The words were still in Etzel’s head when he woke.
A door is not defined by being open.
It is defined by what it separates.
He stared at the ceiling for several seconds, then reached for his communicator. No emergency messages. No new warning from Maerin. No update saying the twentieth signature had suddenly become a giant hole in reality. Good.
He opened the regional map anyway. The convergence zone remained sealed, Authority teams were monitoring it, and Vaelor Renn was involved, which meant, for once, Etzel could admit something without feeling completely useless: there was nothing he could do there. Not yet.
He closed the map and opened another screen.
Etzel smiled. “One.”
From across the room: “No.”
Etzel turned. DK was already awake. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Today.”
Etzel stared. DK stared back.
“I dislike you.”
“That changes nothing.”
Etzel dismissed the screen and got out of bed. “One Level.”
“Yes.”
“Level Ten.”
“Yes.”
“The next Limited Necromancer reward.”
“I know.”
Etzel stopped. “That was supposed to sound exciting.”
“It sounded dangerous.”
“That says more about you than me.”
DK stood. “If you hunt the Level instead of the creature, you will make mistakes.”
Etzel’s smile weakened slightly. That was annoyingly reasonable. “I’m not going to kill fifty weak creatures.”
“Good.”
“I’m going to kill one difficult creature.”
DK looked at him. Etzel raised a finger. “Meaningful progression.”
Another second. “Responsible progression.”
DK continued looking at him. Etzel lowered the finger. “I heard it when I said it.”
The public hunting boards offered several options, most of which were useless—low-Level creatures Etzel could probably kill safely, small packs, known routes, predictable behavior. Then he found one report that had been updated three times in the last six days: no confirmed kill, multiple sightings, damaged vegetation in a rocky woodland west of the city, and one incomplete pursuit. The System identification from the surviving Hunter had been included:
┌────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ [HUNTING TARGET: GLASSHORN GRAZER] │
│ Estimated Level: 10–11 │
│ Rank: E │
└────────────────────────────────────────┘
Etzel read the report twice. The creature itself was not especially aggressive, but it was difficult to track; its horn structures reacted to mineral concentrations beneath the ground, allowing it to navigate rocky terrain with unusual precision, and when threatened, it favored stone-heavy ground where conventional tracks became difficult to follow.
Etzel liked that—not because it would be easy, but because killing it would require more than stabbing correctly.
He showed DK. “This one.”
DK read. “Why?”
“Tracking.”
“You are not good at tracking.”
“Exactly.”
DK looked at him. Etzel smiled. “Progression.”
“You have become very fond of that word.”
“It justifies many poor decisions.”
“I noticed.”
They found the first sign shortly before noon: a branch broken roughly waist-high, not snapped by wind, but by something heavy that had passed through. Etzel crouched beside it. Below it, the ground was dry and uneven—very little soil, mostly stone.
He searched for several minutes. Nothing.
DK waited. Etzel looked at him. “You could help.”
“I am.”
“By standing there?”
“By allowing you to look.”
Etzel stared. “This mentorship arrangement is abusive.”
“You chose the target because you wanted to learn.”
“That sounded wiser when I said it.”
Etzel returned to the ground. Ten minutes later, he found a shallow scrape across a pale stone—not a footprint, perhaps a horn mark, though too low. He followed its direction: another broken branch, then disturbed moss, and then—blood. Very little. Dark red against gray rock. Etzel touched the edge; dry.
“Found you.”
DK crouched beside him. “Injured.”
“Probably.”
They followed. The trail became easier—not easy, but easier. A scrape, broken vegetation, occasional blood. Etzel began noticing the distance between signs: shorter, then shorter again.
He smiled. “It’s slowing down.”
DK looked ahead. “Why?”
Etzel pointed. “The intervals.” He showed him the previous sign, then the next. “Whatever injured it is costing it mobility.”
“Possible.”
Etzel stood. “That sounded almost supportive.”
