Hope did a quick review of his gear and skills. Everything was—indeed—looking pretty good. Over the last week, he’d rested little, and his progress showed it.

  Level 81

  Physis: 5955 (+1513) [+750]

  Magia: 1220 (+337)[+355]

  ??Sharpwatch (Level 4?5 + 1)

  ??Longstride (Level 6?8 + 1)

  ??Close-Quarter Combat (Level 8?9 + 1)

  ??Spear Handling (Level 8?9 + 5)

  ??Magika Sensing (Level 7?9 + 5)

  ??Air Handling (Level 9?10 + 6)

  Equipment:

  Twilight Vector / Effect: +300 Physis, +30 Magia, +1 Spear Handling, +1 Spacetime Handling

  Whisperdraft Cloak (3-set) / Effect: +200 Magia, +3 Air Handling, +3 Magika Sensing

  Stridebreaker Pants / Effect: +250 Physis, + 2 Spear Handling

  Draftrunners / Effect: +200 Physis, +25 Magia, +1 Spear Handling, +1 Air Handling

  Pulseweave Bangle / Effect: +50 Magia, +1 Spacetime Handling, + 1 Magika Sensing

  Null Ring / Effect: +50 Magia, +2 Spacetime Handling

  New Feats:

  ?? Hunter (G2?G1)

  You’ve tracked, fought, and brought down 10,000 living creatures. The body begins to harden with repetition.

  ? +500 Physis permanently.

  ??Air Initiate (G)

  You have reached Level 10 in Air Handling.

  ? +1 Air Handling.

  While there was still room for improvement—especially in getting Spear Handling and Magika Sensing to 10 for the bonus point from the feat—it would take time.

  His gear was complete. His level was now even higher than the average Scorchbacks... so why would he fear a level 100 Alpha?

  He raised his head, staring at the ever-present bright sky. Then glanced at his tent, which had grown over the past week with more useless but comfortable stuff. He’d miss it. Maybe, once this was all over, he could get himself stuff like that—something proper. A place of his own. That’d be awesome.

  Alas... his fate was still in the hands of the fuckers in the sky. Would any of this—his effort, his dedication, his talent, his growth—matter? Would it help?

  Or would it all be pointless?

  Those questions rattled him sometimes. Luckily, each time he went for a nap, he was too damn beat to let ‘em crawl in and mess with his head.

  But they were there.

  He smiled, just a little, eyes landing on Gob—the ugly little bastard with sharp teeth and sharper deals.

  Hope’d remember him. That crooked grin, that gravel voice, that greasy charm. Couldn’t forget that slick runt even if he wanted to.

  Gob glanced up from his stash, catching the look. “What?” the merchant croaked. “Don’t tell me you’re goin’ soft on me now.”

  Hope snorted, stepping closer with his hands in his pockets, giving a half-shrug. “Me? Please.”

  Gob’s squint deepened, like he didn’t quite buy it.

  Hope just rolled his eyes and gave the old merchant a light tap on the shoulder. “Just sayin’ thanks, alright? For the juice. The shower. The scams dressed as bargains.”

  Gob chuckled, wheezing a little. “You say that like I didn’t make you better, kid.”

  “You made me broke,” Hope said. “That’s a kind of better, I guess.”

  Gob flashed that jagged grin, all gums and attitude. “Still walked out with more than you walked in with. That’s the Gob guarantee.”

  Hope nodded once, then turned to go. “If I die, tell folks I owed you nothin’.”

  “If you die, I’m sellin’ your gear to the next dumb bastard who asks,” Gob called after him. “But hey… try not to die, alright? Bad for repeat business.”

  Hope lifted one hand in a lazy wave but didn’t look back.

  Eve waited patiently, eyes flicking toward him as he approached.

  Hope cracked his neck. “Let’s get going.”

  He gave one last glance at the tents, the scattered junk, the dust. His little corner of the world these past weeks.

  Didn’t look like much—but he’d grown here. He had changed.

  Without another word, he and Eve began walking.

  As they moved, Hope grinned at her mischievously. She flinched, stepping back with wide eyes and a sudden flush.

  “Hope, wait—”

  He didn’t wait. Just swept her off again, like last time. “Let’s go!”

