Luke was alone in the tent, seated in front of the pale system light. The interface hovered before him, silent but heavy with meaning. Upon reaching level 20 in his class, five skill options had appeared. He could choose only one.

Each decision would shape not just his combat style, but possibly his fate.

The skills were:

[Corpsewalk Teleport], [Thorncut], [Blood Drain], [Reaper's Eyes], and the final one.

And it was the last that made him hesitate the most.

[Wraith Form (Ultra-Rare)]: Your body dissolves into a floating black mist, transforming into a living darkness with no defined shape. In this state, physical attacks become useless against you, as your form becomes ethereal. You slide seamlessly through your surroundings, moving like an intelligent veil of darkness, passing through bars, cracks, and narrow openings. An elusive presence, impossible to trap. A silhouette without flesh, dancing between the edges of reality and the void.

Luke read the description more than once.

"I'd be like... some kind of damned dementor?" he muttered, pacing circles in the tent.

The space wasn't large, but he and Allison had extended it a few days ago with extra fabric—enough room for restlessness.

Maybe not exactly a dementor... more like a sentient cloud of darkness.

It was a terrifying ability—and a powerful one.

To become a specter. Untouchable. Unpredictable. He could dodge attacks, pass through tight spaces, infiltrate the unreachable corners of the Wild Zone. Maybe even reach the fortress of the second mechanism without triggering any alarms.

The possibilities felt endless.

And that was exactly why he needed to think clearly.

Coldly.

It's not complete invulnerability. If my mana runs out while I'm inside a tunnel, or worse, a pipe, I'll turn back into a human and get crushed to death.

There were risks. Big ones.

Even so… paired with his Demonic Perception, he could become a creature of absolute darkness. He could move through cracks, pipelines, fissures in rock—and see clearly where anyone else would get lost and die.

Not to mention the stealth potential.

Luke leaned on the crate that served as his table, his eyes still locked on the interface. Each of the skills offered a different future.

[Corpsewalk Teleport] was perfect for an aggressive, relentless style. In a fight against multiple enemies, he could kill one and instantly teleport through their corpse, dancing between bodies like a shadow blade.

[Thorncut] would make him a living storm. Every strike would plant thorns that tore enemies from the inside out, punishing them simply for moving.

[Blood Drain] was almost a brutal evolution of Basic Blood Regeneration. He'd bite, feed, and heal. Savage. Too beastly—even for him.

[Reaper's Eyes] gave tactical advantage. Seeing the life aura of enemies—knowing who was on the edge of death and who still had strength. Knowing when to pull back. When to kill.

And finally...

[Wraith Form].

It wasn't a direct combat skill. It was the kind of power that elevated its user—if used right.

"If I want to walk with death," he murmured, "this is like putting on the shroud myself."

He exhaled slowly. The weight of the dilemma pressed on him more than he expected.

But the decision was drawing closer. And he knew that once it was done, there would be no turning back.

Teleportation was tempting. Incredibly tempting. But at that moment, Luke wasn't thinking about offensive maneuvers or quick escapes. He was thinking about getting out of the tutorial.

Wraith Form might help him pass through the fortress alarms without setting them off, and that alone would be enough. But there was more. Something visceral inside him, his instinct. A demonic whisper deep within, telling him this was the right choice. He couldn't explain how, but... there was an unsettling, unshakable certainty.

He didn't hesitate any longer.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

[You have acquired the Class Skill: Wraith Form]

The moment it happened, his body reacted.

A wave of heat climbed up his spine and rushed into his skull. His mind was flooded with flashes, rapid, chaotic images he couldn't follow: a darkness rising from the earth, smiling, dissolving into the night, slipping through walls, patrols, chains.

Then came the pain. Brief, sharp, as if a spike had been driven into his forehead.

And it passed.

Luke stumbled forward.

Something felt wrong.

His fingers swelled, as if the blood had been forced to the surface. His clothes puffed outward, then seemed to lose volume. His heartbeat—went silent. The air turned cold. And in the next instant, his body lost all form.

He simply dissolved.

It was like being outside himself—but still inside something. He saw inward and outward at the same time, aware in all directions. He was a dark mist, dense, floating inches above the ground. No eyes. No mouth. No skin. Only presence.

