"Fuck, I can't do this!"

  The words tore from Artham's throat, raw with frustration and exhaustion. He crashed to the ground in a cloud of dust, his body finally giving out after what felt like hours of relentless punishment. Every muscle screamed, his lungs burned, and his vision swam with fatigue.

  For two solid hours, Vaendalle hadn't even bothered to draw his sword. Just that infuriating sheathed blade and those casual, precise movements that made Artham's best efforts look like a child's tantrum.

  Vaendalle stood over him, casting a long shadow in the torchlight. "Had enough, boy? Look at yourself—barely able to stand, covered in dirt and sweat. You should be grateful I kept the blade sheathed." His voice carried that familiar edge of amusement. "Why don't you admit defeat and save yourself further embarrassment?"

  Artham forced himself to sit up, though his body protested every movement. His hands shook as he gripped the wooden sword, but something stubborn burned in his chest—something that refused to be extinguished.

  "You're right," he managed through labored breaths. "You're faster, stronger, more skilled than I'll probably ever be. But you're wrong about one thing."

  Vaendalle raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Enlighten me."

  "I said I'd land a hit on you with this sword. Even if it's just once." Artham's grip tightened on the wooden weapon. "And I don't break my promises."

  Vaendalle's laughter echoed across the training ground. "Spirit, I'll give you that. But you didn't say when you'd hit me, did you? A year from now? A decade? I've fought more battles than you've drawn breaths, boy. In this world, age doesn't mean weakness—especially for someone who's survived wars longer than you've been alive."

  The words hit harder than any physical blow. He's right. My oath was hollow—no terms, no time limit. I'm chasing something I might never achieve.

  Why am I so fixated on this? Artham thought bitterly. I don't have time for pride. Survival is what matters.

  His mind shifted to the cold reality of his situation. The countdown was always there, ticking away precious seconds. Each moment spent here was time he couldn't afford to lose. He needed to hunt, to feed, to extend his dwindling life.

  Mire, show me my status.

  [Status Condition: Life until 22:44:39 remaining.]

  Less than twenty-three hours. The numbers blinked mockingly in his vision.

  With a heavy sigh, Artham let the wooden sword fall from his grip. It hit the dirt with a dull thud, followed by his dagger.

  "You're right," he said, straightening despite the pain. "I give up."

  Not because I'm beaten. But because I've seen enough to know what I need to survive.

  Vaendalle blinked, genuine surprise crossing his features. "Wait. What? You're giving up? Just like that?"

  "I need to rest. Pushing myself further right now is pointless." Artham nodded, ignoring the ache in his ribs. "I've learned what I needed to learn tonight."

  Vaendalle's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You're not trying to set up some last-ditch attack, are you?"

  "No tricks," Artham replied, raising his hands. "I'm serious."

  "That's the fourth time you've said that tonight," Vaendalle muttered, still tense. "Your weapons are down, but this feels like—"

  "I've truly given up," Artham insisted with a tired laugh.

  Vaendalle studied him for a long moment, then relaxed slightly. "Fine. I suppose you've earned—"

  But when Artham shifted his weight, a reflexive startle crossed his face. That tiny movement was all it took.

  Vaendalle's body slammed into him like a battering ram, driving him back to the ground with overwhelming force.

  "Wait! Stop!" Artham wheezed, fresh pain shooting through his back.

  "You think you can fool me with fake surrenders?" Vaendalle stood over him, shaking his head. "I've seen this trick a hundred times."

  "I wasn't tricking you!" Artham groaned. "I jumped because you looked ready to attack me even after I surrendered!"

  Vaendalle snorted but extended a hand to help him up. "That's what you get for making me paranoid during training."

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  As Artham accepted the help, he couldn't suppress a grumble. This old man is impossible.

  "You know," Vaendalle said, dusting off his hands, "you actually improved tonight. Still rough around the edges, but I saw flashes of real potential. A few clever moves that might have worked on someone with less experience."

  Hope flickered in Artham's chest. "Really?"

  Vaendalle paused dramatically, then grinned. "Of course not! But you lasted longer than usual!"

  His laughter boomed across the training ground, leaving Artham standing there in speechless frustration.

  One of these days, old man...

  As Vaendalle walked away, he called back over his shoulder: "Clean up the weapons before you go. And don't think this means you get to skip tomorrow's session!"

  Artham watched him disappear into the shadows, then began gathering the scattered practice weapons. His body still ached, but there was something oddly satisfying about the simple task. As he returned each wooden sword and dagger to its proper place on the rack, muscle memory guided his movements—Arthanis had done this countless times before.

  Even in the small things, this body remembers, he thought. Ten years of this routine, night after night.

  The training ground felt different without Vaendalle's presence. Quieter, more peaceful. A few other villagers were still practicing in the distance, their wooden weapons clacking together in steady rhythms. One of them—the sandy-haired young man from earlier—raised a hand in acknowledgment as their eyes met.

