An hour later, Ethan was drenched in monster blood and bored out of his mind.
He kicked the corpse of his seventh Stonehide Cockatrice off the path.
[You have slain a Level 1 Stonehide Cockatrice!]
[You have earned 10 EXP.]
[You have earned 3 Primal Essence.]
His Primal Essence was now at 124.
His HP hadn't dipped below 100 once.
The Level 1 and 2 mobs of the Gloomwood couldn't even scratch him.
Their pathetic attacks would clang against his tunic, dealing zero damage, before he'd lop their heads off with a single, practiced swing.
"This is getting tedious," he sighed, wiping a splash of green ichor from his cheek. "It's like popping bubble wrap. Satisfying for the first minute, then you just feel empty inside."
He needed a real challenge.
Something that would give more than two or three measly points of Essence.
He pushed deeper into the woods, where the obsidian trees grew thicker and the shadows were almost absolute.
It was here he found them.
Two creatures, darting between the trees like living lightning.
They were feline in shape, but their fur was the color of moss and bark, and their claws were elongated, sickle-like talons that tore through the dirt as they ran.
[Scrutiny].
[Gloomwood Swiftclaw]
[Level: 2]
[Rank: Iron]
[HP: 100/100]
[Attack: 30]
[Defense: 15]
[An incredibly agile predator that hunts in pairs. It uses its speed to overwhelm its prey.]
Their attack was still well below his defense.
But their speed… that was another story.
They were too fast to just charge at. They'd dodge and weave, and the fight would be a long, annoying chase.
"Time to use the old brain," Ethan muttered.
He found a narrow ravine, a natural chokepoint between two large rock formations.
Perfect.
He stood at the entrance, took a deep breath, and yelled.
"Hey! Ugly cat-things! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!"
One of the Swiftclaws paused, its head tilting as if it actually understood the insult.
It let out a piercing hiss.
Its partner joined it, and both pairs of luminous green eyes locked onto him.
"That's right," Ethan grinned, giving them a mocking wave. "Come and get me."
He turned and jogged into the ravine.
The Swiftclaws took the bait.
With a furious shriek, they exploded into motion, two blurs of green and brown tearing after him.
The wind howled as they closed the distance.
Ethan ran twenty yards into the narrow passage and then spun around, planting his feet and raising his sword.
The first Swiftclaw was on him in an instant.
It leaped, its sickle-claws aimed for his face.
BOOM!
Ethan didn't dodge. He met it head-on, swinging his sword in a brutal, horizontal arc.
The sound of the impact was a sickening CRUNCH of metal on bone.
His blade, empowered by his own strength, connected with the creature's side mid-air.
[-55 Damage!]
[Corrosive Wound has been applied!]
The Swiftclaw was sent tumbling, crashing against the ravine wall with a pained screech as the green poison began to sizzle on its fur.
Before Ethan could even register the hit, the second one attacked.
It was smarter. It went low, a darting shadow aiming for his legs.
He felt the rake of its claws against his shin.
Scrrrrape.
[-0 Damage]
He looked down, almost laughing.
The Swiftclaw looked up, its predatory snarl frozen in a state of utter confusion.
"Bad kitty," Ethan said.
He stomped his foot down hard on its head.
There was a wet, final crunch, and the creature went limp.
[You have slain a Level 2 Gloomwood Swiftclaw!]
[You have earned 4 Primal Essence.]
The first one, still crippled by the poison and its injuries, tried to scramble away.
Ethan dispatched it with a single, merciless thrust.
[You have slain a Level 2 Gloomwood Swiftclaw!]
[You have earned 4 Primal Essence.]
"See?" he said to the corpses. "Much more efficient."
Unbeknownst to him, his little display had not gone unnoticed.
Hidden in the thick foliage atop the ravine, three figures watched in stunned silence.
"Did you… did you just see that?" a young man whispered, his face pale. His name was Ben, and he looked like he was about to be sick.
