The sun beat down, hot and unwavering, at midday. The trees of Lyria's monster zone stood dense, their leaves rustling in the slight wind. And then, there it was: the little monster. It exploded from the bushes, its small legs drumming against the forest floor as it breathed raggedly, running from something. A loud shriek echoed from behind, and the little monster surged forward, increasing its pace. It was running, running faster than ever before, running from something deadly.

In its hands, it clutched a big, black claw. Held like a knife, it was a claw of something massive. It looked like the leg of a giant insect, but razor sharp. This was the claw it had found randomly in the monster zone while scavenging for food. It was the claw of a boss monster. It hadn't known it was near the boss monster's nest. But when it heard the sound, it ran. This little monster was now focused on survival, no matter the cost. It would try to live, to adapt, to learn, to live longer with each life it lived.

As it ran, it looked around, its gaze sweeping over the surroundings. It spotted a big tree, four feet thick, huge, long, with vines clinging to it. Focusing its eyes, it saw no monsters in the tree. The vine monsters weren't there. With a surge of strength, it jumped, high into the air, and with a desperate grip, clamped its little fingers onto the tree trunk.

Gritting its teeth, the little monster launched itself upwards, claws scrabbling for purchase on the rough bark. It grabbed a branch, then swung its body, spinning, and with a desperate heave, held onto another, hoisting itself higher. It then hid within the dense tangle of leaves and branches, finding a pocket of shadow. Its eyes, darting and alert, remained narrowed as it clutched the black claw.

Suddenly, the monstrous centipede burst from the same bushes, its segmented body a riot of green. The shells that armored its back gleamed, reflecting the harsh sunlight. Two long, green antennae, tipped with a shimmering, almost iridescent quality, twitched and writhed, sampling the air. Its legs, each tipped with a blade-like point, like the claw the little monster held, clicked against the forest floor as the creature moved. The black, multifaceted eyes of the insect monster scanned the area, devoid of any trace of mercy. The mouthparts, a complex array of black, needle-sharp teeth and curved tusks, opened and closed with a rhythmic, clicking sound. The shells on its back began to vibrate, a rapid, percussive hammering that echoed through the silent forest.

The monster turned, its mandibles snapping, its body almost slithering across the ground. The many legs, each tipped with a sharp claw, clicked against the forest floor. The little monster remained hidden, nestled amidst the leaves. Its body was not trembling. The primal terror that had once gripped it had lessened. It was no longer paralyzed by fear. It had grown accustomed to the adrenaline, the constant threat, the fight for survival.

The monster passed directly beneath the tree. The little monster, holding its breath, did not make a sound. It focused on the gaps in the monster's segmented body. The thought of leaping down, of attacking while the creature was unaware, flickered in its mind. A rush of adrenaline pulsed through its small frame, but the monster suppressed the thought. Too dangerous. Too stupid. It would die instantly. The monster was simply too big, too powerful. A single blow would be enough.

The little monster knew its limits. But after countless deaths and respawns in this harsh world, it had learned. It truly began to learn after being captured by the huge, red dog, the Crimson Alpha. It had believed the dog had no intention of eating it. That was until it was brought before the Alpha's pack. The Alpha, it turned out, was saving it for them.

After the gruesome death it suffered, being torn apart by the dogs, it was revived. Slightly traumatized by the experience, it hid. But it began to realize it couldn't hide forever. Then it was attacked again, this time at night, by something that resembled a black rabbit, something that seemed to teleport in the darkness. Then, it was attacked by the grey, walking monster again. But it also began to fight back. It began to kill monsters of its own. Though small, like the slither brulin or the slimes, it realized something fundamental: Killing things made it stronger.

It didn't know how, but somehow it did get stronger, not just from the sheer experience of the battles, but somehow, it just did. It was now stronger and faster. And its body had become more durable. It had noticed this. It could now survive. It had been days since its last death. It didn't want to restart again. It didn't want to do this all over again. After all, it had found its best weapon: this thing it was carrying, this black claw. It was so sharp, so strong.

If it died, it would lose it, and entirely end up somewhere and start from the beginning again, weak and frail. And this honestly seemed like one of the best places. There were only two places where it thought it had a chance: Lyria and the Crossroads. There were monsters either weaker than it there or as small as its size. So it could live longer off of those places, but not Aria, not the place it had first appeared, not the place it belonged.

The monster finally disappeared into the distance. Having not noticed the little monster, it crawled away. The little monster let out a small sigh as it quickly dropped from the tree, landing onto the ground with a soft thump. It then looked at the claw, running a finger along its razor-sharp edge, lost in thought. Memories, the ghosts of past battles, flooded back. It knew this thing, this claw, was sharp and strong. But what if it had two weapons, and not just one?

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Memories of the other monsters, the ones that wielded clubs, flashed through its mind. Those weapons, back then, had looked really useful. Plus, it could easily lift something like that now. After all, it had become stronger. And with the claw it was holding... it could make something like that.