“It was not.”
“Of course.”
They continued. Half an hour later, Etzel stopped. Something had been irritating him for several minutes, and he had ignored it—which was usually a mistake.
He walked back three meters, looked at a stone, then another. No blood. He continued backward. There—blood. Forward again—nothing. Twenty minutes... then blood again.
Etzel crouched. DK waited.
Etzel touched the stain, looked at the direction of the smear—not a drop, a drag. His expression changed. He moved to another mark: same. Then he examined the pressure marks between two stones—too deep, far too deep for the Glasshorn described in the report.
Etzel stood slowly. “I was wrong.”
DK’s hand moved toward his sword. “About?”
“It isn’t slowing down.” Etzel pointed at the blood. “It’s not walking.”
Silence. His eyes followed the disturbed vegetation ahead. “It’s being carried.”
A branch cracked somewhere deeper in the trees. Etzel turned. Something heavy moved once, then stopped.
DK drew his sword. Etzel tightened his grip on the spear.
A shape emerged between the trees—large, low, armored, and carrying something dead across its back. Etzel saw translucent horn structures first: glass-like, broken. The Glasshorn Grazer hung across the creature’s back, its body hooked onto several bone projections rising from a much larger predator.
The System appeared:
Etzel stared, then looked at the dead Glasshorn. “Technically, we found it.”
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“Yes.”
“I would like partial credit.”
The Carrion Mantle turned toward them. Etzel sighed. “Apparently appeals are closed.”
The creature charged.
Etzel moved left, and DK moved right. The Carrion Mantle ignored DK, coming straight toward Etzel.
“Why me?”
He planted the spear. False Line: eyes left, shoulder committed, spear promised the same direction. The Carrion Mantle adjusted its armored front. Etzel reversed, slipped toward the exposed side—good. He thrust—CLANG.
The spear tip struck bone. Etzel blinked. “That was supposed to be flesh.”
The Carrion Mantle rotated faster than something that size had any right to, its plated shoulder hitting the shaft and then Etzel. He left the ground, hit hard, rolled, and the creature followed.
DK intercepted, steel meeting a descending forelimb. The impact drove DK’s boots into the soil, but he did not counterattack; he turned the limb aside, just enough. “Move.”
Etzel moved. The second strike hit empty ground. He regained distance, though his ribs protested again—apparently they had developed opinions.
The Carrion Mantle turned, and now Etzel saw the problem: its front was almost entirely protected by overlapping bone plates, and the sides looked softer—until it rotated, and additional plates slid over the openings, not mechanically, but naturally, layered armor.
Etzel exhaled. “Of course.”
DK reset beside him. “Leave?”
“Not yet.”
The creature charged again. Etzel tried to read it: every rotation exposed a narrow gap beneath the chest. There—small, but real. He watched again as the Carrion Mantle turned toward DK—gap closed. Turned toward Etzel—gap.
Etzel’s eyes narrowed. Weak point. Witness remained silent. Etzel waited. Nothing.
He should have respected that. Instead—
“I see it.”
DK glanced at him. “Understand it?”
Etzel hesitated—one fraction too long. Then: “Enough.”
He moved. False Line drew the creature’s front slightly upward. Etzel dropped low, and the opening appeared beneath the chest. He drove the spear into it. The point entered—three centimeters—stopped.
Etzel’s eyes widened. Not flesh. Another plate. Two layers overlapping. The visible gap was where the armor was thickest. “Oh.”
The Carrion Mantle’s claw came down. Etzel twisted—not fast enough. Pain tore across his shoulder, and he was thrown sideways, the spear leaving his hand.
DK moved instantly. The Carrion Mantle followed Etzel, and DK stepped between them. The creature struck, and DK caught the blow on his sword. For one moment, the knight did not move, and Etzel saw something beneath the restraint: strength, far more than DK had been using.
Then DK deliberately gave ground—one step, two—redirecting rather than overpowering, still hiding the depth beneath the surface.
