At the foot of Wolf Mount, more than twenty players gathered in loose formation, their attention fixed on the dark forest ahead. None of them noticed when Flynn disappeared from their ranks.
He slipped into the trees,as Stealth wrapped around him like a second skin. The forest greeted him with a familiar chill. The air felt wrong, heavy and watchful, as though something unseen was holding its breath. It was not fear that stirred in him, but recognition.
This was the kind of place where people died.
Years of scraping through life-and-death encounters in wild terrain had sharpened something inside him, an instinct that bordered on precognition. Before he consciously registered danger, his body already knew. That same instinct had warned him the mountain was wrong long before he ever set foot inside it.
Dire wolves prowled between the trees, yet none of them reacted as Flynn moved past, his form swallowed by Stealth. To the wolves, the forest remained undisturbed.
He followed that quiet pressure in his mind, letting it guide him deeper. Soon, he found what he was looking for.
High in the canopy of a broad oak, half-hidden by leaves, a ranger crouched motionless. Only the faintest glint of metal betrayed him, the tip of an arrow protruding through the foliage. To an ordinary player, the positioning was flawless. But to Flynn, the man might as well have been waving a flag.
A faint smile curved his lips when he read the name above the Ranger's head.
King of Nibelung.
"So it's you again," Flynn murmured in a low voice. "You really don't learn."
Yet the danger pressing against Flynn's senses did not stem from one player alone. The entire forest felt wrong, saturated with hostile intent.
He scanned the area slowly, methodically, and his suspicion solidified. There were more.
Excitement flickered in his eyes.
"Well then," he murmured, tye chill of his voice sounding almost affectionate. "Let's see how good you really are."
He left King of Nibelung where he was and began searching in widening arcs. One by one, he uncovered them. A shoulder tucked behind brush. A faint mana glow poorly concealed behind a trunk. The soft scrape of armor against tree bark.
Twelve more players.
Together with King of Nibelung, the ambush party consisted of three Rangers, three Arcanists, one Beastmaster, and the remaining slots filled by melee classes. All Asian players. Notably absent was Kazehana, the Holy Knight who had previously left a strong impression on him.
"So it's a trap," Flynn concluded.
The member of their group that had been spotted earlier had never been careless. He had been bait. Once a group entered the forest path, ranged fire would rain down from hidden angles, overwhelming them before they could identify targets. Confusion would follow, and then the melee fighters would charge from concealment to finish the job. Tye plan was clean, efficient, and rutal.
If Flynn's group had marched blindly into this, they would have paid dearly, even in victory.
He memorized every position. Angles, Distances, and escape routes.
After that he moved.
His first target was an Arcanist crouched in low undergrowth. The player looked young, his face still soft with boyish excitement. He stared at the forest path, humming quietly to himself, as if waiting for a show rather than preparing for a fight. Whatever expedition from Starter Zone #4069 he expected, he clearly did not consider it a real threat.
He never sensed the presence that slipped behind him.
Flynn drew Borg's Fang in a single smooth motion and pressed the blade lightly against the boy's chest from behind. Then he pulled.
"Keen Strike."
"Rupture."
"Basic Attack."
"Basic Attack."
"Keen Strike."
The daggers became streaks of green light, flashing in tight, economical arcs. Each movement flowed into the next without hesitation or wasted force. Flesh parted. Blood sprayed in thin crimson fans across leaves and bark. Five hits landed within seconds, three of them were critical.
The Arcanist collapsed before confusion even had time to fully register. He died without ever seeing the face of the one who killed him.
"Pathetic," Flynn muttered softly, already fading from sight as Stealth reclaimed him.
Chaos exploded in the enemy party chat.
"What happened? Aruou, how did you die?"
In a party, everyone could see the portraits and health bars. When one turned gray, there was no mistaking it.
On the forest floor, Aruou's body lay twisted in the brush. Even in death, his mind reeled. He had heard nothing. Felt nothing. One moment he had been waiting, the next, he was gone.
"Aruou, answer. What killed you?"
"I don't… I don't know," he typed at last, with shaking hands. "It happened too fast."
"Check your combat log. Who did it?"
"Hold on."
But before he could answer, a sharp scream tore through the voice channel, loud enough to spike the audio meters.
"What the hell was that?" someone demanded.
"King of Nibelung," another voice snapped, "why the f*ck are you yelling…"
The sentence cut off abruptly. His portrait had gone gray too.
