Night fell, and the Tree Sea—quiet and idyllic by day—instantly became a lethal maze. Monster howls rose and fell in waves, like warnings to other beasts: this territory already has an owner—don't provoke it. Or perhaps they were rallying calls, summoning companions for the night's hunt.
The chilling cries didn't stir much emotion in Duncan and Bell. After days of constant attacks, their nerves had long since adapted. If the monsters only howled without attacking, that would actually feel strange. Habit was the most absurd survival mechanism: even the most outrageous circumstances could start to feel "normal" once you lived them long enough. Of course, the ones who couldn't adapt were already dead—or had gone mad.
Their campfire burned quietly, indifferent to the chaos beyond the fence. Inside the barricade was a bright, still world; outside it was dark and bustling—two realms split by a crude line of timber. Thanks to his first adventure, Duncan had prioritized torch-making the moment they established camp, producing as many as he could. Even if a fight raged deep into the night, they would still have enough light.
Not that he expected the torches to last until dawn. Materials were limited, and if the battle really dragged on that long, either they—or the monsters—would be wiped out. At Duncan's current strength, ordinary monsters weren't much of a threat, and anything truly dangerous wouldn't be the kind of opponent you could fight for hours.
"Bell," Duncan said, tossing another chunk of wood into the fire. It landed with a heavy clunk, sending charcoal cracking and popping. "I'm thinking… starting tomorrow, we should move the camp forward."
This wasn't a whim. He'd thought it through.
This part of the Tree Sea was closer to the "center" than the area Duncan had explored before, but compared to the vastness of a forest that even wyvern riders couldn't cross in weeks, they were still circling the outer rings. For first-tier adventurers, it was a great training ground—monster strength and density were just right.
But for top-tier first-tier adventurers… and certainly for second-tier adventurers like Duncan now… it was starting to feel inadequate. A comfortable adventure life meant your stats would barely budge.
In fact, Duncan could already feel it: his growth had slowed. They hadn't updated his status recently, but adventurers could sense progress—or the lack of it—especially when comparing it to the explosive gains of their earlier days. And Duncan still had plenty of room to improve compared to where he'd been at Level 1.
"Move forward…" Bell echoed, clearly tempted—but worry still crept into his expression. "You mean… go deeper into the Tree Sea?"
Given Bell's personality, he agreed with Duncan in principle. Adventurers were, by nature, aggressive and forward-leaning. People who wanted a stable life usually joined production familias—agriculture, fishing, metallurgy, medicine—rather than exploration familias. It was part of why Orario could grow into the world's greatest city: those "non-adventurer" familias formed the backbone of supplies and services that made adventuring possible.
Still, this was Bell's first real adventure. The anxiety hadn't fully left him yet.
"Yeah," Duncan said, clenching his fist and rubbing the spear haft beside him. "We've killed plenty these last few days, but it doesn't feel like it's pushing me much. You feel it too, right?"
Humans were greedy. Once you got used to skyrocketing growth, being forced back into slow, steady steps felt irritating—even if you understood it was necessary. And after days of observation, they still hadn't seen any trace of high-grade monsters.
It wasn't that Duncan ignored Chardo's warning about bears. He just… couldn't help hoping the "bear" was an exaggeration.
Unlike wolves, bears didn't roam in packs. A lone territory owner that wanted intruders gone would have to act personally. And something huge wasn't easy to hide—especially a powerful monster with little intelligence. Who tiptoed around in their own home?
"I—" Bell started.
But he never finished.
Both of them grabbed the weapons they kept at their sides and sprang to their feet almost simultaneously.
The monsters had finally lost patience and surged toward them. Maybe because Duncan and Bell had slaughtered so many over the past days, some monsters that would normally be enemies had—shockingly—turned their aggression outward in a temporary alliance. Wolves. Serpents. And a poisonous-scale moth that had no business being here. They appeared in the firelight in a ragged wave.
"Poison!" Duncan warned immediately, eyes snapping to the moths in the rear. "Get the potions ready. I'll clear them first."
For two people already on guard, beasts like wolves and snakes weren't the truly frightening part. The real problem was anything with toxins, paralysis, or other status effects.
In the wilderness, every potion used was one potion gone forever. If possible, they wanted to use none.
The white spear moved like a swimming dragon in Duncan's hands. Fast—mercilessly fast. Each thrust and sweep was clean, efficient, fatal. In a single exchange, he shredded the frontline monsters guarding the poisonous-scale moths, wiping out nearly half of them before they even knew what had happened.
Numbers didn't slow him down. Against an opponent one full level above you, numbers meant nothing—unless the number was truly overwhelming. And this ragtag crowd wasn't anywhere near that threshold.
Feeling its life threatened, the poisonous-scale moth didn't care who else got caught in the blast. It beat its wings violently, scattering scale powder that glimmered faintly in the firelight and spread outward like mist. It had wanted to disperse it quietly for an ambush—but now it didn't have time for subtlety. Panic took over. The moth dumped its powder, then twisted its body and tried to flee deeper into the Tree Sea.
"Since you're already here," Duncan muttered, "leaving empty-handed would be embarrassing."
He wasn't about to let it escape. A status-effect monster that could ambush you was a hundred times more troublesome than ordinary beasts. Duncan didn't want to spend every rest period fearing a sudden poison haze.
There was only one moth—thankfully—which meant he didn't have to worry about coordinated harassment.
At roughly ten meters, Duncan drew a dagger and ended it.
The moth's immediate surroundings were choked with that irritating scale powder, and even Duncan had no intention of charging into it like an idiot. Instead, Foot-Sky Step manifested—an invisible slab of "air-brick" forming at the limit of his range. It became a sudden, unseen wall.
The moth slammed into empty space.
Before it could even understand why it had collided with air, the dagger hissed through the night—straight and true—burying itself precisely in the moth's head.
The creature disintegrated into dark ash and vanished from his sight.
"Now it's your turn."
Duncan retreated a good distance to make sure none of the scale powder touched him. He spun his spear in a tight flourish and rejoined Bell's fight—moving in like a blade sliding into a gap, ready to carve the rest of the attackers apart.
....
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