"Do you know that the average life expectancy of our profession is 23 years?" The tattooed bald man asked.
"How old are you, then?" Azrael replied without lifting his gaze. Hands moving in steady, repeating motions as he sharpened the blade of his scythe.
The man sneered. "But I plan on going against the status quo."
"Admirable," Azrael nodded, not commenting further. He remained focused on his task. Judging by the way the man who kept bothering him looked, he decided to call him Tattoo from now on.
"What’s the point of sharpening it so much? After a while, it’ll just start doing more harm than good, no?" Tattoo questioned, clearly bored.
"The first strike is always the most important," Azrael replied, his hands never once slowing.
"Whether it’s a surprise attack or a desperate defense, battles fought with fragile mortal bodies like ours are often decided in an instant. I’m just reducing the ways I can lose."
With a scoff, the man waved dismissively. There was no point in talking to the kid anymore. Just from the sharp edge in his voice and the unsettling look in his eyes, it was clear he wasn’t quite right in the head.
The silence in the back of the transport vehicle lasted for several minutes, broken only by the occasional crunch of debris beneath the wheels and the inhuman cries echoing beyond the thin veil of safety the vehicle provided.
"Done," Azrael sighed, inspecting the blade from multiple angles. This was as sharp as a cheap weapon could get.
As if on cue, a stern voice called out from the driver’s seat, "We’ve arrived at the destination. Remember: your job is to collect the bodies. If you think you can take down any monsters, don’t. It’s not worth the risk."
"We know," Tattoo replied, visibly annoyed. "We’re not Chosen. We’re Forsaken. No system means the gods don’t give a damn about us. If they don’t see us as worthy of their gift, why the hell would we throw our lives away to fix their mistakes?"
Without further delay, the vehicle’s doors opened and the squad stepped out.
The squad consisted of four men—three roughly the same age and Azrael just shy of sixteen.
The change in the air was evident, so thick with hostility it felt like you could cut it with a knife.
"Let’s go. We don’t want to wander around too long," Tattoo ordered. Being the largest among them, the others instinctively followed his lead.
Azrael’s eyes briefly scanned the distance.
A large Rift loomed, dwarfing the surrounding forest, corrupting trees and soil alike with its presence.
’To think something just at the Feral Danger Level can cause such devastation... humanity really is on the brink of extinction,’ he thought bitterly.
"Remember," Tattoo spoke, bringing him back to reality.
"We’re just here to steal any valuable monster corpses. If you see a live one, don’t engage. The same goes for Chosen. I just got out of jail for illegal scavenging; I’m not planning on going back."
The others nodded, moving with silent, deliberate steps. Slowly, they left their drop point. The driver was long gone, too dangerous to stay near an infected site. Better to leave the area and avoid detection.
At a quick pace, their eyes scanned every nook and cranny, hoping a weakened monster had crawled here from the fight beyond, dying and leaving its body to be scavenged for valuable resources, but nothing of the sort was in sight.
Traces of battle appeared here and there, left by Chosen fighting hordes of monsters trying to reach the heart of the corruption, no doubt, yet no sign of life or death greeted them.
"Did those System Users really not leave even scraps for us?" one of the gathered ones cursed.
Since nothing useful was in sight, they were forced to move deeper into the forest—closer to the Rift, and closer to the source of the devastating corruption.
The silence grew heavier as they moved nervously deeper. Even now nothing valuable greeted them. Luck was not on their side this time.
"Let’s stop here," Tattoo suggested. "There won’t be a haul today."
The others frowned but didn’t argue. Their lives were worth more than any loot they could hope to steal here.
Azrael, however, reacted differently. His eyes darted into the dark shadows between the trees. "Monster!" he shouted, hand moving swiftly.
"What?" The others narrowed their eyes, fear gripping their chests as they all turned to where the boy was pointing.
Bodies tensed to their limits, ready to throw smoke bombs if they had to flee. But no matter how hard they squinted, they saw nothing.
Slowly relaxing his body, the leader let out a sigh of relief, "You’re just paranoid. There’s nothing—"
"Strike true," a voice behind him interrupted.
Before anyone could react, three headless bodies collapsed to the ground, a pool of blood forming beneath them.
Azrael gasped, feeling foreign power flare through his veins. With a simple, well-timed strike and the element of surprise on his side, he managed to take down three men.
"I really did absorb part of their power," Azrael muttered, eyes inspecting his weapon.
The scythe—now bloodied and slightly dulled—had done its job well. What other close-combat weapon could take down three men with a single strike? This was one of the reasons Azrael loved using scythes. The problem, however, was that even though it was the superior weapon of all, its quality was still junk.
Would it be ready for what lay ahead?
Moving with careful precision, he hurriedly looted the corpses. The longer he stayed, the stronger the scent of blood would grow. His nose twitched, warning him a monster would soon catch the trail.
He found no money or potions. Bad luck.
’I’ve got enough on me anyway,’ he reassured himself, opening his bag to reveal the potions he’d brought along. They had cost him an arm and a leg, but considering what he was walking into, he wasn’t about to cut corners.
One by one, he drank them. Each one costing a small fortune, never meant to be consumed by a Forsaken human like him.
Speed. Strength. Stamina. Defense. Reflexes. Perception. Stealth.
The combination of blessed elixirs mixed in his stomach, filling him with a power far beyond what he was ever meant to wield.
Sadly, such strength came at a price. f .r e\ewebnov(e)(l).c om
His hands trembled, his vision grew hazy, even his body temperature rose, forcing him to break out in a cold sweat, the side effects of taking potions far beyond what his body could handle. It was an unpleasant experience, yet he was willing to endure it if it even slightly increased his chances.
"Finally, the healing one," he said, eyeing the flask with its red liquid. It had cost him ten times more than his current weapon.
Yet it was worth it, his scythe could be replaced if broken—but his life? He doubted that.
He opened the lid and took a sip, letting the liquid sit in his mouth without swallowing. If the worst came, he would need it instantly. He couldn’t afford to pause mid-battle to drink.
Now overflowing with stolen power, both from the fallen men and the cocktail of potions, he sprinted away, careful not to draw the attention of any monsters.
No heroic mission. No noble quest to slay beasts or close Rifts.
He had only one goal, one that would either end in his death or open the way to a brighter, more promising future.
To kill a Chosen one.
And steal their system.