The next two days passed in a blur of blood and motion.
Arthur stayed deep within the Crimson Edge Forest, resting only when wounds demanded it. He became a ghost among trees, stalking prey and gathering energy for the scroll.
In those forty-eight hours, he hunted fifteen monsters ranging from Mid to Peak 1st Stage. Some were straightforward—ambushes, well-timed strikes. Others tested him, especially packs or elemental beasts.
When he finally paused beneath the roots of a fallen duskwood tree, the scroll pulsed quietly within.
<
He smiled. A fortune by lower world standards.
---
But what truly refined him in those days wasn't just the energy—it was movement.
On the second morning, Arthur encountered a pack of Ash-Mane Wolves, six in total. Each was coordinated, attacking in formation, their leader at Peak 1st Stage.
They forced Arthur to adapt.
He learned to move.
To pivot on the balls of his feet to avoid lunges. To shift his center of gravity to spring between strikes. To roll under jaws, step into shadows, and flow like wind.
For an hour, he fought, dodged, leaped, and countered. His instincts sharpened.
He didn't just fight them—he danced through their attacks.
When the last wolf fell, he knelt in exhaustion, covered in blood and bruises—but alive. And faster.
"Footwork..." he murmured. "I need more."
---
That evening, fate answered.
As dusk fell, Arthur reached a shallow canyon flanked by stone ridges. The air smelled of smoke.
He dropped low, moving silently.
At the bottom of the gorge was a camp—fourteen bandits, armed, armored, gathered around a fire. Their banners bore the symbol of a broken scythe.
He recognized the name from conversations in Crimson Stone: the Scythe Fang Gang. A roaming band of killers and thieves infamous for robbing hunters and smuggling beast cores.
At their center stood a tall, lean man in a storm-gray cloak.
His name was Tarn Volsk, known locally as a dangerous Initial 2nd Stage cultivator with a deadly temper. What made him feared, however, was the rare D-tier movement technique he wielded—"Shadow Phantom Steps".
Only the first level was known to be mastered by him, but that alone made him nearly untouchable by anyone below 2nd Stage.
Arthur didn't hesitate.
He waited until nightfall, then struck.
---
The first two guards fell without a sound.
Arthur slid between tents, slashing throats and using terrain to his advantage. The scroll offered guidance—brief pulses when someone approached, faint suggestions of angles to evade.
He used bandit weapons against them, cutting ropes to drop tents, throwing stones to distract, and igniting beast-fat oil to cause confusion.
Seven bandits died before the alarm rang.
The camp exploded into motion.
Tarn stepped into the moonlight, cloak swirling, and shouted, "Who dares?!"
Arthur faced him alone.
"You killed my men?"
Arthur raised his blade. "And you're next."
The fight began with blinding speed.
Tarn activated his movement technique, dashing with afterimages, flickering like shadow.
Arthur had no technique to match—but he had instinct, and two days of raw combat with fast monsters.
He stepped through the phantom dashes, reading rhythm.
Steel clashed. Dust flew.
Arthur bled, but Tarn bled more.
When Tarn went for a final charge, Arthur ducked and slammed his elbow into the man's ribs, driving a dagger into his side.
Tarn fell.
The scroll pulsed.
<
Arthur claimed the bandit's technique scroll, beast cores, and coins.
The bandits fled. He didn't chase them.
He had what he needed.
---
The scroll recorded the technique, preserving it without damage now that energy overflowed. Arthur retreated to a remote glade and began learning.
"Shadow Phantom Steps" was a three-level movement art:
First Level: Ghost Flicker – momentary burst in a single direction with an afterimage.
Second Level: Double Fade – allows two-step directional feint, moving unpredictably.
Third Level: Phantom Split – creates actual mana clone for one second.
Tarn had mastered only the first.
Arthur mastered the first within a day.
By using his experience from the wolf fight, he understood the rhythm of step-dash-shadow. The second level took longer—he trained using monster ambushes, flickering in and out of reach to confuse his targets.
He used it against:
A Wind-Tail Leopard, forcing it to lunge at illusions.
A Steelvine Serpent, coiling around a false image.
A group of Chisel-Horned Deer, driving them into each other.
By the end of the third night, Arthur had mastered the second level.
He could move like smoke.
He stood atop a cliff in the forest, wind swirling around him, and whispered:
"Only one level remains."
But he knew.
He was already becoming something far beyond the realm's expectations.
And this path, forged in blood and will, had only begun to unfold.
---
By the end of his hunt, Arthur had collected an impressive hoard:
21 beast cores (ranging from Initial to Peak 1st Stage).
Six rare materials like wind-silk tendons, flame glands, and serpent venom sacs.
17 lesser materials: hides, claws, fangs, bones.
A small stash of coins and weapons from the bandits.
Combined with energy gathered from both beasts and the bandit leader, Arthur's scroll now pulsed:
<
He packed it all into a reinforced satchel and set off toward the city gates.
---
As he neared the stone-walled city of Vandren Hollow, he noticed something odd.
The road was packed. Traders, hunters, nobles in beast-drawn carriages.
The guards at the gate were on high alert.
"State your name and intent," said a gruff soldier.
"Arthur. Returning from the forest," he replied, showing his satchel.
The man glanced at the bloodstains and nodded. "Hunter, huh? Five copper to enter."
Arthur paid the fee, then asked, "Why the crowd?"
Another guard smirked. "You must've been deep in the woods. It's the City Lord's 300th birthday. Festivities begin today."
Arthur arched a brow. "And all this is for that?"
"Of course," the soldier chuckled. "Nobles have arrived from the south, merchant caravans with exotic gifts, even beast dancers from the Whispering Savannah. You're lucky you returned today. Might find good work—or good trouble."
Arthur stepped through the gates as a luxurious white-gold caravan pulled past him, its beast-dragon steeds snorting mist.
Children pointed, merchants barked, nobles passed on stallions with silver-maned saddles.
Arthur slipped into the crowd quietly, his mind turning.
A festival meant opportunity.
And somewhere in this city, his next step waited—hidden in noise, coin, and power.
---
Cultivation and Combat Technique Grades:
In the Lower Realm, techniques were categorized into six mortal grades:
F Tier – Basic movements or crude fighting styles, barely structured.
E Tier – Common martial forms used by village guards and militia.
D Tier – Standard military arts and low-level cultivation manuals.
C Tier – Skilled warrior arts, suitable for elite mercenaries or nobles.
B Tier – Techniques capable of altering the tide of small battles.
A Tier – Rare treasures, guarded in clan vaults, offered only to geniuses.
Above A Tier was the mythical S Tier—supposedly granted by the will of heaven only to 6th Stage powerhouses. S Tier techniques were whispered to barely touch the surface of laws themselves—such as flame, lightning, or space.
These were coveted beyond reason.
But the scroll whispered as Arthur studied the Shadow Phantom Steps.
<
<
<
Arthur stared at the technique scroll, once precious in his eyes, and realized: he was cultivating something different.
His path was beyond mortal rankings.
And the Scroll Realm would not be confined by letters or illusions of power.