As the dust settled, Grey staggered to his feet, his breath coming in heavy gasps.
His once-black robe was now stained a deep crimson, the blood of the hounds painting it in vivid streaks.
The forest, shrouded in a deep silence, was broken only by the rhythmic drip! drip! of water falling from the leaves above, and the occasional whisper of wind rustling through the canopy.
The calm after the storm seemed almost eerie, a stark contrast to the violent chaos that had just unfolded.
Grey's golden eyes scanned the battlefield with a cold, calculating gaze.
The massive body of the hound he had just slain lay sprawled before him.
Its once-menacing form now a grotesque testament to the brutality of the fight.
The hound's fur, once a menacing dark shadow, was now soaked in its own blood, and its massive claws, capable of slicing through the toughest materials, were splayed out in a final, lifeless display.
The scent of blood hung thick in the air.
It clung to the trees, soaked into the roots, and drifted with the wind like a whisper. The metallic tang of it was sharp, almost sweet—mixed with the earthy smell of wet leaves and moss, and the faint rot of something long dead.
Grey stood still, his body half-crouched against the trunk of a twisted tree.
The forest around him was silent now. No more growls. No more snapping branches. Just the soft drip of blood hitting dirt. Slow. Steady.
He looked down at the monsters he had just killed.
It was a hound like creature—long limbs ending in claws, eyes like milky pearls set too deep into its face.
Its mouth still twitched slightly, as if it hadn't realized it was dead yet.
Grey's chest rose and fell in quiet rhythm, breath shallow. Not from exhaustion.
But from stillness.
Focus.
As a faint murmur under his breath.
"Ahhh… the smell of blood."
His lips curled—not into a grin, not into a sneer. Just the smallest motion.
Like a man remembering the taste of something he hadn't savored in a long time.
It wasn't our of joy. It wasn't out of pleasure.
It was... something else.
Something quieter. Deeper.
A kind of satisfaction that didn't belong to the sane.
One come from from killing...
But that didn't mean He enjoy killing.
Not anymore...
There was a time when he enjoy it, but the current him does not enjoy killing...
In fact it was quite opposite.
He'd done it too many times. For too many reasons.
Out of necessity. Out of habit. Out of sheer survival.
Eventually, it all blurred together.
To the point killing any more does not effect him, he was numb to it...
killing people is not wrong and quite normal in his age and time, but its all a different story if it stops meaning anything.
He remembered those days well.
Where he can kill anyone he want... be it human, beast or even gods.
Back then, he was powerful.
Back then, he was bored.
Because power meant nothing when it came too easily.
Where was the thrill in stepping on ants?
So when he was reborn in this world, and found himself no longer a god among insects, but a lowly and helpless, mana less pathetic boy among monsters… something inside him shifted.
These weren't humans.
These weren't trained soldiers or proud nobles with flashy swords.
These were creatures born from mirror realm. Beings that hunted by instinct. That attacked without thought. That devoured without care.
And they were strong. Fast. Brutal.
To fight them… he had to think fast. Move fast. And Adapt.
He couldn't afford to relax. Couldn't afford a single mistake.
Because if he did—just once—he would die.
And that made all the difference.
That was what made it beautiful.
He was weak against them.
And in that weakness… he felt alive.
Every fight forced him to stay sharp. Every wound reminded him that he still bled. That he could still lose.
And somehow, absurdly, that truth brought him more joy than he'd felt in years.
He was supposed to reach the Central Academy by evening.
That was the plan.
Take the forest shortcut. Avoid the longer trade road. And reach the main city before sundown.
But somewhere along the path, after killing the first two monsters… he didn't stop.
He kept going.
Kept hunting.
Deeper into the woods.
Further from his goal.
Why?
Because he didn't want to leave.
Because this—this blood-soaked forest, filled with sharp teeth and empty eyes—was the first place in a long, long time where he felt something real.
He had spent an entire day in the forest, his initial intent to take a shortcut to a nearby town long forgotten.
The forest had drawn him in with its dark allure, and he had decided to indulge in his bloodlust, reveling in the freedom it offered.
Over the course of the day, he had faced numerous monsters, each battle a test of his skill and resolve.
The forest, with its dense undergrowth and shadowy depths, had become a playground for his violent tendencies.
Through his battles, Grey had learned several crucial lessons. First, he discovered that monsters were ranked in a hierarchical system similar to human ranks
They ranged from F-rank, the weakest, to A-rank, the strongest.
The hounds he had just defeated were of F-rank, the lowest tier, while the monsters that had initially attacked him were E-rank.
This ranking system allowed him to gauge the strength of his foes and adjust his strategies accordingly.
His most terrifying encounter had been with a sleeping D-rank monster.
The mere sight of it had instilled a profound sense of dread.
It was as though an invisible hand had gripped his heart, squeezing it with icy fingers. The fear had been overwhelming, a visceral response that drove him to flee in terror.
The D-rank monster was an abomination, its presence alone enough to invoke a primal fear that Grey had never experienced before.
The second crucial revelation was the significance of monster cores.
These cores, found within the bodies of slain monsters, were highly valued for their ability to enhance one's core rank.
Although Grey himself did not possess a core, he recognized the importance of these items.
They could be used to craft powerful weapons or sold for substantial sums of money.
And money was something the current Grey needed the most.
After all, no matter which world one inhabits, money always rules supreme.
With a dark smile, Grey stored the cores into his rune, their faint glow reflecting in his golden eyes.
'It's a pity I don't have enough space to store their bodies,'
he mused, his expression a mix of satisfaction and disdain.
The forest, with its silent, haunting presence, seemed to watch him as he prepared to continue his grim work.