  He surged forward, the wind wrapping around them as Air Gear kicked in. Over the last few days, he’d figured out how to keep a lower, less demanding version of the skill running most of the time—especially when moving fast. The motion itself fed the wind, powering the flow, easing the mental strain.

  “Are you scared?” Eve asked.

  Hope didn’t answer right away. His eyes were locked ahead—toward the northern ridges where smoke curled and heat shimmered, where the Alpha waited.

  “Little,” he said. “But scared ain’t bad.”

  She looked up at him.

  “It keeps you sharp. Makes sure you don’t mess around. And anyway…” He gave her a sidelong look, cocky grin sliding back. “I’ve got a brainy Citizen with me and a whole lotta bad ideas. I’ll be fine.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  A flicker of seriousness flashed in her eyes. “There are some rough metrics used to estimate how strong a creature is. You start with the race’s base tier, then add two steps for Elite classification, and four for an Alpha. That gives you the rough equivalent of a human at that same level, properly geared and trained.”

  Hope raised an eyebrow. “So what’s this Alpha packing?”

  “I suspect this ogre variant is quite low on the race scale—Grade F, maybe. Add four for the Alpha status, and we’re talking Grade B level power. Meaning, it’s roughly equal to a level 100 human with full Grade B gear and matching skills.”

  He whistled. “So like a level 100 Hector?”

  “I don’t believe Hector was Grade B. He didn’t have any skills or Grade B gear, either.”

  “Oh. So stronger then?” His grin widened. “Nice. Maybe the fuckers in the sky couldn’t find another Citizen for me to kill, so they sent this armoured brute instead. I feel flattered.”

  Eve remained silent. “Be careful, Hope. You’ve never faced an Alpha before. Realistically speaking, a Grade C like you going solo against one of the same level is already suicide—this one’s nearly twenty levels higher. Also… level 100 is special, for both humans and creatures. It’s the last step before a tier shift. This fight…”

  “Don’t give it much thought, Eve,” Hope said, eyes fixed ahead—calm, grounded.

  He smiled, just a little, and something about it hit her chest like a pulse. And then, same calm, same warmth in his voice, he added, “I’ll win.”

  She didn’t speak.

  Only lowered her eyes, lips parting slightly before closing again, unreadable.

  Hope kept going, zigzagging across cracked rock and shallow, glowing veins of magma, letting the terrain blur beneath him. The heat was thick, but the wind wrapped them in its cool hum. Every now and then, Eve’s hair whipped into his face, but he didn’t complain.

  “Well, this is it,” he said as he gently set her down.

  They stood atop the closest hill near the lava lake, just before the long, narrow bridge where its lone guardian lay in wait.

  Hope unshouldered his backpack, setting it aside. His eyes stayed on the Alpha for several seconds, letting the silence stretch.

  “Alright, guess it’s time to get this over with,” he said, glancing at Eve. “I think this is a good spot to watch the fight. What do you think?”

  Eve didn’t know what to say.

  She expected Hope to lose. The math wasn’t in his favour. A Grade C against an Alpha nearly twenty levels higher—logic dictated the outcome. But she also knew the Hosts wouldn’t let him die. He was too valuable now. Even if he suffered a fatal wound, he’d be forcefully teleported out and healed.

  So no, this wouldn’t be his end.

  But the fight itself… he should lose.

  And yet… despite everything, a voice inside her whispered otherwise. Something in her had started to believe in more than just logical cause and effect. Since when had that changed? When had she started to believe in things that couldn’t be measured?

  She nodded. “Alright. I will be waiting.”

  Hope grinned one last time, then stepped off the ledge—spear in hand, coat flickering behind him as the wind slowly caught his fall and carried him forward.

  He landed lightly, boots pressing onto the bridge with a soft thud. It was firmer than expected—wide, stable, a natural formation of dark stone streaked with glowing veins of ember. Lava hissed and bubbled on either side, releasing a heatwave thick with the stench of scorched metal, sulphur, and something fouler—like burnt flesh soaked in ash.

  He kept walking.

  Step by step, the creature ahead came into focus.

  Massive.

