Richter moved through the forest, noting how the once-diverse biome had shifted into a monoculture dominated by a single species of tree, remarkably similar to the aspen-like ones growing near the pond outside his cave.

  These trees gave the forest an ominous atmosphere, their pale, bone-like trunks jutting from the mossy forest floor like the remains of a forgotten graveyard., with pale, bone-like trunks jutting from the mossy forest floor like the remains of some forgotten graveyard.

  He wasn't far from the beacon now. This morning, he'd set out toward a nearby green beacon, estimating the journey would take only a few hours.

  Yet it was now well past midday, over six hours since he had departed. His frequent stops to record intriguing plant specimens, unusual trees, and the occasional small insect had steadily eaten into his time.

  As the green light of the beacon filled the sky, Richter heard something—faint at first, but growing more distinct with every step he took toward it. Sounds of fighting—someone had gotten there first.

  Panic welled up in Richter; he hadn't seen another soul since the family. The prospect of finally encountering civilization stirred a tangle of emotions—hope, fear, and uncertainty all jostling for space in his chest.

  The battle unfolded in a clearing eerily reminiscent of the one where Richter had first entered the System. A team of four was locked in combat with a massive white bull, its horns glowing a vivid, pulsing red.

  [Crimsonhorn Palehide]

  Description: A rare variant of the Crimsonhorn species, the Palehide is typically found alone, often driven away from the herd due to its unpredictable aggression. Its bone-white hide is not only a visual anomaly but also provides exceptional magical resistance. The creature is naturally resistant to debuffs, making it a challenging foe for casters and support roles alike.

  Level: 6

  Class: Beast

  The team moved in perfect harmony, each member flowing seamlessly through the battle.

  A younger girl with brown hair, clad in a robe much like his own, stood at the edge of the fray. She unleashed bolts of bright white light—not powerful enough to harm the bull directly, but clearly serving another purpose. A debuff, perhaps? From the Palehide's description, her spells likely wouldn’t do much.

  There was a middle-aged man wielding dual daggers, his bald head gleaming with sweat and his shabby facial hair giving him a rugged look. His weapons pulsed with ultraviolet light as he darted around the bull, each slash striking against its tough hide with calculated precision.

  Every few seconds, a powerful arrow hurtled from the trees, striking the bull's flank. Despite the barrage—nearly twenty arrows embedded in its hide—even these forceful shots barely scratched the creature’s defenses. Clearly there was an archer supporting the fight, but Richter couldn’t spot them; they remained expertly hidden.

  But it was the final figure who captured Richter's full attention.

  A woman in her late twenties, with a short, pixie-cut of blonde hair, moved with commanding precision. She wore a combination of leather and metal armor, tailored for both mobility and protection. In one hand, she wielded a long, slender sword with practiced ease. The other arm, however, was absent—not lost in this battle, but replaced entirely by a flowing stream of water, loosely shaped like a limb but constantly shifting and unstable, as if barely tethered to her will.

  As the bull lunged, its glowing red horns generating small projectiles, she lashed out with her water-formed arm. The liquid snapped forward, clinging to the bull's leg like a tether. With a swift motion, she used the connection to propel herself forward, just as the incoming bolts were intercepted by a mana barrier conjured by the healer.

  As she closed in on the bull, she spun, not like a brawler, but like a dancer, graceful and precise. Her sword traced a gleaming arc along the creature’s side, slicing from neck to flank in one fluid motion.

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  Richter couldn’t help but be awestruck by her fluid precision—the lethal grace of a dancer wielding death like an art form.

  Using the momentum, she pushed off and created distance.

  Her water-formed arm lashed out again, this time striking the bull squarely in the head. She used the tether to launch herself forward once more, carving another deep wound and drawing even more blood.

  The bull didn’t last long under the relentless assault, collapsing with a final, shuddering breath. Its once-pristine white coat was now soaked in blood, stained a deep, brutal crimson.

  This was what a true team looked like. The sight stirred a wave of regret in Richter—what could his own group have become, had they survived? What roles would they have taken, what skills would they have gotten? Beneath the regret, a trace of jealousy flickered—quiet, but undeniable.

  It was clear this team already had their rhythm—tight-knit, effective, and alive. Richter turned to leave, a quiet resignation settling over him. He was bad luck. This team looked happy, functional. If he approached, if he tried to join... they'd probably end up dead too.

