The hallway of the 'Green Abyss' didn't smell like pine or earth anymore. It smelled like a slaughterhouse.
Liam Scott stood amidst the dissolving remains of the Shadow Stalkers. His breath came in ragged, burning gasps, each one tearing at his raw lungs. The violet runes etched across his chest weren't just glowing
The System didn't speak in a friendly voice. It was a cold, encroaching static at the edge of his consciousness, a phantom weight that felt less like a gift and more like a leash.
The two remaining Stalkers circled him. They were no longer hunters; they were confused scavengers looking at a corpse that had refused to stay dead. One of them lunged, a blur of violet mist and obsidian claws.
In his old life, Liam would have been torn open. Now, the world slowed down into a series of predictable vibrations.
He stepped into the dark.
There was no sound, only a sudden, nauseating drop in temperature as the [Shadow Step] pulled him through the fabric of the dungeon. He reappeared behind the beast, the transition leaving a bitter, ozone-like taste in his mouth. He didn't punch with the form of a boxer; he struck with the frantic, messy violence of a man who had spent his life being kicked in the ribs.
His fist connected with the creature's spine. The crunch wasn't a clean sound—it was the wet, sickening pop of cartilage giving way.
The notification that flashed in his mind was brief, almost dismissive: 'Target Slain. Essence Acquired.'
Liam didn't feel like a hero. He felt like a predator. When the last Stalker tried to flee, he caught it by its hind leg and slammed it against the stone wall until it stopped twitching. The rush of experience points didn't feel like a game mechanic; it felt like a hot shot of adrenaline straight into his heart, making his vision pulse with a violent, violet hue.
He was Level 4 now, but he felt hollower than ever.
A scream shattered the silence. It came from the inner sanctum—a high, jagged sound that Liam recognized as Sarah's.
He walked toward the massive stone doors. Bradley had barred them from the outside, a final act of cowardice to ensure no witnesses survived. Liam placed his hands on the iron bar. The metal was cold, four inches of stubborn, forged steel.
He didn't check his stats. He just pushed.
The violet runes on his forearms flared so brightly they scorched the hair on his arms. The iron didn't just bend; it screamed, the molecules of the metal groaning under a strength that wasn't human. With a violent, bone-jarring snap, the bar gave way.
Liam pushed the doors open and stepped into a nightmare.
The inner sanctum was choked with a pulsating green fog that tasted like rot. In the center towered the Elder Treant, but it had mutated into something much worse. Its bark was the color of charred bone, and the red thorns dripping from its branches hummed with a malevolent mana.
The squad was gone. Two bodies—what was left of the frontline warriors—were pinned to the ceiling by thorny vines, their blood dripping steadily onto the stone floor like a rhythmic, macabre clock. Sarah was huddled in the corner, her expensive silk robes reduced to rags, her eyes wide and glassy with shock.
And Bradley.
The "Silver Hero" was on his knees, his dented armor covered in mud and his own filth. He was sobbing, a pathetic, wet sound that made Liam's skin crawl.
"Please... I'll pay... I'll give you everything..." Bradley whimpered as the Treant raised a massive, knotted limb to crush him.
Liam didn't move. Not at first. He watched. He wanted to see the exact moment the light left Bradley's eyes.
"L-Liam?" Bradley turned, his face a mask of snot and terror. "Liam! Help me! Drag it away! That's your job, you useless porter! I'll pay you... I'll give you a 50% cut! Just save me!"
Even now, the man was negotiating. Even now, he looked at Liam as a tool.
The Treant's limb descended.
Liam blurred forward. He didn't use a skill. He just used raw, newfound speed. He caught the massive wooden arm with his bare hand. The impact sent a shockwave through the floor, cracking the stone beneath Liam's boots, but his arm didn't buckle.
"The Porter is busy, Brad," Liam said, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. "He's calculating your final bill."
The Treant roared—a sound like tectonic plates grinding together. It sensed a real threat and unleashed a barrage of explosive red thorns.
Liam didn't play the hero. He stepped back. He let the shadows swallow him, reappearing on a high ledge, leaving Bradley exposed.
"LIAM! NO! GET BACK HERE!"
The thorns shredded Bradley's silver armor like paper. The leader screamed as he was lifted into the air by a dozen thorny vines. He was slammed against the wall, then the floor, then the ceiling. It was a brutal, systematic dismantling of a human being.
Liam watched it all with a cold, detached fascination. He was learning. He watched how the Treant's trunk rotated, how the red thorns had a three-second recharge, how the green fog thickened before an area-of-effect attack.
When the Treant finally dropped Bradley's broken, unmoving body, a new sensation hit Liam.
It wasn't a notification. It was a scent.
A silver, metallic mist began to rise from Bradley's corpse. It was his Essence—his talent, his ego, his stolen glory—drifting away.
'Essence of 'The Fallen' detected.' 'Condition: Devour or Lose.'
Liam jumped down. He stood over the man who had tried to kill him by proxy. He reached out and touched Bradley's cold forehead.
Devour.
The silver energy didn't just flow into him; it forced its way in. It felt like swallowing a mouthful of needles. Liam gasped, his back arching as Bradley's memories of training, his [Iron Skin] technique, and his [Heavy Strike] mastery were violently rewritten into Liam's own neural pathways.
It was sickening. It was intoxicating.
He felt a wave of nausea hit him—the realization that he was literally eating what made Bradley a person. But beneath the guilt, there was a dark, pulsing hunger that wanted more.
The Treant didn't give him time to process the self-loathing. It unleashed its ultimate move: a storm of thorns meant to level the entire room.
Liam stood his ground. His skin took on a dull, metallic sheen as [Iron Skin] activated, merging with the violet runes. The thorns struck him with the sound of hail on a tin roof. They shattered. They broke. They fell harmlessly at his feet.
Liam walked through the storm.
He reached the Treant, his fist glowing with a mixture of silver and violet light. He didn't just punch; he poured every ounce of his hatred into the strike.
[Heavy Strike] plus 18 points of Strength.
The impact was absolute. The Treant's trunk didn't just crack—it exploded outward in a spray of black sap and ancient splinters. Liam reached into the steaming cavity, his fingers closing around the glowing green core.
He ripped it out.
The monster collapsed into a pile of lifeless wood.
'Target Slain: Mutated Elder Treant (Rank D-)' 'Level Up: 5... 6... 7... 8.'
Liam stood in the center of the ruins, covered in black sap and human blood. He looked at his hands, then at Sarah, who was staring at him like he was a demon crawled out of the rift.
He walked over to Bradley's body. He didn't look at the face. He just reached down and took the credit-chip from the leader's belt.
"One hundred percent," Liam muttered. The words felt like ash in his mouth.
He didn't help Sarah up. He didn't say a word of comfort. He just turned and walked toward the exit, the shadows of the dungeon coiling around his feet like a loyal hounds. The 'Zero' was dead. What remained was something the world wasn't ready for.