No time for melee.

I flick a bullet from my pouch with my thumb. My waves catch it mid-air—spin it, accelerate it.

But my focus is ahead.

A small raptor. Just over two meters tall. Komodo snout, plated with metallic fangs. Electric pulses shimmer along its skull.

It's fast—aiming straight for Camila's thigh.

Less than half a second.

I narrow my eyes. Track the vectors.

Trajectory. Speed. Gait. Angle of attack.

I channel force through the projectile—spiraling it tighter, coiling all tension into a single point.

Then release.

A sonic crack splits the air. The shot hits the raptor's shoulder. Doesn't pierce—but twists its frame. The bite misses, scraping off her armor with a shriek of teeth on metal.

It staggers. Recovers.

I'm already moving.

Boots tear through the grass. I map its posture—joints rotating, weight shifting. Every limb traced, adjusted, countered.

I raise my arm—fire again. Quick bursts. Not to kill, just enough to off-balance. One to the hind knee. Another to the rib cage.

The bullets land. Minor damage—but enough.

It's slowing. Breaking rhythm.

Camila's safe now.

"Keep running. I've got this," I send.

Then—

I press deeper. Pressure climbs under my skin. Muscles coil tight.

My perception sharpens. The air thickens. Sweat beads. Every flick of its claw, every twitch of its tail—it all stretches. Slows.

I step in. Let gravity load my stance.

One stride. Two.

It twitches—too slow.

By the time it moves, I'm already gone.

A blur past its flank. Blade drawn mid-motion.

The cut is silent.

I stop hard, boots carving a trench through the dirt. A cloud kicks up in my wake, rolling past my legs as I straighten.

Behind me, the creature shudders. Blood fountains from its neck.

I flick my wrist.

A thin arc of crimson paints the grass.

Then I sheath the blade without looking back.

Behind me, the raptor crashes down—legs giving out, head hitting with a thud. Its blood spreads into the grass, thick and dark, painting a red halo.

I notice how the dust cloud settles too quickly—falling fast.

Gravity.

I exhale, slow, then walk towards her.

Camila's leaning against a tree, breathing hard, one hand clutched around her arm.

I go over to my backpack lying on the ground nearby, open it, and pull out one of the spare casual shirts from the white room. Still clean enough.

I tear a strip from it.

Then I grab one of the wine containers Lukas gave me.

"Let me see your arm."

"Eh… it's okay," she says, a little hesitant. She extends it slowly.

The gash is deep—traced along the triceps, down past the forearm. Ugly, but not too bad.

She doesn't flinch when I pour the wine over it.

I press the cloth to it and start wrapping. "How did it happen?"

"One of them attacked me earlier. I managed to kill it, barely. But mid-fight, a second one joined in. I managed to block its claws, but one of the teeth still caught me. It was the arm holding my sword, so…" She glanced down, voice even.

"So you dropped your sword and… your stuff too, it seems."

She nodded once. "When I turned to run, it bit into my backpack. I had to let it go."

I nodded back. "No worries. Then we'll go get them."

She blinks, clearly surprised.

I reach out, send a quick wave to Imani.

He responds immediately. Two others with him. Moving to regroup with a third. Good.

"We'll catch up with Imani and the others after. First, we get your stuff back. Just give me a sec."

I sling my backpack over my shoulders, then drive one sword into the raptor's skull, prying it open until I see the faint glow nestled in its brain.

Stage 1 – 7.632%

Only 0.009%?

Why so low for the first of its type?

Is it based on their strength?

Well, that was a disappointing boost.

"Alright. Show me the way."

"Oh, yes."

She hesitates for just a moment, then starts running ahead.

"By the way," I call out as we move, "you are part of the music band, right? With Lukas, Josh and Datu?"

"Yes. Not very good, but I try," she replies, her tone polite.

"Well, I'm pretty sure it's the first, and best band The Tower will ever have. So—something for the records, right?"

Camila chuckles softly. Light, but with that nervous edge. "I suppose that's one way to look at it."