Its gaze, newly alert, darted around the area. Then, it moved, drawn by the sight of a broken branch, thick and strong, near a tall tree. A silent triumph sparked in its eyes. It sprinted forward, the small feet a blur against the grass. Crouching, it examined the branch. Perfect.

It raised the claw. The black blade, glinting in the dappled sunlight, sank into the wood. It pulled the claw free, then drove it in again, and again, a rhythmic assault. Sweat beaded on its brow. The task was hard. It focused on the task, its jaws clenched in concentration.

Finally, the branch split, severed. It lifted the new club with both arms, the weight a satisfying pressure.

The little monster looked around, assessing. This was not the place. With the club held tight, it turned and ran. It headed toward the place it knew, the place where other creatures rarely went, the place where not even humans would venture. It didn't know why, but it knew where. It fled through the undergrowth, a solitary figure, until the air grew colder.

It stopped. The chill, a familiar caress of cold air, told it that it had arrived. This was the place. The creature didn't know why the air was cold here, and it didn't want to know. It was afraid. One time, it had ventured deeper, further into the cold, but the chill had intensified, crawling into its bones, telling its very being to turn back. And it *had*.

It carefully placed the wood onto the forest floor and began its work. The black claw, held in its grasp, a blur of motion as it attacked the wood. It used the sharp edges to shave away sections, shaping the wood into a club. Time blurred. It worked and worked and worked, its focus intense.

It paused, tapping the claw lightly against its shoulder, its gaze evaluating the work. Not quite there yet.

It knelt again, returning to the task. It focused on the handle, slimming it, making sure it was narrower than the club's head. It was trying to replicate the clubs it had seen those other monsters carry.

At last, it stood back. The work was done. It looked at the club. It was perfect. It had even shaped the head, removing the outer shell, leaving rough protrusions to resemble wooden spikes.

The black claw was secured again, tucked into the rag tied around its waist. Then, it lifted the club. It was heavy. The head was heavier than the handle.

Good. Just as it wanted.

It swung the club, a practiced motion. The weight of the head guided the swing, left, then right, the wood whistling through the air. Left. Right. It stopped, the swing stilled. The creature's mouth opened, a rare, almost feral smile spreading across its face, the teeth still mostly hidden. It rested the club against its shoulder.

It walked on, a newfound confidence humming beneath its alert caution. The heavy club, the sharp claw... It felt almost unstoppable, at least against creatures of its own size. It knew its limitations, though. It wasn't about to be foolish enough to think it could take on anything. It had learned that lesson the hard way, through more than thirty deaths. Caution was key.

Two years. Two years since it had come into existence. And within those two years, it had embraced another monster. It had held the other creature, felt its form against its own. A being of a different make, different build. Skin soft to the touch.

The creature remembered the feeling of touch. The creature remembered the warmth. It wanted this, this feeling of closeness, of being with another being. It wanted the feeling of fullness. It wanted something to fill the emptiness. But in this place, in its world, it was a thing that was not possible.

Were all monsters like this? Did they all feel the same hollow ache? Its shoulders slumped. The club's head thumped against the forest floor, a dull thud in the silence. The little monster stared at the dirt, a wave of sadness, deeper than sadness, a familiar depression, washing over it. This was it. This was all there was. To live. To fight. To eat the wretched food. To be hunted. To be killed. To die. And then... to do it all again.

All the confidence, all the fleeting joy, vanished. This was the pattern. It would feel strong. It would feel like progress. And then... for what? Why? If it died, it would be back at level one, vulnerable and weak. It had realized that other monsters grew stronger from killing, just like it. They were also trapped, in a way, in this same endless cycle. In this world, everything felt wrong.

It closed its eyes, then exhaled a long, weary breath. It was so tired of thinking, of feeling. It had to let it go, it had to shut down these feelings and not open them. It lifted the club, resting it on its shoulder once more. Why was it thinking about this? It didn't matter, right? If it didn't matter, It would have to fit in, just like all the others. It just had to think of the moment, not the past. Live. Don't think of the future unless it was about food or monsters. Don't think of the past unless it was about that place, or food.

Even though it yearned for connection, for something to fill the void, it knew the truth. The only time it could truly *feel* was when it was under attack, causing harm, or touching something already dead. The interactions were limited to rejection, killing, being killed, and hiding... over and over again.

It didn't matter. It didn't.

The little monster's mouth turned upward, a smile that failed to reach its eyes. It was a smile devoid of happiness, the barest imitation of joy. It closed its eyes, drawing in a deep breath of forest air, and then opened its wide, black eyes, turning them towards the sky. Beyond this, beyond the suffocating trees, above it all… it wished it could be like the flying creatures, soaring freely. Maybe, even if they died and returned, they could see more, more than the world in front of it.

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