  Its plate armour shimmered with a dull, soot-stained gleam, covering nearly every inch of its hulking frame. Barely any flesh showed through the gaps. The sword it carried was jagged and long, edges serrated like it was made for tearing, not slicing. Its shield was brutal—more wall than tool—scratched and blackened but whole.

  And its presence—

  It pressed down like a stormcloud.

  As if the world should kneel before it.

  Hope’s eyes flicked to the prompt that formed above the monster, the system seemingly trying to put that pressure into words.

  Ashborn Tyrant [Alpha]

  Level 100

  Hope finally locked eyes with it as the creature’s head turned towards him.

  He smiled—heartbeat steady, Magika swirling around him.

  Show me… show me the strength of an Alpha.

  With a grin on his face, Hope’s form blurred as he stepped forward. Air Gear wrapped around his body like armor, wind curling toward him—coiling around his legs, chest, and arms.

  Gravity bent at his feet as he rose, floating gently into the air. He climbed past the creature’s gaze… and then higher.

  From above, he looked down at it.

  “They sent you to kill me, right? Come on, then… try.”

  And then—he felt it.

  That grounding pressure radiated from the Tyrant—heavy, crushing. It pressed down on him, tried to make him bend, bow, break his will.

  But Hope didn’t move.

  His body trembled, sweat gathered at his brow—but he held steady. Hovering midair. Smile untouched. Eyes locked downward.

  This creature… was strong. By far the strongest he’d faced.

  And that’s exactly what he wanted.

  What he needed.

  He’d pushed his mastery of Spacetime to level 10 in under a day. And now—over a week had passed. A week with no challengers. A week where the knowledge brewed in his mind, hidden from the fuckers in the sky, blooming into ideas, sharpened again and again—refined for this exact moment.

  His current realm… had already left level 10 far behind.

  They thought this brute would be enough. That it could take him.

  He would show them.

  “Come on!”

  Hope shouted as the Tyrant moved.

  Its foot slammed down, shattering the stone—air cracked open as it charged, sword high, shield anchored, stance perfect. The sheer weight of its motion detonated wind and force, aiming to finish him in one blow.

  Hope didn’t flinch.

  He looked past the monster—past the smoke, past the clouds, into the unseen sky above.

  Because he knew they were watching.

  He knew what they wanted.

  They wanted a show. Wanted to see him grit his teeth, scream, bleed—drown in pain and failure, humiliated in front of Eve or whatever twisted minds fed on suffering for sport.

  But he wouldn’t scream.

  He wouldn’t beg.

  He wouldn’t bleed for them.

  Not anymore.

  A Citizen. A level 100 Alpha. It didn’t matter.

  The sword came—faster than anything Hope had ever seen. The pressure behind it, the way it warped the air in its arc. He saw it all.

  And still… he didn’t move.

  He stood in the air, gaze fixed skyward, spear in hand.

  Then it came. Less than a meter from his chest—

  And passed through.

  The Tyrant completed the motion, blade carving silence through the wind. But Hope stood untouched. Not a scratch. Not a sound. Even the aftershock—the shockwave trailing behind that mountain-splitting swing—he fed it to Air Gear like crumbs to a dog.

  He didn’t dodge.

  Didn’t counter.

  Didn’t even blink.

  He just stood there. Eyes still locked on the sky, like he was watching a screen no one else could see—amused by the thought of how they must be reacting.

  He would've paid to see their faces.

  So much effort to drag an Alpha down here… to fight a ‘Grade C Crawler.’

  The Tyrant’s eyes narrowed. Confusion. Hesitation. Then fury.

  The shield came next, a brutal swing meant to break ribs and scatter organs.

  Hope exhaled… and rose.

  Effortless. Silent. Space bent around him. He reappeared meters above the strike, floating upward like weight was someone else’s problem.

  Higher.

  And higher.

  The Tyrant became a speck. The bridge, the lava fields, the shattered obsidian cliffs—small.

  The sky thinned. Wind slowed.

  Only then did he stop.

  He didn’t look back. Didn’t need to.

  His hands hung by his sides, coat rippling softly. His shadow stretched long over the clouds below.

  He breathed. In. Out.

  And then, without anger or showmanship—just a question, cold and quiet:

  “Is this entertaining?”