of the corpses vanish.
"...Was that magic?" she asked, cautious.
"No," Vergil said flatly. "Something else."
She didn't press further. Just nodded, brushing her hair behind her ear.
"Alright. Let's keep going. There might be more nesting deeper in."
Vergil nodded. "Let's move."
---
They had taken down twelve already.
Each corpse had been stripped of talons, feathers, and Astralyth stones—trophies for coin and strength. After every kill, Vergil raised his hand, and the Authority of Predation answered.
Black mouths bloomed from his palm. Grotesque. Fanged. Hungering.
Though no more stat points came, one level was gained—and the lesser skills were devoured, converted into something more useful:
[50 F-Rank Evolution Points obtained.]
[40 F-Rank Evolution Points obtained.]
[10 F+ Evolution Points obtained.]
Eleanor no longer flinched at the sight. If anything, she watched with quiet curiosity, eyes focused—like a student trying to decipher an unspoken technique.
Vergil barely noticed her gaze. He could feel the gains: more speed. More resilience. His limbs coiled tighter. Moved sharper.
They pushed deeper into the thicket.
The trees grew tighter. The shadows grew longer.
Then came the screech.
High-pitched. Brutal.
Not from ahead—but behind.
The forest exploded as something massive tore through the underbrush.
It was a Gravetalon—but larger than any they'd seen. Feathers torn. Talons cracked. Bleeding. Frantic. Its wingspan stretched nearly four meters, but it didn't charge—it fled, flapping wildly in a half-hop, half-flight.
It didn't even glance at them.
It just ran.
Vergil's eyes narrowed.
'Analysis.'
---
[Analysis Activated]
Name: Ashen Gravetalon King
Level: 12
Tier: 0
Race: Monster
Class: None
Stats:
STR: 33
CON: 29
DEX: 37
INT: 12
WIS: 14
MAG: 8
Mana: 10
Passive Skills:
Alpha Predator (E): Enhances control over lesser Gravetalon; imposes mental pressure on weaker foes.
Sky Sovereign's Grace (E): Superior aerial control; reduces stamina drain mid-air.
Keen Predator's Sight (E+): Tracks fast targets, sees in low-light, detects basic illusions.
Hardened Plume Carapace (E): Dense feathers reduce slashing and piercing damage.
Active Skills:
Predator's Dive (E): Deadly aerial plummet. 3m impact radius.
Screech of Dominion (E): Disorients and disrupts mana in a 15m radius.
Razorwind Slash (E): Launches wind blades in a wide arc.
Wingbeat Disengage (F+): Retreat with wind gust, knocks back enemies.
Bloodrush Instinct (E): Triggers upon grievous injury. +30% physical stats. Berserk mode.
---
Vergil watched it vanish into the trees.
"…Why the hell is it running?" he muttered, hand drifting to his sword.
Eleanor stepped closer. "That was the king?"
"It shouldn't run."
Then—
[Passive Skill: Primal Awareness has activated.]
A chill crept down Vergil's spine.
Something else was coming.
Something worse.
He said nothing. But his fingers tightened around the hilt.
The wind stilled. The forest fell silent.
No birds. No rustling. Just the heavy, unnatural quiet of something powerful arriving.
Eleanor glanced in the direction the king had fled, brows furrowing. "Shouldn't we go after it?"
"No."
Vergil's tone was clipped. Focused.
His eyes weren't on the path ahead.
They were locked on where the king had come from.
From deeper.
From darker.
He flexed his fingers—one hand near his bow, the other hovering over his sword.
"That thing wasn't just scared," he said quietly.
"It was hunted."
Eleanor tensed. "Hunted? By what?"
Vergil didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
----
[Primal Awareness]
Warning: Unknown presence approaching.
---
It wasn't just instinct anymore.
His body knew. Something older than logic stirred in his bones—an ancestral silence.
His heart slowed. Not from calm.
From survival.
Whatever it was, it didn't fly.
It moved.
Through the forest.
Fast. Heavy. Controlled.
The air grew heavier.
Vergil raised a hand—silent command.
"Back. Behind me. Don't cast unless I say."
Eleanor obeyed immediately. Wide-eyed. Focused.
Branches trembled. To the east, a tree cracked—splintered as something massive shoved past.
No screeches. No growls.
Just the steady rhythm of a predator that didn't need to roar to assert its dominance.
Vergil drew a black-fletched arrow from his quiver. He didn't pull the bowstring.
Not yet.
He needed to see it first.
The underbrush shifted.
A shadow moved beyond the trees. Large. Deliberate.
Then—silence.
Not the safe kind. Not the kind before calm.
The kind that meant the hunter had stopped.
And was watching.
Vergil's grip tightened.
Because the real danger wasn't that it was coming.
It was that it had chosen not to.
Yet.