“Etzel.”
Etzel forced himself upright, blood running down his arm. “I’m moving.”
“Faster.”
“That was unnecessarily judgmental.”
But he moved. They withdrew beyond the creature’s immediate reach. The Carrion Mantle did not pursue far; it stopped, turned, and returned toward the Glasshorn corpse still hooked across its back.
Etzel noticed, and so did DK. “We can leave,” DK said.
Etzel looked toward the route behind them—clear enough. He checked his shoulder—painful, bleeding, functional. Then he looked at the Carrion Mantle.
A few hours ago, he might have answered immediately: No. Level Ten, one kill, one reward, one more step. Now he forced himself to ask a different question: Could they leave? Yes. Would the creature pursue? Apparently not. Was staying necessary? No.
Etzel breathed out. “We can leave.”
DK nodded.
Etzel did not move. DK looked at him. “But?”
Etzel watched the creature shift beneath the Glasshorn’s weight. “I think I understand something.”
“Think?”
Etzel glanced at him. “Not enough yet.”
DK said nothing. Etzel smiled faintly. “See? Learning.”
Then he sat behind a large rock and watched. The Carrion Mantle did not move like an armored animal; that had been Etzel’s mistake, because he had been watching the armor, and the armor was not the important part. The Glasshorn was.
The corpse hung mostly over the creature’s right side. Every time the Carrion Mantle turned left, its rear leg shifted farther outward. Every time it turned right, the movement changed.
Etzel watched again: weight, balance, compensation. He picked up a stone and threw it left. The Carrion Mantle turned toward the sound, its right side dipped, and its rear left leg braced.
Etzel’s eyes narrowed. “DK.”
“Yes.”
“Walk right.”
DK did. The Carrion Mantle noticed, turned, and showed a different support pattern.
“Left.”
DK changed direction. The creature rotated again. There.
Etzel leaned forward. “Again.”
DK moved. Same response. The Glasshorn’s weight shifted, the Carrion Mantle compensated, and its rear joint locked for less than a second—not because the joint was weak, but because it was carrying an unbalanced load while rotating armored mass around it.
Etzel understood—not guessed, understood.
Etzel dismissed the message. DK looked at him. “Confirmed?”
“Yes.”
“Principle II?”
Etzel shook his head. “We already have everything we need.”
He retrieved his spear. DK waited. Etzel pointed toward the Carrion Mantle: “You make it turn.”
“And you?”
Etzel smiled. “Make it regret turning.”
A pause. “Better.”
Etzel sighed. “You really have one compliment.”
DK moved first—not fast, not threatening enough to trigger a full charge, just present. The Carrion Mantle turned toward him. Etzel moved opposite, the creature noticed, and rotated. The Glasshorn shifted, and the rear leg braced. Not enough.
Etzel waited. “Again!”
DK moved. The Carrion Mantle rotated sharply. There. The joint locked.
Etzel attacked, but not the joint—not yet. His eyes went high, spear followed, shoulder committed: False Line. The Carrion Mantle rotated further to bring its frontal plates against the promised attack—exactly what Etzel wanted. More weight, more torque, the rear leg locked completely.
Etzel reversed, dropped. The spear struck the joint. This time—flesh. The point drove deep.
The Carrion Mantle roared, its rear leg collapsed, and it crashed onto one side. The Glasshorn corpse shifted violently across its back, one bone hook snapping, and the Carrion Mantle thrashed.
Etzel approached—too quickly. A plated forelimb swept outward, and he blocked barely, pain shooting through his injured shoulder as the spear nearly left his hands. DK intercepted the next attack—again defense, control, time.
Etzel searched for a killing angle: none. Even on the ground, the creature curled its plated body inward, the neck disappearing, chest covered, core protected.