"He took them both on at once," another man, Damien Cross, hissed. His eyes were wide with a mixture of awe and raw, burning jealousy. "Look at his gear! That sword… that tunic… Where the hell did he get Steel-rank equipment?"
"Quiet, both of you," a woman's voice commanded.
It was Samantha Croft, the same woman who had offered Ethan a team-up at the waypoint.
Her expression was a complex mask of shock, calculation, and a hint of regret.
She had recognized him immediately. The lone wolf who had rejected her offer.
"He's not just lucky, Damien," she said, her eyes locked on Ethan as he calmly looted the corpses below. "He's powerful. Stupidly powerful."
"It's not fair!" Damien snapped, his knuckles white. "We've been scraping by, fighting for every scrap, and this guy is waltzing through here like he owns the place. That gear should be ours! We could actually survive with stuff like that!"
"Shut up," Samantha said sharply. "He'd kill you before you got within ten feet of him. We leave him alone. He's out of our league."
Suddenly, a low growl echoed from the woods behind them.
A deep, guttural sound that made the blood run cold.
Ben whimpered. "What was that?"
Out from the trees emerged a wolf.
It was the size of a small pony, with mangy, black fur and eyes that glowed like hot coals.
Smoke curled from its nostrils.
[Cinder Wolf]
[Level: 4]
[Rank: Iron]
[Attack: 50]
And it wasn't alone.
Another appeared. Then two more.
Then a dozen.
A whole pack.
"Run!" Samantha screamed, all thoughts of Ethan forgotten.
Her team scrambled from their hiding spot and bolted, raw panic lending them speed.
Down in the ravine, Ethan heard the commotion.
He looked up just in time to see Samantha's team fleeing along the top of the ridge, pursued by the snarling pack of Cinder Wolves.
"Well, this should be interesting," he muttered, more curious than concerned.
The pack was fast. It herded the three terrified players toward the edge of a sheer cliff.
They had nowhere else to go.
"Up!" Samantha yelled, pointing to the cliff face. "We have to climb!"
They began scrambling up the rocky incline, desperately searching for handholds.
The wolves snapped at their heels, their hot breath stinking of sulfur.
Ethan watched from below, a detached observer at a gruesome play.
They were about halfway up when Damien Cross looked down.
He saw Ethan, standing calmly at the bottom of the ravine, watching them.
A twisted, desperate idea sparked in his mind.
He looked over at Samantha, who was focused on her climb. He looked at Ben, who was crying in fear.
Then he looked back at Ethan.
He saw the gleaming sword. The powerful tunic. The solution to all his problems.
He just needed a distraction for the wolves.
He slid over on the rock face until he was right above Ethan's position.
He looked down, a crazed, envious light in his eyes.
"Hey!" he shouted.
Ethan glanced up, his expression unreadable.
"That's some nice gear you've got there!" Damien yelled over the snarling of the wolves. "Too bad you won't be needing it anymore!"
Before Ethan could even process the words, Damien did something unthinkable.
He kicked a large, loose section of the cliff face.
Then, with all his strength, he pushed himself away from the wall, straight at Ethan.
He wasn't trying to attack.
He was using his own body to start a rockslide, right on top of Ethan, while simultaneously making it look like he'd slipped. A two-for-one.
But his foot did slip. His move was clumsy, desperate. Instead of pushing himself away, he just managed to shove Ethan sideways.
BAM.
The force of the shove sent Ethan staggering. His feet lost their purchase on the uneven ground.
He tumbled sideways, not into a rockslide, but off the narrow path and down a steep, gravelly slope.
Right into the path of the Cinder Wolf pack.
The wolves, seeing a new, closer target, abandoned their pursuit of the climbers.
Their heads snapped towards him, a dozen pairs of burning eyes locking on.
A chorus of hungry, terrifying snarls filled the air.
The last thing Ethan saw before he hit the bottom of the slope was Damien Cross, clinging to the cliff face, a triumphant, hateful sneer on his face.
The trap had been sprung.