The village disappeared behind the trees.
Ahead, the forest waited—quiet, thick with shadow, and something else.
Not danger. Not yet.
But it was watching.
They walked without hurry.
The hunters flanked him, loose and easy in their movements, but sharp in their eyes. Behind them, the villagers lingered for a few steps, calling out farewells both practical and soft.
"Watch the foothills—bandits like to nest there!"
"Don't sleep in the open, you'll catch a death!"
Leon gave a lazy thumbs-up over his shoulder, half amused, half touched.
By the time they passed beneath the wooden arch at the village edge, the crowd had slowed, then stopped.
He looked back.
The square had shrunk behind them—just smoke, rooftops, and the faint shimmer of raised hands.
"Watch your step—and don't catch your death sleeping under the stars again!"
Leon half-turned, tossed a thumbs-up over his shoulder. I'll be fine.
Then passed beneath the wooden arch, the last marker of the village.
He glanced back once more. The cottages sat quiet in the morning light, smoke curling lazily from thatched roofs. The crowd had thinned, but the waves kept coming—small, steady, held a little longer than needed.
He let the image settle, then turned away.
The path narrowed as it entered the woods. Sunlight filtered through the trees in gold-hazed beams. Birds stirred. The breeze moved slow and deep, like a breath taken after sleep.
The cloak rested light across his shoulders. His steps felt firm. Muscles steady. Mind clear.
The robes fit like they'd always been his.
And the satchel at his waist didn't just carry food—it carried care.
And for once, he walked not out of duty, but with a quiet smile.
Because sometimes even the hardest roads passed through places that knew how to mend.
Later that morning, they reached a thinning ridge. The trees parted.
Leon raised a hand—no flourish, no warning. Just a thought.
Three Steelclaws hit the mossy ground with a heavy thud.
For a second, no one moved.
Then came the uproar.
Shouts broke out like sparks.
It was as if he'd singlehandedly wiped out a whole den.
Knives flashed. Ropes uncoiled. Hands moved with the speed of habit.
In minutes, they had a work circle formed—cutting, bundling, sorting. Every claw, pelt, and fang spoken for.
No one asked where the bodies came from.
But more than one glance slid his way—quiet, uncertain, awed.
The hunters didn't dwell on it. A few sidelong looks, then back to planning, as if this sort of thing happened all the time.
Leon caught pieces of the talk: Steelclaw sightings, trail signs, patches left unchecked. Most of them hunted rabbits and deer—Steelclaws weren't their usual prey.
They moved by stealth, scent masking. But yesterday's panic at the Forbidden Grounds had thrown all of that out the window.
The trail wound deeper into the hills. Pine needles softened their steps. Light broke through the canopy in slanted lines.
And yet… something felt off.
The hunters were too at ease. Laughing, chatting, weapons slung loose. No caution in their steps. No suppression of aura or sound.
Leon trailed behind, frowning.
How had they survived this long?
Then—
"Down!"
The word cracked through the air like a whip.
Hands grabbed him—three, maybe four—yanking him sideways into the brush.
No time to react.
Then silence.
Not a breath. Not a rustle. Just eyes locked on the ridgeline.
Leon followed their gaze. Nothing. No motion, no sound. But every body beside him had gone still—tense, coiled, ready.
Not careless. Just waiting for the moment to act.
"Three Steelclaws," someone whispered. "Two klicks out."
"Pushed from the deep ridge," another added.
Leon squinted. Two kilometers? He couldn't sense a thing. Not even a blur.
No [Keen Sight], no chance. But they had. With nothing but instinct and eyes sharp enough to cut glass, they'd spotted number, distance, species.
Insane.
Still—Steelclaws didn't scare him.
A grin flicked at the edge of his mouth. He stepped forward, called the Cursed Sword with a flick.
Shadow and heat coiled into shape in his hand.
"Wait—!" a hunter hissed, lunging.
Too late.
Leon was already moving.
The slope erupted.
Three beasts tore down the hillside, all teeth and thunder.
Leon met the first mid-pounce. A short arc across the neck—deep, clean. Blood sprayed wide.
Pivot. Step. Second one came in low.
Reverse grip. Blade through the chest. No sound. No struggle.
The last landed—mistake.
Leon shifted, waited half a beat, then sliced upward, clean through the jaw.
The head hit first. Then the body.
Three kills. Barely six steps taken.
He rolled his shoulders. Flicked the blood off the blade.
Leon turned back toward the brush. Raised a hand.
"Clear."
Silence.
Then a slow exhale from somewhere behind the leaves. "You're a damn god," someone muttered.
