The cold wind cut through Vergil’s clothes, stinging his skin as he crouched on the thick tree branch.
He wanted to rub his arms for warmth, but both hands were occupied, one holding his hunting bow, the other keeping an arrow nocked and ready.
Below, a horned deer stood apart from its herd, idly chewing fallen leaves on the forest floor.
Vergil slowed his breathing, steadied his aim, and let the arrow fly.
It struck deep behind the deer’s neck.
A pained bellow tore from the animal’s throat as it bolted into the woods, the rest of the herd scattering in a sudden panic.
Without hesitation, Vergil leapt from the branch and gave chase.
He followed the blood trail for hours, trekking across rugged hills, through freezing creeks, and forcing his way through thickets of brush.
Even as the crimson trail thinned, a clear sign the deer was weakening, Vergil did not rush forward to claim his prize.
He always approached with caution.
Little in these woods was truly normal; magic saturated the air, a palpable, heavy presence he had long since accepted.
Except for humans, every creature could absorb it if given enough time.
Vergil had heard too many stories of hunters running carelessly toward wounded prey, only to be torn to shreds by a beast’s final, magic-infused desperation.
Even when the deer finally collapsed onto the earth, Vergil remained still.
He waited at a distance until the frantic rise and fall of its chest stopped completely.
Only then did he cautiously approach from behind, staying strictly out of the animal’s blind spot even in death.
Kneeling beside the carcass, he slung his bow across his shoulder.
With one swift, practised motion, he drew the hunting knife from his waist and slashed the deer’s throat.
Dark, stagnant blood trickled from the wound before stopping entirely.
The beast had indeed died before the blade even touched its skin.
Vergil untied the rope fastened around his waist, bound the deer’s hooves tightly together, and heaved the heavy carcass onto his back.
Glancing through the swaying forest canopy, he noted the time.
When he had first shot the deer, it was early morning.
Now, the sun was already leaning toward late noon.
Adjusting the weight on his shoulders, he turned toward the direction of his village and began speed-walking through the chilling woods.
As his boots crunched over twigs, Vergil’s thoughts drifted to his next Skill Seed.
Humans couldn’t naturally absorb magic from the atmosphere like beasts could.
Instead, they had to achieve complete, absolute mastery over a specific concept until its essence crystallised within them.
Currently, he possessed two: the Visualising Skill he was born with, and the Origami Skill he had spent years perfecting.
But how do I evolve it into a clone?
He mused, shifting the deer’s weight.
Every Skill began at the lowly Mortal Rank.
Mark, the village guard captain, had spoken of higher Knight and Mage Ranks, the divergence of body and mind, but that was the absolute limit of the village’s knowledge.
To learn about higher paths, to find a future for his Mage-type Origami skill, he knew he would eventually have to leave.
The thought sent a familiar, coiling dread through his stomach.
Vergil was deeply, unapologetically afraid of death.
More than anyone around him, he understood that life could end at any time, in any place, and under any circumstance.
The village was isolated and weak, but it was safe.
Within its borders, only a handful of people could defeat him.
Most of the real danger lay far beyond, near Rock Hill Town and the treacherous Cold Moon Mountain Range.
Yet, he understood one truth with absolute clarity: safety without strength was an illusion.
Strength required knowledge and resources he could never find here.
That is why I need clones, he reminded himself.
If he could create true clones, they could leave the village in his stead to gather knowledge, power, and experience, while his true body remained hidden safely behind solid walls.
The problem was that he had no manual.
He had only mastered the Origami Skill by adapting concepts from the fantasy novels he had read in his previous life.
Through it, he could already manifest simple Human Paper Puppets.
If he pushed the skill to its absolute limit, perhaps those puppets would evolve into independent clones.
It was a solid theory, but he felt like a man reading a map drawn by someone who had never actually visited the destination.
So absorbed in his thoughts, Vergil failed to notice a thick tree root jutting across the path.
His foot caught against it, his body lurching forward, but his sharp reflexes kicked in just in time to regain his balance.
Blinking, he noticed the lengthening shadows.
Only a few hours remained before sunset.
He pushed the thoughts aside and quickened his pace.