  A thick arm looped around Richter's throat from behind—strong, unrelenting. The grip tightened, cutting off his breath, the pressure of someone taller and heavier bearing down on him with choking force.

  "That the plan, huh? Let us bleed for it while you crouch in the shadows—then swoop in and scoop the loot like a goddamn vulture?" the man's voice rumbled, low and gritty, like gravel rolling in his chest. The scuffle pulled the attention of the rest of the team as Richter was yanked from the treeline, limbs flailing, throat still caught in a steel-like grip.

  "Another one, Liam?" the one-armed woman asked, her voice carrying a low, husky edge—still unmistakably feminine.

  "Yeah. Spotted him watching the fight, he’s not the best at hiding." Richter was unceremoniously thrown to the ground. The group looked down at him.

  Richter finally got a look at his captor.

  The man appeared to be around the same age as the woman with the water-formed arm—ruggedly handsome, the type who wore trouble like a second skin. Dark hair, neatly trimmed stubble, and piercing amber eyes gave him a roguish edge. He was tall and lean, clad in fitted leather armor that looked both functional and worn-in. Slung across his back was a bow—not the practical kind the archer from his group had been given, but something sleeker, more ornate.

  "Damn, that's one hell of a scar," the man said with a theatrical wince, the kind that barely masked the amusement behind it.

  Richter had forgotten about the scar—about the brand. He hadn't looked at his reflection since receiving it. Now, with all eyes on him, he felt the weight of their stares like needles. Shame prickled beneath his skin, and self-consciousness crept in fast, cold, and unwelcome.

  "I-I wasn't trying to steal, I swear. I was just leaving." Richter forced the words out, his voice shaky and hoarse. Even speaking felt foreign now, like dragging rusted gears into motion after too long alone.

  "Can't find anyone else. His team must have left him." The middle aged man with the dagger, joined the group. He had clearly been scouting the area.

  "Where’s your crew, then? We’ve seen others like you skulking around," the woman said, her tone sharp and accusing, like she already knew the answer and was daring him to lie.

  "I swear I'm alone," Richter said, his voice strained but earnest. "I saw the beacon and thought I’d try my luck—fight for the loot. But you were already here, so I backed off." He raised his hands slightly, not in surrender, but in a quiet attempt to de-escalate. The last thing he wanted was to provoke them.

  The roguish archer barked out a sharp laugh. "You? Alone? Think you could take down one of these guardians? You do realize they're not your average forest pests, right?" He crouched low, eyes narrowing with a predator's grin as he sized Richter up.

  "Judging by your outfit, you're a healer. What would you have done to this beast?" he sneered, but then his eyes flicked down, first to the dagger at Richter's side, then to the metal staff strapped to his back.

  "Hold up... what even are you? That’s a healer’s robe, a caster’s staff, and a Light Warrior’s dagger."

  It only now dawned on Richter how haphazard his equipment looked—a mismatched collection of roles and identities, thrown together like he couldn’t decide what kind of survivor he was trying to be.

  "The group I was assigned to... they're gone. We were unlucky." Richter’s voice was low, the words tasting like ash. He stopped there—no need for them to know the rest. No need to confess that one of the deaths had come by his own hand.

  "So you're the lone survivor? Kinda convenient, don’t you think?" the man muttered, flipping Richter's blade in his hand, testing the edge with casual menace. He wasn’t buying a word of it—and he wasn’t letting Richter off the hook that easy.

  Before Richter could respond, a flash of movement caught his eye—a black shadow darting from the treeline like a predator in flight. The chest had been left unguarded, and now someone was making a move.

  Richter summoned his blade—vanishing from the archer's hand and snapping into his own in an instant. Without hesitation, he surged mana into it and hurled it toward the shadow. The group spun just in time to catch sight of the thief grabbing the chest.

  The blade struck the thief square between the shoulders, ripping a scream from his throat as he dropped the chest. In a blur of motion, he vanished into the treeline, leaving only rustling branches and the echo of pain in his wake.

  The group turned to look at Richter, now standing tall, his breath steady. With a flick of his hand, he summoned the bloodied blade back to his grasp, its crimson-stained edge glinting in the light.