We move through the underbrush at a steady pace. Her breathing's steadied, and the cut, while not shallow, isn't bleeding anymore. I keep my waves spread, scanning ahead—just in case.

"I think Datu is the real talent in the group," she says after a moment, glancing back at me. "I just follow along."

"He really has the voice, doesn't he?" I say. "But the rest of you are pretty good. Just between you and me, I caught Lukas singing the other day. He's… not half bad."

She smiles faintly. Some of the tension in her shoulders fades.

The ground dips, sloping down. After a few more steps, she slows and points ahead. "There. That's where I dropped it."

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I follow her gaze. The backpack's there—torn wide open at the back, one strap dangling, half the contents scattered in the grass.

"Looks like it didn't like the taste," I mutter, kneeling beside it.

She crouches nearby. "I'll take care of it. You've already helped more than enough."

"Least I can do," I say, brushing dirt off one of the crushed flasks. "Besides, we'll need everything we can carry. No point wasting supplies—especially not until we find a freshwater source."

Just past a patch of brush, I spot the sword—half-buried in the dirt, the hilt still clean. I channel my waves, magnetizing it toward my hand. I wipe the blade down with some grass and offer it to her, hilt-first.

She takes it with both hands—careful—and gives a small nod. "Thank you."

I glance toward the small raptor's corpse ahead. "You should take the orb from your kill. You earned it."

Camila hesitates. "But I—"

"No buts," I cut in. "You landed the kill. It's yours."

She nods again, this time with a little more certainty, then pulls out one of her spare casual pants to patch the backpack.

As she works, I walk toward a nearby clearing, my waves sweeping outward—constantly scanning the surroundings.

In the distance, I catch sight of another pack of dinosaur-like creatures. I saw them earlier with Imani. They reminded me of Ankylosaurs—if you stripped the armor, thickened the legs, and ran glowing blue veins like circuitry along their sides.

But it's not them I'm looking for.

I send my waves outward, sweeping wide, and again I notice it—every creature here has some level of resistance to EM detection. Some light, some heavier. And then there are those like the one I fought earlier, that distort more than just waves.

It's hard to track anything purely through long-distance pulses. I have to rely on what's within range. Movement. Disturbance. Anything out of place.

Seconds pass in silence before I notice Camila finally absorbing the orb.

Something clicks.

"How much Stage Progress did it give you?" I ask.

She blinks, then answers, "0.015%."

What?!

I narrow my focus, sending a more detailed wave sweep over the raptor's corpse. It's nearly identical to the one I killed. Then why… why did hers give over 50% more SP than mine?

Unless…

Does it depend on the strength difference between us? A power gap modifier?

Not just raw kill value, but relative output?

Does it just factor current SP?

Interesting.

So SP progress is now tailored.

Not fixed. Not uniform.

I should be aiming for the strong ones then… but not now.

"Got everything ready? Let's—"

But I freeze.

Movement.

Faint, but distinct. Traveling through the ground.

Heavy. Muffled. Four-legged movement.

And fast. Extremely fast.

I focus my senses, expanding the range, trying to map its exact trajectory.

It's coming straight at us.

Dammit.

Let me catch a break, will you?

I push off the ground. Hard.

A crater bursts beneath my boots. Camila fades behind me as I cut across the slope.

Vibrations. Closer now. My waves ripple wide through the soil—tracking. Trees bend, their trunks trembling. Whatever's coming isn't light.

Then I see it.

A blur of metal-laced flesh, sprinting low to the earth. Five meters long. Lean. Built like a sabertooth—if someone had wired it to a generator.

Serrated claws. Plated hide. Antennae flicking with bursts of static. Electricity dances along its limbs, arcing with every stride.

It leaps.

I hurl myself sideways, shoulder-first into a tree. Bark shatters. Pain flashes up my arm.

The beast lands where I'd stood—dirt explodes, rocks scatter. Its claws carve trenches.

I don't wait.

Blades out.

