Oliver yanked his dagger free from the monster's corpse, its body slumping to the ground with a final twitch. A familiar system notification flashed before his eyes.
+5 Meta Essence earned.
Trial Progress: 80/100 monsters slain.
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders. After two days of constant hunting, he was still not done.
It wasn't the fighting that was slowing him down—it was finding the monsters in the first place.
"Tch. This is getting tedious."
With over a thousand people in the village, all hunting the same rank-one monsters, competition was inevitable.
The deeper parts of the forest might have more creatures, but they were also likely to be far more dangerous, and the risk was not worth it.
Deciding to call it a day, Oliver turned back toward the village.
On his way, he stopped near a clearing where a group of four was locked in battle with a Grasping Ghoul—a mindless undead with rotting flesh, elongated claws, and hollow, sunken eyes.
It lunged and slashed wildly, its movements erratic but relentless.
The group fought in coordinated roles:
A male with long hair acted as a mage, flinging small fireballs at the creature, charring its decayed skin.
A man of average build served as the attacker, wielding a basic sword and lunging in between the ghoul's attacks.
A female supporter stood in the back, chanting as she cast buffs to enhance her team's abilities.
The last member A large and bulky man wielded a makeshift shield, using it to block incoming attacks and keep the ghoul's aggression focused on him.
Despite their teamwork, the fight was dragging on. Oliver frowned, watching the struggle.
"Why is it taking them so long?"
To him, a rank-one monster like this should go down quickly. But as he stood there observing, something clicked.
He was different.
The pre-entry trial had given him a head start—200 Meta Essence before he even stepped foot into this world.
Then, the 80 monsters he had slain provided another 400 Meta Essence. That was an enormous power boost.
For the others, every monster was a challenge. But for him? It was just routine.
Oliver watched for a while longer, but when it became clear that it would take them some time to finish off the ghoul, he lost interest and resumed his walk back to the village.
As Oliver entered the village, a loud voice echoed through the air.
"Join me and my party! We guarantee an easy way to pass the trial! No need to struggle alone!"
A young man stood in the center of the village, gesturing wildly as he called out to passing awakeners.
Around him, a few others stood with confident smirks, clearly part of his group.
This scene had become a common occurrence over the past two days.
At first, most people had tried to complete the trial alone, but as time passed, a loophole was discovered.
The trials were similar to RPGs in a way, and some awakeners found that you didn't need to personally fight the monsters to get credit.
As long as you landed the finishing blow, the kill counted as yours.
This created an opportunity for teams to form, where a few strong fighters would weaken the monsters, and others would deliver the final strike to share the trial kills.
For many, this was a safer and more efficient way to ensure survival and clear the trial.
Oliver had received multiple invitations over the past two days, but he turned them all down.
He wasn't here just to complete the trial.
Every fight wasn't just about the 100 kills—it was about gaining power. Splitting the work and taking the easy route might guarantee survival, but it wouldn't make him stronger.
Without even sparing a glance at the recruiting awakeners, Oliver walked straight to his cabin and locked the door behind him. He sat on the bed, clenching his fists as he made a silent vow.
"Tomorrow, I won't just complete the trial… I'll go beyond it."
He was so certain he could achieve it after everything he had experienced. Sleep took him quickly.
Darkness.
Then—fire.
Oliver stood in the middle of a battlefield, his breath ragged, his body encased in black armor that felt both foreign and familiar.
In his grip, a massive sword with a crimson blade pulsed like a beating heart, its surface slick with fresh blood.
Around him, monsters surged forward—beasts of shadow, aberrations with too many limbs, creatures that should not exist.
They attacked and clawed at him, ripping into his flesh, and sinking their teeth into his armor.
But he fought regardless.
His sword cleaved through flesh and bone, severing limbs, and shattering skulls.
Blood painted the foggy battlefield, its scent thick in the air. Every time he cut one down, another took its place.
Then—pain.
A monstrous claw pierced his chest, tearing his heart apart. He barely had time to register his own death before—
Gasp.
He was back. Whole again. His wounds were gone, his strength restored. It was his skill, Unyielding Rebirth.
He fought on, dying over and over. A blade through his throat. A spear in his gut. His skull crushed under a beast's foot. Torn in half. Burned alive. Devoured.
Each time, he came back. Stronger. Faster. More ruthless.
By the time the last monster fell, the battlefield was a graveyard of corpses, and Oliver stood at its center unbroken and undefeated.
Then—he felt it.
A presence.
Opposite him, beyond the fog and carnage, a lone figure stood.
Draped in dark, battle-worn armor, the being exuded an aura of death so heavy it made the air feel like solid stone.
A helmet concealed its face, and at its side, resting in the bloodstained dirt, was a greatsword nearly as tall as Oliver himself.
For a moment, they stood there, silent, as if the battle had been nothing more than a prelude to this encounter.
Then—the figure moved.
It vanished.
Before Oliver could even react, pain exploded in his neck. He barely registered the sharp edge slicing through flesh and bone before his vision spun—
His head hit the ground.
Then—he was back.
The figure killed him again. And again. And again.
A thousand times.
A sword was driven through his chest, leaving him pinned like an insect.
His body was torn apart by an unseen force, limbs severed piece by piece.
His lungs were crushed, suffocated by pure pressure alone.
A spear of darkness impaled him through the skull.
Burning alive without even the mercy of turning to ash.
Each death was more agonizing than the last. Each return felt more inevitable than the one before.
Then—
Oliver woke up.
He shot up in bed, his body drenched in sweat, his breathing ragged. His hands trembled as he gripped the sheets, his mind racing to make sense of what he had just experienced.
A dream?
No.
"What the hell was that?"