Before long, the gnarled, ancient tree marking the village boundary came into view.
Vergil slowed his steps, preparing to greet the guards.
Then, a girl’s sharp, terrified scream tore through the quiet forest.
Vergil froze mid-step.
His survival instinct urged him to keep walking, to block out the sound and mind his own business.
He took one step forward, but his legs felt like lead.
Finally, he stopped.
“I shouldn’t get involved,” he whispered to the empty air, the words tasting like a coward’s lie.
Exhaling heavily, he lifted the heavy deer and secured it safely onto a sturdy, high tree branch.
After checking twice to ensure it wouldn’t fall, he silently crept toward the source of the scream.
Minutes passed as he scanned the dense brush, but the forest had gone dead silent save for the chirping of insects.
A wave of relief washed over his face, and a faint smile touched his lips.
“I probably heard wrong,” he muttered softly, turning around to leave.
Before he could take a single step, low male laughter echoed through the trees.
Not one voice, several.
First the scream, now the laughter.
A heavy sense of danger flared in his chest.
Vergil dropped low, moving soundlessly toward the voices.
Crouching behind a massive tree trunk, he spotted two boys laughing in a small clearing.
Just beyond them stood a third boy with his back turned, and further ahead, a fourth boy was kneeling over a figure pinned to the dirt.
Seeking a better vantage point, Vergil silently scaled a nearby tree covered in thick, protective foliage.
From the concealment of the branches, the grim reality became clear.
The fourth boy was forcefully tearing the clothes from a struggling young girl, while the third tightly pinned her wrists to the ground.
The other two simply watched, laughing.
Something tightened in Vergil’s chest, slow and deliberate, like a fist closing.
He knew the risks.
The boys wore fine, tailored fabrics; they were wealthy citizens from Rock Hill Town.
If any of their family members turned out to be a powerful Knight or Mage, getting involved would mean a death sentence for him.
Logically, he knew he should walk away.
Yet, before his mind could paralyse him with fear, his hands moved on their own.
He silently nocks an arrow and aims.
He frowned.
The distance was too great for a guaranteed kill, and moving closer risked immediate discovery.
If even one of those boys possessed a combat-oriented Skill, Vergil would be outmatched.
He had only one option: a decisive, overwhelming ambush.
Drawing upon the inner energy coiled within his core and the raw power awakened by his Skill Seeds, he channelled the force down his arm and into the weapon.
The wood groaned, hardening under the magical pressure as the bowstring drew taut.
He poured the remainder of his energy into the arrow, transforming its simple iron tip into something chillingly sharp and lethal.
Vergil steadied his breathing, aiming directly at the boy pinning the girl’s wrists.
He released the string.
A sharp, violent twang cut through the forest.
The empowered arrow tore through the air and instantly pierced the side of the boy’s neck.
He collapsed into the dirt without a sound.
The laughter vanished instantly.
The remaining three boys froze in sheer terror.
Gritting his teeth against the sudden, dizzying exhaustion of draining his inner energy, Vergil forced his trembling hands to nock a second arrow.
He pulled back and loosed it at the boy who had been on top of the girl.
But the boy reacted a split second too fast, throwing himself sideways.
The arrow merely grazed his arm, thudding deep into the earth.
“Ambush!
Tree!” one of them yelled, and the surviving trio scrambled frantically for cover behind the nearest trunks.
Seizing the distraction, the girl scrambled to her feet, clutching her torn clothes loosely around her bruised body.
She cast a wild, terrified glance toward Vergil’s tree before sprinting blindly toward the main road leading back to Rock Hill Town.
Panting, Vergil gripped the tree trunk to steady his swaying vision.
His energy was completely spent.
Sliding down the bark, his boots hit the forest floor, and he immediately sprinted back toward his hidden prey.
By the time the sky began turning a deep, bloody orange from the setting sun, Vergil reached the wooden gates of his village, the horned deer draped heavily across his shoulders.
Pete and Mill stood guard near the entrance, leaning on their spears.
Vergil casually raised a hand in greeting, walking through the gates with a completely nonchalant expression, as if he had done nothing but hunt all day.