After taking what he could, Ethan turned around and left the hidden room.
The stone door closed behind him with a dull sound. Cool night air touched his skin as he stepped back into the ruined tribe grounds. The village was silent, too silent, like the forest itself was holding its breath.
Then—
He stopped.
Someone was standing in front of him.
Kael.
His head was lowered. Long hair, once tied neatly, now hung loose and messy, sticking to his face with dried blood.
His clothes were torn, dark red stains covering his chest and arms. At his feet lay a body—motionless, broken, unrecognizable.
Kael slowly lifted his head.
His eyes met Ethan's.
"What are you doing here?" Kael asked. His voice was hoarse, weak, like he had been screaming for hours.
Ethan said nothing.
Kael took a step forward, anger and pain mixing on his face.
"Is this how you repay my kindness?" he shouted. "By stealing my clan's fragments?"
Ethan only stared at him.
Cold. Empty. Like nothing in this world mattered anymore.
Kael clenched his fists.
"Give them back," he said, his voice shaking. "And get out of my sight. I will forgive this."
Still—no reaction.
Ethan slowly reached into his storage space and took out the spatial pouch.
He threw it.
The pouch landed at Kael's feet.
Kael flinched, then picked it up. His hands trembled as he opened it and looked inside. Fragments. Tools. Supplies.
Most of it was there.
Almost everything.
His eyes widened.
"…Then why—"
He lifted his head to speak.
Ethan was gone.
Only the wind remained.
Kael stood there frozen. Tears rolled down his face, dripping onto the blood-soaked ground. He looked up at the dark sky, his mouth opening—but no sound came out.
The forest swallowed his grief.
Huff—Huff—
Ethan was already deep inside the forest.
Trees rushed past him as his body moved faster than a normal human ever could. Disorient pushed his legs beyond their limits. His lungs burned. His heart pounded like it might burst.
He didn't stop.
He didn't look back.
Only when his legs finally gave up did he slow down.
He leaned against a tree, breathing hard.
"Damn it," he muttered. "Just because I'm weak… I had to give everything back."
His fingers dug into his palms.
"If only I was strong."
He closed his eyes for a moment, then exhaled slowly.
"At least… I minimized the damage," he said quietly. "I took what I could."
After resting, he moved again—this time carefully.
He studied the surroundings.
The trees here were smaller. The forest felt thinner. There were no animal sounds, no danger in the air.
"…Near a town," Ethan said to himself.
He sat down under a tree and reached into his pockets.
Everything he had left.
He placed them on the ground one by one.
A scroll—old, its edges worn, written in symbols related to fragment resonance.
A small glass bottle—a potion. The liquid inside glowed faintly blue.
And finally—
Two fragments.
Not flat.
Not simple.
Three-dimensional.
One was shaped like a small plant, its surface pulsing softly like it was alive.
The other was a perfect sphere, smooth and deep blue, quietly rotating on its own.
Ethan stared at them.
Only four things.
"So this is all," he whispered.
He picked up the sphere fragment and closed his hand around it.
"…Then I'll survive with this."
His eyes hardened.
No regret.
No hesitation.
Only resolve.
Ethan lifted the glass bottle and uncorked it.
The smell was bitter, sharp, almost metallic. He didn't hesitate. He tilted his head back and drank the entire potion in one go.
The liquid burned as it went down.
This was not a potion for the body.
It was for the fragment core.
Ethan leaned back against the tree as the effect began. Deep inside his chest, something stirred. A dull pressure spread outward, like invisible hands tightening around a small flame.
His breathing grew heavy, not from pain—but from strain.
A weak fragment core could never hold many fragments.
It was like giving a giant sword to a child. No matter how sharp the blade was, the wielder would only destroy himself.
That was why this potion mattered.
Ethan clenched his teeth as the pressure slowly settled. The pain faded, replaced by a strange sense of firmness—like the ground beneath his soul had been compacted.
He exhaled.
"…Good," he murmured.
He picked up the plant fragment and looked at it for a long moment.
"I already absorbed the sphere," he said quietly, almost like he was talking to a living thing. "Trying to absorb another three-dimensional fragment right now would break my core."
His gaze shifted to the plant-shaped fragment lying beside him. It pulsed gently, as if breathing.
"Later," he said. "You wait."
Ethan leaned back and closed his eyes.
Let's count.
"In total… a triangle fragment," he thought. Disorient, Creation, Destruction—three paths, still unstable.
"Two circle fragments," he continued. Low-level, weak, but useful.
"And now this sphere."
Four fragments.
Only four.
In his previous life, this number would have been laughable.
"…And I still have fragments left from the obsidian spire," he remembered. "Hidden under the rock. I'll leave them there for now."
Greed would kill him faster than enemies.
Ethan slowly stood up.
"Creation."
The fragment responded instantly.
A thin layer of energy wrapped around his body. Black fabric formed piece by piece—first the shirt, then pants, then a jacket. The clothes fit perfectly, simple and plain, but clean.
He looked down at himself.
"…Good enough."
The wind passed through the trees, brushing his hair back. Ethan raised his head and stared toward the distant lights barely visible through the forest.
A town.
People.
Fragments.
Resources.
Information.
A faint smile touched his lips—but there was no warmth in it.
"Now," he said softly, "it's time to hunt the town."
He stepped forward.
The forest did not stop him.
The night swallowed his figure as he moved toward civilization—quiet, determined, and alone.