The Onlookers had promised us that we’d be looked after, that there would be plenty of havens for us to escape to. They had lied. When we arrived at Sauthun, we saw nothing but corpses. Our fellow Northlanders. Our comrades. Empires turning to rubble. Eyes once shimmered with life now gaped at us, hollow and frightful. Sauthun had become the second Deathlands.

That was when we knew—the gemstone was no protection. It was a curse; a punishment; a retribution for our avarice and our misdeeds. We had traded the forest for power, and we had paid the price.

The Onlookers spared no one.

Excerpt from "Mauri Cuuraan's Memoir"

Azra Kolkov

It's already four years since I last fought a Level 300 Soulbound. And right now, as my protective barrier of trees crumbles under the strength of a single Lightning Swerve, this beast reminded me how powerful its kind can be.

Wood chips splinter to the sides of my face, crackling. I dodge to the side, evading the fully charged tail whip of the Bolthound. It darts in for another hit, but I knock it to the space between the trees using my whip.

The silver-fur hound bares its diseased teeth; its orange glowing feet jutting with cracked and serrated claws; its tail crackling with electric sparks; its pupilless eyes, charged with orange light, stare at me as its ears flick. It's been on the offensive for the last minute, smashing through every bit of wooden barriers I mounted. It's managed to Supercharge its Tirade twice, and now it's become too quick for me to catch its movements. Or maybe I've become too slow.

The bolthound dash in for another swift attack. There's a high possibility that it's going to swing its tail again for a Lightning Swerve.

I swing my hand and yell, "Hail of the Sapling!"

The saplings sprout from the grounds around the bolthound. Like a tornado made of leaves, the young trees intertwine and overlap as they grow, trapping and twisting the creature inside their blooming torrent. I wait a second, but the bolthound is still trapped inside the hail. My second strike should hit it.

I clench my fist, activating Root Force. Then comes the thumping sound I've been waiting for, followed by a ghastly growl. Saplings weave vines in and around the monster’s limbs, binding them to the earth like a mighty oak’s many roots.

Electric sparks merge into rays, scorching and torching until my saplings turn into ashes. The hound's paws burns with blinding light—a sign it has just activated its Surging Voltage.

I sense weakness. I have to seize this chance.

I lunge in and whip it repeatedly. Every time my whip hits, the thorns on it lodge through the creature's thick skin, and orange sparks brimming all over the place like sparks from a welding machine.

Apart from a few minor wounds on its neck and underbelly, it remains resilient. But I've traded the Flair reserves of two Rare skills for its Epic skill. I'll be able to drain its reserves after a few more strikes. Since creatures need to tap into their reserves (terrible name, really, I'd much rather vitality) to use Flair, leaving the Bolthound without reserves would put me in a significant advantage.

The beast snarls and charges toward me. I wait for it. It’s close, close enough to strike. Any closer and it would strike me. I strike first, summoning Saplings. The beast is overwhelmed. It must focus on its own limbs and tail. This focus betrays it. I attack, again. I seek an opening. It rears and I lurch behind it. The opening is met. I strike a critical hit via skull whipping. The hound jerks side to side, but the vines of my Saplings restrain it. It's immobile. My whip cracks down upon its head. Its scalp is thicker than I thought. I could strike again. I could crack its skull right now.

The bolthound is almost twice as agile as I envisioned. My whip grazes its fur, and the creature kicks its hind leg on my foot guard. Electricity surges through my body, whacking me off-balance. I flounder, leaning against a trunk and clenching my biceps. My entire body tenses up. A second passes; the shock ends.

Too greedy.

"Its Supercharge count is now three," warns Okra from somewhere behind me. That's why my judgment is incorrect. I thought the narrow space of the forest would slow down its recharges, but even when I'm restraining the beast, it still loads up clots of energy.

The hound howls once—a sharp and shrieking noise. Howling Berserk.

In a blink of an eye, the hound closes the distance. I roll to the side, scantily dodging its pounce. The sound of its scorching paws ramming through with the redwood trunk sizzles like a frying pan, and the smell of burnt grass assaults my nose. I bounce from my spot before the beast snatches me, then shield myself with a nearby tree as its jaws fork straight into the trunk. A second of breathing space.

The beast moves backward and raises its muzzle. I activate Whisper of the Forest.

The bolthound frantically turns its head sideways, growling and barking into thin air. The confusion-inducing move is working: the creature is hearing footsteps and rustles from every direction. I step out of the tree and activate the follow-up ability: Curse of Aogihakara. Hallucinatory Psilocybin mushrooms spring up all over the beast's body, drowning its fur in a dotted sea of hat-shaped brown. The beast recharges itself, groaning in pain until it overloads. The mushrooms then wither, but the damage is done: self-inflicted, recurrent damage.

But its concentration isn't lowered. The creature should've been in a bloated, haggard state from draining its reserves, but it isn't. Instead, it draws toward me, etching its charred footprints on the grass. I swipe beads of sweat off my forehead, huffing and clearing my throat.

Now I realize draining its resources is a bad idea. This creature has incredible reserves regeneration. It can unleash skills after skills while I'm still saving up for my Epic abilities.

We engage in combat. Crimson sap splatters from my whiplash every time it clashes against its claws. I try the sideway whip, the overhand flick, and the X pattern, but the creature manages to endure them all or parry with its paws. For a legendary weapon, King Igor's Whiplash has an abysmally low power and armor penetration. But it excels at restraining and tossing opponents away, so the bolthound can't get anywhere near me.

I'm supposed to overwhelm the creature after all that setup. But I can't even break the deadlock.

As much as I hate to admit it, I need to re-sharpen up my act. But it's nearly impossible for a high level beast to spawn inside Likimi for me to hone my skill, and leaving the forest isn't an option.

Leaving means death.

"Mr. Kolkov. Focus!" Comes Okra's snappy scream. I shudder away from my thought only to realize the creature has closed the gap I tried to maintain, leap from the ground, and eclipse my vision with the blinding, flashing sparks. I attempt to catch its stomach with my whip, but it pushes the thong away.

The sheer force of its advance sends me a few steps back, staggering as I balance myself. When I look up, the bolthound is striking down once again. I set up a wooden barrier, but no way it's going to form in time.

The air around me heats up, burning my cheeks. The sunlight reflects in the tip of its notched claws, etching on it a deep, fiery amber. The color of the 1000 HP I'm about to lose.

A clanking sound reverberates, and the wind whooshes in front of my face, knocking the heat away. The creature is sent off-course, crashing its muzzle into a nearby tree. I turn to the side and see a sword held up in the air, blood dripping from the tip of the blade. The owner of the blade flashes a cunning smile, his curly hair puffing up and down.

"Thank me later, Captain," says Eugene.