Another groaned, rubbing his neck. "We can't carry all that. Steelclaw meat's worth its weight, but three bodies?"
That was it.
Not fear. Not awe.
Just logistics.
Leon blinked, then lifted a hand again.
Vmm.
One by one, the corpses vanished into his ring.
A gasp. One hunter dropped to his knees. Another stumbled like the air had been knocked out of him.
"Spatial magic…" the oldest whispered. "Are you… are you immortal?"
Leon gave a dry laugh. Not amused—just tired.
They had sharp eyes, good instincts, probably decades in the wild. But no understanding of tech, no context for what he'd just done. Like they'd evolved sideways.
He wasn't sure if it was endearing or deeply unsettling.
Still, they moved on.
The trail narrowed. Trees rose taller, the air turned cool. And yet the hunters walked like it was a weekend stroll. No stealth. No caution. One was even rambling about stew, swinging his spear like a soup ladle.
Leon trailed behind, frowning.
They moved like tourists.
And somehow… nothing came.
No Steelclaws. No shadows in the brush. Just wind through the branches, boots on dirt.
He gave it a few more minutes.
"This isn't strange to you?" he asked, low.
A younger hunter glanced back, sun-browned and easy. "Oh, it's strange. Just not to us."
He scratched his neck. "You've wiped out half the mountain in two days. We're lucky anything's still breathing."
Leon blinked.
Right. The ambush. The clearing. The mine.
Taken together… he might've crashed the local ecosystem.
Not guilt. Just awareness.
They kept walking.
The trail narrowed, then widened again—flat ground beneath scattered pines. A clearing. Open. Still.
And everything changed.
The hunters went quiet. Laughter cut off like a thread snapped.
Their bodies shifted—shoulders tight, mouths drawn. A stillness heavier than silence settled around them.
Leon felt it too.
The trees weren't just quiet. They were holding their breath.
He scanned the slope ahead. Hand drifted to his sword.
Something was here.
Different.
They didn't speak. Didn't need to. Their stares said enough.
Then the oldest hunter murmured, barely above breath:
"Didn't think we'd find it this fast. But a Silver Tyrant's awake."
Leon didn't know the name, but he saw what it meant—saw it in their faces. The way fear hollowed out the room behind their eyes.
"What is it?" he asked.
Another hunter answered. "Steelclaw alpha. Bigger. Meaner. Most don't survive the first glance."
And then the forest broke open.
Something charged. Trees cracked. Stones split. The ground shivered.
Leon dropped low, rolled as the roar tore past—hot, raw, not territorial.
Predatory.
He came up in a crouch. Sword drawn. Breath steady.
The hunters had scattered, but not far. One clutched a prayer stick behind a rock. Another ducked behind a log, eyes clenched shut.
"They're actually praying," Leon muttered. "Unbelievable."
The Silver Tyrant swung. Its paw met a boulder head-on.
Stone exploded. Shards tore past his cheek. Too close.
Leon moved. Fast. Low. No theatrics. Just clean steps into range.
The blade flashed—missed.
The bear twisted mid-swing, claws grazing his coat. He leapt back, breath tight.
Too fast.
Far too fast for something that big.
He circled. Silent. Watching. Waiting.
The beast didn't rush. Just turned—slow, deliberate.
Steam hissed from its nostrils. Silver eyes locked on his.
Not just a monster.
It was thinking.
Leon adjusted his grip. No words. No hesitation.
Then he struck.
Feints. Angled cuts. Quick and sharp—testing its guard.
The Tyrant blocked with its forearm. The hide didn't even flinch.
Its counter came fast—a backhand swing that cratered the earth where Leon had just stood.
Too close again.
He dropped into stance. Shallow breaths. Sweat rising.
A hunter peeked from cover, wide-eyed.
"You're really fighting it…"
Leon didn't answer.
His blade slid free again—glowing faintly, not with fire, but something deeper.
Alive. Hungry.
This wouldn't be quick.
But he wasn't backing down.
The bear charged—faster now. A blur of white muscle.
Claws up. Jaw wide. A mouth big enough to tear a man apart.
Leon dropped and rolled. Wind ripped across his back.
He came up swinging.
Steel hit fur—and bounced.
The impact jolted through his arms. Like slamming steel into something alive.
The beast staggered. Not from pain—just force.
Its claws dug trenches as it steadied. Then it paused. Glanced down.
A paw touched the spot he'd struck.
It looked up.
Their eyes locked. Not rage. Not instinct.
Something else flickered behind the silver. Confusion. Maybe pain.
But it didn't last.