Etzel breathed hard; his shoulder was getting worse, and the Carrion Mantle still had strength. He could keep trying, maybe find another angle, maybe get hurt worse, maybe lose the opening entirely. Or—
Etzel looked at DK. “DK.”
The knight turned slightly. “Finish it.”
No hesitation. DK moved—not with the explosive strength Etzel knew he possessed, not with whatever remained buried behind lost memories and damaged equipment, just precision.
The opening Etzel had created was enough. The Carrion Mantle struck, DK stepped inside, turned the blow in one clean movement, and his sword entered between two plates exposed by the creature’s collapsed posture. Deep.
The Carrion Mantle froze. DK twisted the blade, something broke inside, and the creature sagged. Silence.
Etzel lowered his spear. DK pulled the sword free. Neither spoke.
Then Etzel looked at the corpse. “Teamwork.”
“Yes.”
“I liked my version better.”
“You did not provide another version.”
“I was about to.”
Etzel’s heartbeat increased.
Warmth spread through him—not healing (his shoulder remained open, his ribs still hurt), but beneath the injuries came that familiar change: body, balance, strength, a small but undeniable step forward.
Then: [Level Increased.]
Etzel stopped breathing. The next line appeared: [Level 10 Reached.]
Silence. DK looked at him. “Ten.”
“I know.”
Etzel did not joke. He waited—one second, two, three. Then the system changed: [Limited Necromancer Milestone Reached.]
Etzel smiled. “There you are.”
Darkness gathered in front of him—not true darkness, something deeper. The familiar black reward space unfolded into existence. Three empty positions appeared:
Etzel’s smile faded slightly; he remembered this part. Then—[Time Limit: 60 Seconds.]
“Of course.”
[60]
DK stepped beside him.
[59]
The first reward formed. Dark symbols gathered, and a description appeared:
┌────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ [REWARD OPTION 1] │
│ Title: Predator’s Interval │
│ Type: Combat Skill │
└────────────────────────────────────────┘
A short-duration combat technique designed to exploit a successfully created opening, compressing movement and attack commitment into a single decisive interval.
Etzel’s eyebrows rose. “That’s unfairly attractive.”
[57]
The second reward began forming—long, dark, a weapon. Etzel’s expression changed before the text even appeared. A spear materialized inside the reward field: black-gray shaft, narrow translucent blade, balanced grip. No improvised metal, no damaged wood, no weapon selected because it happened to be nearby. A real spear.
┌────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ [REWARD OPTION 2] │
│ Title: Graveglass Spear │
│ Type: Rare Weapon │
└────────────────────────────────────────┘
Etzel became very quiet. DK looked at the weapon. Etzel pointed at him without taking his eyes from it: “Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
DK turned toward him. Etzel finally looked over: “Finally.”
[53]
DK said nothing, which somehow felt like victory. Etzel looked back at the spear; he wanted it—that was the problem.
[51]
The third reward activated. A tiny light appeared, and Etzel blinked. The light expanded slightly, then stopped. Something was inside it—something small, very small. A figure no larger than Etzel’s hand floated in the reward field: thin translucent wings, small arms, wild hair, a body that looked almost absurd beside the combat skill and the spear.
Etzel stared. The System identified it:
┌────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ [REWARD OPTION 3] │
│ Title: Sylvan Wispkin │
│ Type: Summon │
│ Rank: F │
└────────────────────────────────────────┘
Then: [Rank: F]
Silence. Etzel looked at the first reward (combat skill), second (rare spear), and third (tiny F-Rank summon). He looked back at the creature.
Its eyes opened. It looked at Etzel, then at DK. Its gaze traveled slowly upward... and upward... and upward... until it reached the knight’s face.
The tiny creature froze, then looked back at Etzel. Its expression somehow managed to communicate a complete lack of confidence in the situation.
Etzel stared at it. The creature stared back.
[48]
“Of course.”
[47]
DK looked at him. “What?”
Etzel pointed toward the tiny summon. “The System has a sense of humor.”
[46]
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