Chapter 295 - 296: Wood Land Creatures

Xander's frustration was shared by the whole party. They had been running all this time—afraid, cautious, haunted by the thought that everything could kill them.

But now… now they could fight back.

The feeling was liberating. To finally push back instead of retreat… to strike instead of survive. All their gear, all the mental torture, the endless horror—they finally had the strength to kill.

Damon sighed. These things wouldn't help him meet his level-up requirements, but at least he was cutting something down.

'Maybe if I devoured them… I could get some skills out of it.'

He charged forward, falling into position just behind Leona and Evangeline in the center of the formation.

"Stay in formation…"

Xander raised his armored hand, pulsing with heavy gravity, and brought it down with a thunderous crash on a Wraithwood Stalker. Bark exploded. His face twisted in barely restrained rage.

Leona's body crackled—her armor erupting in a blast of lightning as a Wraithwood Stalker lunged at her from behind. She raised her sword, and in a flash, her figure vanished—reappearing in mid-swing just ahead of the creature.

Damon raised an eyebrow.

'Right. Stormwake armor… enchantments let her teleport while swinging.'

Her blade carved through the wooden husk, lightning trailing in arcs behind her. The creature's body split in half, cauterized by the searing current.

He watched her move—relentless, untouchable.

'She's become a monster with that armor and weapon…'

"How the hell's anyone supposed to fight someone constantly radiating that much lightning…?"

And that wasn't even her full power. Her attribute was Storm—meaning she could manipulate rain, snow, wind, and ice if she wanted. She was that damn powerful.

A sharp crack came from behind.

Damon didn't even turn.

He simply raised the Wyvern's Fangs in a backward guard, blocking the gnarled wooden claws of a Wraithwood Stalker aiming for his back. A moment later, a spear of ice punched through its chest.

He glanced over his shoulder.

Matia stood at the rear, already forming a new spear—her Shattered Ice armor pulsing with magical energy.

'That armor of hers is really busted…'

The ability to create any weapon—and wield each as if it were one of the Ascendant Weapons. It wasn't just versatility. It was overwhelming force.

'I bet the funds that should've gone into giving me a weapon went to that thing…'

Unlikely. The Ancient Lord of Lysithara simply hadn't needed a weapon. So Damon had inherited an armor that came without one.

He turned fully, facing a small cluster of Wraithwood Stalkers slithering from the treeline, eyes glowing, limbs creaking.

His hand tightened around the hilt of the Wyvern's Fangs.

The party didn't seem to be struggling with the Wraithwood Stalkers at all. That gave Damon the freedom to stop worrying about them—and focus on testing his new powers.

Holding both Wyvern Fangs felt off. The jagged, curved bones weren't designed for dual wielding. He returned the one in his left hand to his back and kept the other, gripping it in a firm single-handed hold.

It was as long as a proper sword, and just as sharp.

But it felt foreign.

His usual fighting style—fluid, unpredictable—was gone. Now, he moved stiffly, like a student imitating sword forms. His stance was rigid. His swings, overly precise.

He could almost hear his father's voice nagging him about the importance of the basics.

No trickery, no cheap shots. No daggers slipping between ribs or sliding under a chin.

These monsters didn't have vital spots like humans. No soft throats. No lungs to collapse.

They were walking wooden nightmares.

He needed a better weapon. But all he had was this oversized fang.

And a handful of fundamentals.

"Guess I'll have to make it work… learn through battle, fail, bleed, try again..."

He smirked. The Stalkers looked slow now, their movements dulled beneath the weight of his murderous aura.

Remorseless kept his mind calm, his logic clear.

He shut out the violence his allies were unleashing around him.

Evangeline's magic flashed in the air. She had already left a graveyard of splintered corpses behind her—but she was clearly holding back. Giving the others space to vent.

Damon exhaled.

He didn't want to rely on skills—not yet. He wanted to learn the sword. Earn it.

He opened his eyes—then, betrayed his resolve.

Omen of Dread flared to life.

'Yeah, right… I am giving it my all.'

He couldn't afford to die here. He had no talent for the sword. Not yet. But he was going to male it work… he had too.

The aura of fear exploded outward. The Wraithwood Stalkers faltered—their wooden faces twisted, human-like eyes wrinkling as if flinching.

He smiled.

Spinning the Wyvern Fang in his hand, he gripped it like a dagger instead of a sword and dashed forward.

One of the Stalkers broke free of the aura and swung.

Damon barely dodged. Instinct flared—Beholder's Gaze activated, slowing time for a fraction. He struck for what he assumed was its torso. The fang cut clean through.

Green ichor spilled across the roots. The creature wheezed, as if trying to breathe—then collapsed, its eyes dimming.

[You have slain: Wraithwood Stalker]

He smiled. This—this was what first-class advancement was supposed to feel like. Rank-one monsters… nothing more than fodder.

But the others didn't care. They charged recklessly—driven by compulsion to guard the forest, to feed it with souls.

One surged at him—its fist drove straight through his chest.

Only… there was no impact.

His body dissolved into black mist. Untouched.

He grinned, staring down at the Pale Crown armor.

It had let the attack phase right through him.

Raising his bone weapon, he swung wide—hooked a Wraithwood by the neck and slammed it into another. Another leapt from the trees above, a crude wooden spear in hand.

Too fast to dodge. Too late—

He smirked.

His form flickered—turned to shadow, becoming formless. The Stalker looked confused. Too slow. Damon materialized behind it, plunging his blade through its skull before it could react.

"These two abilities together… they're insane."

He touched his temple, wincing. Using Shadow Form was disorienting—being without a body was difficult to comprehend. He needed practice.

If he could craft a technique around it…

He'd be almost impossible to stop.

"How does it feel," he asked softly, "to fight something you can't touch…?"

The remaining Stalkers stared at him, fear glowing in their wooden sockets. As if rallying courage, they turned to one another—then charged.

Damon raised his hand, took a deep breath.

"…Do you know how quickly wood burns?"

Pain surged through him as Ashborn awakened. Black fire coiled up his arm. His pain resistance was high—he could use this once. Maybe twice.

The flames exploded outward—an inferno of darkness.

[You have slain: Wraithwood Stalker]

[You have gained 5 attribute points]

[You have slain: Wraithwood Stalker]

[You have gained 5 attribute points]

…

The notifications kept flooding in.

He smiled—ignoring the pain, welcoming the fire.

Until it stopped.

And he realized—something was wrong.

He looked down at the ash with an expression of horror.

"…Where… the hell are my mana cores?"

The answer was already burning inside him.

The flames had consumed more than the enemy.