"RRRRAAAAGH!"
The Silver Tyrant came again—louder, heavier, maddened.
Leon didn't flinch.
So. The hide really was that thick.
Not fast enough to be speed-type. No ranged energy. No elemental burst.
Just brute force and armor dense enough to mock a blade.
Fine.
Then I won't slice.
I'll break.
He shifted. Two hands on the hilt. Blade low.
No names. No stances. Just weight and intent.
No finesse. No grace.
Just violence.
He swung.
The sword smashed into its ribs—not slicing, pounding.
Again. And again.
Every blow landed like a hammer dropped from heaven.
WHAM.
WHAM. WHAM.
The clearing shuddered.
The bear reeled, staggering with each hit. Its charge crumbled.
Head low. Eyes dazed. Like the strikes had scrambled its thoughts.
Leon didn't stop.
His arms ached. Breath ragged. The air clung like wet cloth.
Every swing felt heavier than the last.
But the bear felt it worse.
And then, all at once—it sat.
Just dropped onto its haunches. Both paws on its stomach.
Eyes wide. Wet. Mouth open in a shaky gasp.
Leon blinked.
Then—
A voice.
Not heard. Not spoken. But clear.
"Stop bullying me! There's five of you and one of me… that's not fair!"
The forest froze.
One of the hunters let out a strangled noise. "Did it just… talk?"
Another, quieter: "It's awakened. Probably six years old, if you count it in human terms."
Leon stood still, sword raised. Breath steady.
The Steelclaws in the mine—they hadn't been snarling.
They'd been trying to talk.
He looked at the bear. "So now what?"
Before anyone answered, the beast huffed, scrambled upright, and turned to run.
"I'm not playing anymore! I'm going home!" it shouted, voice high and sulking.
Leon blinked. "Seriously?"
One of the hunters grinned—not kindly. "You've got two choices. Surrender… or end up in a stew pot."
Another licked his teeth. "Fresh bear paw's best while it's still twitching."
"Bearskin makes a damn fine cloak," a third added. "Real warm. Real soft."
The bear froze. Ears flattened. Then—like a scolded child—it turned back. Inch by inch. Shaking.
Scooted toward Leon. Huge body tucked in like it could vanish.
"You… you said you wouldn't eat me?" it wailed.
The hunters laughed—not cruel, just entertained. One wiped his eyes.
Leon kept his sword steady, but the bear looked ready to cry.
"I just woke up," it sniffed. "Can't I live a little?"
A hunter leaned in and whispered, "If it offers a pact, take it."
Leon frowned. "That's a thing?"
"Awakened beasts are rare. If it swears loyalty—it's yours."
They turned to the bear.
"Make a soul pact with our little deity," the man said brightly. "We'll even let you keep your paws."
The bear perked up. "Really?!"
"Cross our hearts."
A glow shimmered above its brow. A white orb, faintly pulsing—hovering in the air.
"Spirit core," someone murmured. "It's how they swear."
Leon reached out.
The orb touched his skin, dissolved into light, and sank in—warm, painless.
And then he felt it.
A thread. Thin, strong. Not flesh to flesh—soul to soul.
"Congratulations, Little Deity!" the hunters cheered.
Leon stared at the bear.
Well. That was going to make one hell of a mount.
He stepped forward, half-raising a foot—
The bear shrank.
Massive frame folded in, limbs curling, fur rippling down. Bones compacted with a soft crackle, until what stood before him wasn't a monster, but a palm-sized cub. Fuzzy. Kitten-small.
It blinked, climbed his arm, and flopped onto his shoulder like it belonged there.
"…Who's the mount now?" Leon muttered.
He tapped its nose. "What do you think you're doing?"
The cub yawned. "Tired. Let me ride a bit."
Gods help me, Leon thought, rolling his eyes.
They kept moving, sweeping the last ridges. The cub dozed against his neck, sniffing the wind now and then like it was dreaming about dinner.
A few minutes passed.
Then, without lifting its head, it mumbled,
"There's nothing else here. Just me. The loud cats were annoying, so I chased them off."
Everyone stopped.
Slowly, the hunters turned.
Eyes narrowed. Smiles gone.
"…How do you like your bear cooked, Little Deity?"
"Grilled's nice," one offered. "Mountain thyme, bit of honey glaze."
"Nothing beats ribs," another muttered. "Slow-roast 'em with roots. Tender as a blessing."
The cub squeaked in horror and dove into Leon's collar, vanishing into his robe like a kid hiding from thunder.
"You said you wouldn't eat me!"
Leon sighed and kept walking.
This world was insane.