It lashes its tail—fast.

I duck, but not fast enough.

A jolt slams through my chest. Armor crackles. My ribs seize. I bite back the scream. Knees crash to the ground. My whole body trembles.

Thrown back—rolling. Dead leaves. Pebbles. Another tree meets my spine and steals the air from my lungs.

Half a second.

I don't move. Don't breathe.

Then—

A slow inhale.

It charges.

The tension in its rear legs—too loaded. It's going to leap. Front claws wide, not tight—it'll swipe early. Tail angled right. A follow-up whip.

My mind lights up.

Not numbers. Not words.

Just motion.

Weight. Speed. Timing. The air between us folds into prediction. I see where it'll land. How it'll pivot. When it'll strike.

I move.

Boot hits a low branch. I launch up. Its claw whips beneath me, tearing bark into splinters. Mid-air, I flick a bullet upward. My waves grip it—tight spin, sharp vector.

Release.

It hits.

The creature jerks—shoulder rocked back. Its gaze twitches.

That's enough.

I land behind it. Blade already moving.

A clean slice across the back knee.

The cut lands—but not deep. It limps, snarling.

Tail sweeps.

I drop low—roll. The tree behind me erupts in a split of splinters and bark.

Up again. Blade forward.

I lunge.

It spins fast—skull-first.

Impact.

My chest caves around the blow. Armor crunches. Ribs scream. I fly backward—dragging grooves through soil and loose stone.

I slide to a stop, one hand pressed into the dirt.

Still breathing.

It's fast. Heavy too. But its moves—they're clean, not clever. No adaptive feedback. It's strong, but it isn't reading me.

That means I can win.

I drop tension. Let the rhythm slow.

The chaos filters.

Each movement it could make—I see the likely chain. Where the tail would land if it turned too far. How the paws would plant if it lunged left. How fast it can reset between swipes.

I choose a sequence.

And I commit.

Boot kicks off. I sprint forward, low. Blade tucked back. I veer left, then juke right.

It turns—too far.

Perfect.

My foot hits its shoulder. I step up and launch—into the trees. Branches whip past. The canopy bursts open.

It follows.

Tail sparking. Claws flaring.

We meet in the air.

My blade moves first.

First strike—diagonal through the jawline. Bone splits. Blood sprays.

Second strike—angled upward, from the base of the neck through the soft gap in its plates.

We crash.

I hit the ground hard. My back screams. The soil tears under me. My armor groans.

I roll. One knee down.

It twitches. Wounded. Gasping. Still trying to rise.

I step forward.

One final slash—clean, beneath the throat.

Its body jerks once.

Then drops.

Heavy silence.

Only breath.

Only blood.

I lower Overdrive.

The forest is silent.

My breath is not.

Camila's running up behind me. I lift a hand—signal her to stay.

My waves sweep outward. Full scan. Wide arc. Deep frequency.

Nothing.

Only the dead, and the scorched earth under my feet.

I exhale sharply.

My fingers move to the locks on my chestplate and twist them free with effort. The hiss of the release is followed by a soft groan from me. I peel the armor away from my torso.

Heat rushes out. The air stings.

Beneath, my shirt is half-charred—blackened, clinging to skin. I tear it open.

Burnt flesh. Patches of it—raw, red, cracked around the edges. Bruises trail out from the center of the burn like ink spilled across muscle. It's not the worst I've taken, but it's high on the list.

I touch one of the bruises, just for a second. Then stop myself.

Not the time.

I glance at the armor in my hand. The plating is scorched, one panel warped, another cracked. I run a thumb along the jagged edge.

No longer indestructible.

Just like after the seventh boss.

So that's it, then.

I spit blood to the side. It hits the dirt with a soft splatter. My mouth tastes of copper and smoke.

My gaze rises, resting on the creature's corpse. Smoke still curling from its antennae, its plated body twitching in post-mortem spasms.

I take a breath.

Then slide the armor back on.

The locks click back into place.

Seems The Tower's Tutorial is over.

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