A message appeared seconds later.
"I got ambushed by a Rogue. Night-Stalker from Starter Zone #4069. Damn it. That's the third time he's killed me."
The channel erupted.
"How did he get up here? We would have seen anyone coming!"
"Unless he learned Stealth."
"Stealth is level twelve. You're saying a Rogue already hit twelve? That's impossible."
Arguments overlapped until the calmest voice among them cut in.
"Aruou. Was it Night-Stalker for you too?"
"…Yes." Aruou finally found the name in his combat log, along with the damage breakdown. His next message came slower. "One of his Keen Strikes crit me for ninety-seven damage."
Silence devoured the group.
Then a dry laugh sounded. "Ninety-seven? What were you doing, standing there defenseless?"
"I wasn't defenseless. His attack power is insane!"
King of Nibelung added, "He's stronger than before. Must've upgraded his gear."
"Doesn't matter," the calm voice replied. "We're dealing with someone good. Everyone, high alert. Melee, move to the nearest teammate. Pair up. No one stays alone."
Aruou muttered something under his breath, but both he and King of Nibelung released their spirits and began the long corpse run back.
Despite the dramatic names, their performance left much to be desired.
Flynn watched it all unfold from the shadows.
Stealth was an advantage, yes, but even without it this forest belonged to him. The spacing between trees, the density of brush, the slope of the ground, all of it formed a map in his mind. He could have slipped through their formation and cut them down one by one without ever being seen.
When they paired up, they thought they were safer, but they were wrong.
Flynn struck twice more in rapid succession, isolating a Ranger who had paired poorly and another Rogue who reacted a second too slowly. Both died before they could shout a warning.
Only then did Flynn send a message to Let-There-Be-Light, passing along the exact coordinates of the remaining four pairs and urging them to charge immediately.
With their positions compromised and numbers dwindling, he knew the enemy group would be retreating soon.
He leaned against the broad trunk of an old tree, listening to the distant rustle of movement as tension thickened in the woods. Four kills, that was enough for now. Their coordination had been disappointing, though he had to admit it had made for an enjoyable warm-up.
On the other side of the tree, barely ten paces away, an Arcanist and a Paladin crouched behind a dense thicket of thorns.
Flynn's tongue brushed over his lower lip.
"One more attempt," he said to himself. "If it works, great. If not, I'm gone."
He slipped into position behind the Arcanist, with measured steps while keeping his weight perfectly balanced.
He was three steps away when suddenly, the Paladin's head snapped around.
The name above him read Sun-King. His gaze locked directly onto Flynn's position.
Flynn froze mid-step, with one foot suspended in the air and every muscle locked in place. Even in Stealth, he felt exposed beneath that stare.
'Interesting… he can sense me through Stealth?'
They stared at one another, though technically the Paladin should not have been able to see him. After a few seconds, uncertainty flickered across Sun-King's face, and he slowly turned back.
'Now.'
Flynn broke Stealth and lunged, dagger slicing toward the Arcanist's exposed neck.
CLANG.
Instead of flesh, steel met steel. Sparks burst between them as Borg's Fang slammed against a heavy war hammer.
Sun-King stood there with a faint, knowing smile, retracting the hammer he had swung in a perfectly timed arc to intercept the blow.
Flynn retreated instantly, leaping back into shadow near the tree. From this angle, only the Paladin and the Arcanist had line of sight; the others could not target him without repositioning.
He narrowed his eyes.
So the hesitation earlier had been deliberate. A bluff to bait him into committing.
Sun-King studied him calmly. "Night-Stalker?"
"Sun-King," Flynn replied with an easy laugh, though his gaze remained sharp. "Your name's just as flashy as another pain in the ass I know."
Without waiting for a response, he sprang backward, dissolving into the forest once more. "This isn't over. We'll meet again."
The Arcanist, who had already been channeling a Fireball, swore and released it in frustration. The spell shot off into empty woods and exploded uselessly in a burst of flame.
"Coward. He runs fast."
"If he didn't run, he'd be dead," Sun-King said lightly. Yet beneath the calm tone, he exhaled slowly.
He had not truly seen Flynn before turning. He only felt something off, like a disturbance in the air. The glance back had been a gamble, nothing more.
A gamble that had barely paid off.
"Pull back," Sun-King said with a firm voice. "We've lost four. Our positions are blown, and reinforcements could be on the way. Retreat."