  "Good session tonight," the man called out. "Haven't seen you push yourself that hard in months."

  Artham nodded back, unsure how to respond. Another relationship to navigate, another person who knew Arthanis better than he did himself.

  Alone now in the training ground, Artham looked up at the moon. Its silver light seemed brighter suddenly, more present. Something stirred in his body—a warmth that had nothing to do with exertion.

  [Master, you appear confused about something.]

  "How is Vaendalle so strong at his age? It doesn't make sense. For two hours I tried everything, and he just got faster as the fight went on."

  [You are mistaken about something fundamental, Master.]

  "Mistaken about what?"

  [You are not an ordinary being. You are a Dhampir with genetic abilities called「Daywalker」and「Nightcrawler」. During the day,「Daywalker」protects you from sunlight. But now, at night, your「Nightcrawler」ability activates. You are already half-monster, Master.]

  Artham's eyes widened. "「Nightcrawler」? Show me the description."

  [「Nightcrawler」: A genetic ability that enhances physical capabilities during nighttime hours. At Level 1, provides increased strength, speed, and regeneration after sunset.]

  "The moonlight..." Artham lifted his gaze to the brilliant silver orb overhead. Its radiance bathed the village in ethereal light, and as he watched, a cut on his arm—a remnant from training—slowly sealed itself.

  "That's why I could keep going for so long." He flexed his fingers, feeling renewed energy course through his veins. "The moon is healing me. Boosting my strength."

  A plan crystallized in his mind. If his body was regenerating this quickly under moonlight, he should take advantage of it. The forest awaited, full of creatures whose essence could extend his life.

  Without hesitation, Artham jogged back toward the house. The moonlight seemed to fuel every step, making him feel lighter and faster than he had any right to after such exhausting training.

  Reaching the second floor, he noticed Vaendalle's door slightly ajar. Curiosity drew him to peek inside.

  The old man sat cross-legged on his bed, perfectly still, breathing slow and steady. His face held an almost otherworldly serenity.

  Meditation? Is this how Essentors restore their power?

  The sight commanded respect. There was something profound about Vaendalle's absolute stillness, but Artham couldn't afford to dwell on it. He slipped quietly into his own room.

  Moving with purpose, he donned his hunting gear—dark leathers for blending with shadows, twin daggers at his sides, and a small pack of supplies. As he strapped on the familiar weapons, fragments of memory stirred. The real Arthanis had worn this same gear on countless nights, slipping out to hunt small game or gather rare herbs under cover of darkness.

  But he never went hunting for essence, Artham realized. That hunger, that need—it's mine alone.

  His Dhampir blood stirred with anticipation as he checked his weapons. The thrill of the hunt gripped him, primal and intoxicating, but underneath it was the cold necessity of survival. Without feeding, he had less than a day left.

  He paused at the window, looking out at the peaceful village below. Warm lights flickered in windows where families gathered for late dinners or prepared for bed. Children's laughter drifted up from a nearby house where someone was probably telling bedtime stories.

  This is what I'm fighting to protect, he thought. Not just my own life, but this... normalcy. This peace.

  The weight of that responsibility settled on his shoulders like a cloak. He wasn't just Artham anymore, trying to survive in a strange world. He was Arthanis, and these people depended on him—even if they didn't know how much danger they were really in.

  The village slept peacefully as Artham made his way through empty streets. Only the sound of crickets and the occasional dog's bark broke the silence. Cool wind carried scents of damp earth and pine from the nearby forest, and his enhanced senses drank in every detail.

  At the gate, Lein's familiar figure emerged from the guardhouse.

  "Oh, it's you again," the guard groaned. "What now?"

  "Going to the forest," Artham replied simply.

  "Another one of your 'adventures'?" Lein's tone dripped sarcasm.

  "Something like that."

  Lein waved him through with visible irritation. "Fine. Just try not to get yourself killed out there."

  "Why do you care?" Artham asked, pausing at the gate.

  Lein's scowl deepened. "I don't. But I don't want to deal with Miyera crying over your corpse when they drag you back. That girl's been through enough already." He turned away, muttering under his breath. "Stupid bastard always making trouble for everyone..."

  Artham studied the guard's profile for a moment. Despite the harsh words, there was something genuine in Lein's concern—buried under layers of resentment, but real nonetheless.

  "I'll be careful," he said quietly.

  Lein just grunted, already turning back to his post.

  The moment he stepped into the forest's embrace, everything changed. The village's safety fell away behind him, replaced by the wild, dangerous beauty of the night woods. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in silver shafts, and every shadow promised either opportunity or death.

  The energy of the night pulsed through him again, his body almost vibrating with newfound power. Every breath felt rich with life, and the familiar thrill of the hunt surged through his veins like liquid fire.

  Let the hunt begin.