His hand ached from gripping the hilt. With a shudder, he hurled the blade away in a moment of pure revulsion. What had he done? Was he truly a murderer? He’d told himself it was self-defence—but now he had taken that death and turned it into power. He had gained strength, yes, but at what cost? For the first time, he wondered if survival was worth the price of someone else's soul. Jason's final moment would now forever be part of Richter.

  The skill had evolved from [Inferior] to [Uncommon]—now Richter's highest-rated ability. Something within him shifted. His analytical mind, the part honed by years of research and rational thinking, surged back to the surface. He studied the skill again with new focus.

  [Unstable Mana Lance (Uncommon)]: A volatile, high-intensity variant of Mana Bolt. Increased damage scaling with Intellect and emotional intensity. May misfire when overcharged or emotionally unstable.

  He formed the skill—this time, the mana flowed with precision, deliberate and focused. It gathered into an orb before sharpening, condensing into a sleek, blue-glowing spear. The energy felt denser, more alive. Richter aimed at an untouched patch of the barkskin and released it. The lance shot forward and punched through the thick hide like it was paper, leaving a clean hole where once there had been armour.

  He stood in silence, staring at the damage.

  It had felt good—too good. The clarity of control, the raw force behind the spell, the effortless precision. It was exactly what he’d needed in that bear fight, and it disturbed him how satisfying it felt to wield that kind of power now. He tried to tell himself it was just relief, just catharsis. But part of him knew better.

  The spell had come easier this time. Not just because of the upgrade, but because he had felt it—Jason’s fear, Jason’s instinct. The memory of it was still there in the magic, a ghost in the casting. It wasn’t just his spell anymore. And that weight... it clung to him like a shadow.

  He lowered his hand slowly, the last flicker of blue mana dissipating at his fingertips.

  Richter gathered the pouches, carefully transferring their contents into his own. As he surveyed the clearing, the weight of what had happened settled heavily on his shoulders—this place reeked of death, of violence, of something irreparably broken. He couldn’t stay here. Not now. But he would return. These people deserved more than to rot beneath bloodied soil. They deserved closure—a proper farewell.

  But that would have to wait. Right now, Richter needed rest.

  He glanced down at the severed hand still pointing toward the trees, Cain’s twisted breadcrumb. "Yeah... I get it," he muttered. "I’m going."

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  As Richter stepped into the trees, he was met with an unexpected serenity—a jarring, almost offensive contrast to the blood-soaked clearing behind him. The temperature dropped a few degrees, the air cooler beneath the dense canopy, and the quiet hush of the forest wrapped around him like a weighted blanket. Night was settling in fast, draping the world in deep blues and muddy grays.

  His eyes scanned the trees—oak, ash, and hazel—tall and ancient, their bark rough and gnarled with age. The forest felt old, untouched, and strangely watchful. He noted how the leaves overlapped high above, forming a ceiling that blocked most of the fading sunlight. What little light remained filtered through in narrow shafts, casting sharp lines across the moss-covered ground.

  Thick bracken lay underfoot, soft but concealing, the perfect place for predators to hide. His boots sank into it soundlessly, and even his breathing felt too loud here. Insects had begun their nightly symphony, the rhythmic buzz and hum a low murmur of unseen life. He couldn’t help but catalogue it all—how many exit points the path offered, how difficult it would be to climb the trees, how exposed he was if something decided to attack.

  It was peaceful. But Richter knew better than to mistake peace for safety.

  With just a thought, the blade he had discarded in the clearing reappeared in his hand—no mana, no effort, as if it had always been part of him. He glanced over his shoulder, the weight of memory urging him not to forget the path back. He turned toward a slender hazel tree and drove the dagger into its trunk. The blade sank in with unsettling ease, as if the wood itself parted willingly. There was almost no resistance—just the quiet, effortless slide of something sharper than it had any right to be. A mark. A reminder. A line drawn in the forest saying: this way leads back to death.

  The walk wasn’t far before he came upon another clearing, this one dominated by a massive rock formation that jutted from the earth like the spine of some ancient creature. Lichen clung to its surface, soft and green, while tendrils of moss draped down like nature’s tapestry. Thin vines slithered from deep cracks, reaching toward the fading light. A narrow trickle of water cascaded down one face of the stone, catching the dim dusk glow as it joined others to form a still, reflective pond at the base. The source of the water wasn’t visible, but Richter suspected it was a natural spring, nestled deep within the rock formation. That explained the clarity—the way the water shimmered with a kind of untouched purity, cold and clean as if it had never been exposed to the world above. It made sense geologically, but more than that, it added to the eerie calm of the place. The spring whispered of something ancient, a quiet constant in a world turned violent.

  Richter circled the pond, his gaze drawn to a shadowed opening nestled within the rock wall. In any other moment, its jagged shape and dark interior would have screamed danger. But now, in the quiet after all he had endured, the sight brought something else—a strange sense of calm. A whisper of safety. Of shelter. A place not to fight or run or analyze, but to rest.

  His instincts didn’t resist. For once, they agreed with what he felt: not fear... but relief.

  Entering the cave, Richter could barely see. He moved by instinct, guided only by the final sliver of fading daylight. The air was damp and cool, thick with the scent of moss and stone. He found a corner tucked beneath an overhang and collapsed into it, the stone unyielding but somehow comforting.

  For the first time since the Integration, he didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to fight. If something came for him in the night, so be it. Let it end. Just let it happen quietly—without dreams, without memories, without waking up.