A living darkness.

Is this... me?

He moved. Instinctively, his spectral body glided like smoke through the tent, curling around furniture, slipping through the breeze that crept in through the seams of the fabric. He felt every current of air as if it were part of him.

He focused.

The dark mist began to take shape again. He molded it—arms, a head, a hooded silhouette with no face. A floating shadow.

A perfect copy of a Harry Potter dementor.

"Holy shit..." The voice that came out wasn't his. It was deep, ragged, almost demonic.

Do I sound like this in this form...?

He drifted through the tent, testing it. Feeling powerful. And alien. A presence made for fear.

Then—footsteps.

Someone was approaching.

Luke reacted on instinct, dissolving back into air. Then, with a soft thump, he collapsed to the ground in human form, gasping. The ache in his arm returned, faint but real—a reminder that he was still alive.

The flap of the tent opened.

"There you are," said Allison as she stepped inside.

Luke forced a smile. He sat calmly, wearing a neutral expression, as if nothing had happened. "Just checking the system interface."

Not a lie.

Allison didn't suspect a thing. She walked toward one of the wooden crates, still drying her hair with a towel. The scent of the soap she had used in the bath lingered in the air, blending with the smoke of the campfire.

She looked at him and frowned. "Your arm looks awful."

Luke glanced down. Even after the potion, the burned flesh was still barely healed.

He didn't answer. Instead, he stared at the palm of his own hand.

The darkness was still there—silent, latent, waiting to be summoned again.

Seeing the wound, he silently thanked his Demonic Endurance. The Manticore's energy blast had hit him dead-on. If it had been the Luke from a few weeks ago, he probably would've lost the entire arm—just like before, when it had been severed until a race level-up healed it back.

"It was worse," he said, examining the burn. "But I took a healing potion. Helped a lot."

He looked at Allison.

"And you? When we were heading back, I should've offered you a potion too. Didn't even think of it."

"Don't worry," she replied with a small smile. "Better to save those potions for our plan. Besides... I got a race skill. Gives me passive regeneration. It's slow, but it works."

"Really? That's great."

"It's tied to my lineage..." she murmured, averting her eyes.

Luke caught the tone and chose not to ask more.

"You should probably ask Thiara to check your arm," she said.

"There are people worse off than me. I'll swing by when things calm down."

He stood, stretching sore shoulders. His blood felt thick, every muscle pulsing with pain.

"By the way…" Allison said casually, glancing toward the corner of the tent. "Mind if I use another one of your shirts?"

"Considering half the clothes I have used to be yours—back when 'guy Allison' died—I don't see why not."

She smiled, clearly satisfied. Then she added:

"It's just... system gear molds perfectly to the body, right? The shirt I wear day to day is already the female cut. But after so long undercover, I got used to men's shirts. They're looser. Not tight."

She hesitated, then laughed softly.

"And... I kinda learned to enjoy not wearing a bra. With a loose shirt, it's not that noticeable."

Luke blinked.

Okay... that's a lot of detail.

"It's just more comfortable for sleeping," she concluded, like she was explaining the logic behind switching armor. "After I wake up, I put the system gear back on like normal."

They moved on to talking about the battle with the Captains. Allison described how she'd taken on the fire tyrannosaurus—a massive monster. Thanks to her elemental ice power, she was its natural counter.

She showed him the new chestplate she'd earned: a light piece of metal fused with red cloth. Elegant, but durable.

Luke nodded, impressed.

Later, as he stepped out of the tent, he looked up at the sky and down at his own hands. The memory of Wraith Form's transformation still lingered, crawling over his skin like a chill.

The sensation... the dismantling of his form, the silence inside, the absolute command over the dark.

Even with pain still pulsing through every fiber of his muscles, a smile escaped.

That had only been the beginning.

An idea passed through his mind like a shadow.

A violent, ambitious idea.

This wasn't just a stealth skill. It could become a weapon.

A method of infiltration, yes—but also the very presence of a nightmare.

The ultimate form of a demonic assassin. Invisible. Untouchable. Imminent.

I think now... I really do feel like a demonic being.

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