Wutuo Realm

The hunters had forgotten their wounds entirely.

They just stood there—eyes wide, faces pale, staring at Leon Chase like he'd clawed his way out of a nightmare.

Not one of them could speak.

As hunters, they knew what Steelclaws were. Knew the kind of threat they posed. Normally, they wouldn't even think of engaging one, let alone a pack. Even the royal army only fought them with heavy gear and backup.

But this stranger—this young man—had taken down the entire group alone. Not just survived. Not just escaped. He'd killed them all.

Without stumbling. Without hesitation.

Leon wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. A few monsters shouldn't have left him winded, and yet… the fatigue was creeping in—dull, quiet, but undeniable. A strain in his arms. A weight in his legs.

Strange.

Even with Reiki sealed and Aether stilled, his body should've been more than enough. But something about this world… dragged. Pulled. Like the air itself was heavier.

"There's something off about this place," he muttered.

Then turned to the shivering hunters. "These cats the ones you were looking for?"

One of them nodded rapidly, still pale.

"Y-Yes. That was them. Steelclaws. We—we're not supposed to fight them. Only the royal soldiers deal with things like this."

Another swallowed hard, watching him with something close to fear.

"Even with gear, even in formation, we only ever take on one or two at a time. But you… You cut through all of them like… like it was nothing."

Leon didn't answer. He sheathed the Cursed Sword and glanced toward the far end of the ravine, eyes scanning for movement. Nothing. No more monsters. Just the wind stirring leaves and the heavy scent of blood.

Leon tested the veil. A single blue crystal, its glow fading, controlled the gate.

He removed it—light vanished.

Replaced it—light returned.

Swapped it with a raw crystal from his storage ring—same result.

The power source was clear. The gate was in his hands now.

He began sweeping the area, checking every crack, every niche for leftover fragments—and when he found them, he took them all.

Pocketed every last usable shard and sealed them away inside his ring.

When he was sure there was nothing left, he dusted his hands, satisfied, and turned back to the hunters.

"You got any food?"

The hunters exchanged a look—then, without hesitation, tossed their dried rations into the stream like they were disposing of poison.

"No!" they said, in perfect sync.

He was just about to go find something himself when one of them stepped forward.

"Honored one… we can't let you eat that. Please, come back with us. Let us make you a proper meal."

Right on cue, his stomach growled.

"…Fine," he sighed.

He hadn't expected the hunters to be the excited ones.

They rushed ahead, dragging Steelclaw carcasses like trophies, grinning from ear to ear, shouting over one another with the energy of kids who'd just hauled in a legendary catch.

"Back to the village! Steelclaw meat, fresh off the fang!"

"We're feasting tonight! Someone get the fire going!"

Then came the arguments—loud but oddly full of love.

"My place, obviously. My wife's grill turns monster meat into miracles!"

"Oh please, you burn everything. Come to my house—we've got marinade older than your bloodline."

"You're both delusional. Stew is the answer. You want flavor? You come where the broth sings."

Leon followed in silence, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The danger was gone. The forest no longer felt like it was holding its breath.

For the first time in a long while, something human stirred in the air.

It devolved quickly. Loud voices, flailing gestures, everyone yelling over everyone else. Within minutes, someone pulled the nuclear option and ran off to fetch their wives—because clearly, only they could settle the matter.

By the time they reached the village outskirts, the commotion had already spread like wildfire.

Fires were being lit in the central square. Long tables dragged out from homes. Dishes brought in from every direction. It was less a meal, more a full-scale festival.

The village itself looked ancient—mud walls, straw roofs, wooden fences lashed together with vines and age. It resembled the ruins of some forgotten age, cruder even than the poorest districts Leon had seen back on the Stellar Ascension Continent.

But there was something else.

There was no Reiki. Not even the faintest current in the air. By all logic, this place should've been a dead zone—life here fragile, stagnant, fading by the generation.

Shadowbeast meat shouldn't have been edible. Cultivation should've been impossible.

And yet… these people lived.

Not just endured—but built something. Their bodies weren't hardened like warriors, but they moved with quiet purpose. What they lacked in strength, but made up for in spirit—steady, sincere, stubbornly alive.

He was still turning that over when the food arrived—and the thought vanished.

Plates appeared like offerings from a forgotten age.

Fresh greens so bright they looked fake. Meat that still glistened like it remembered the fire.

This wasn't just food. It was proof.

Proof that somewhere, the world still knew how to be kind.

Leon hadn't tasted real meat since he was eight. The Chase Clan fell, and with it, anything fresh. Flavor turned to memory. Memory turned to myth. Now, the food in front of him should have been inviting—seared meat, fresh greens, steaming broth—but none of it felt real. It looked like a trick. A snare set with too much care.

Beyond him, the village stirred. Word spread—fast, loud, impossible to ignore. A stranger had killed several Steelclaws. It was too unreal. Too absurd.

So they came, crowding in, eager to see the warrior who had done the impossible. Some whispered in disbelief, others watched in silent awe. 

"Steelclaws? Even the capital's warriors won't face them without backup." 

Excitement took hold. Tables were dragged out, vegetables poured into bubbling pots, fires stoked higher, embers spiraling into the night. The whole place roared to life. This wasn't just a meal anymore. It was a celebration.

Then the food was laid out, and all eyes turned to him. Leon didn't move. Didn't lift his utensils. Just stared. 

The mood shifted. He's not eating—why? 

"Is it too awful to eat?"

"This is the best we have…"

The air thickened with quiet panic—hands clenched, shoulders stiff, eyes darting with unspoken worry.

Then, finally Leon snapped back to the present and felt the weight of the silence.

He wasn't rejecting their kindness, just forgotten.

Forgotten how to start. How to hold a knife and fork. How to eat the real food.

But his body hadn't forgotten. Hunger coiled deep, sharp and insistent.

Without thinking, he picked up a piece of meat.

The heat bit his fingers, juices seeping between them. The first bite hit like a shock. Hot, tender, the char kissed it just right. It tore apart with the perfect resistance—fresh, real, nothing like the frozen slop of the Federation. 

Salt lingered on his tongue, the sweetness of vegetables cutting through the richness, every flavor vivid, full, alive. 

The taste pulled memory from the depths of his mind, unraveling in his mouth like something long lost but never truly forgotten.

His mother's silhouette at the stove. Sunlit kitchens. Warm afternoons. The Chase estate, before it was taken.

Something inside him cracked. He had never questioned it before—when had the so-called "greater world" turned into what it was?

Back there, a meal like this wasn't just food. It was privilege. If you had strength, the Federation gave you everything. If not? You got nothing. People lived and died on rationed sustenance—engineered to keep them breathing, never once letting them feel alive.

Even Maxin's so-called snacks were just offcuts from offering-tier food, and even those cost more than most could afford.

And yet, here in this village, there were no status checks. No power struggles. No careful calculations. Just food, given freely. No conditions. No demands.

Leon lowered his gaze, swallowed down the ache in his throat, and said nothing. He simply picked up another piece of meat. And kept eating.

The villagers only truly relaxed once they saw him eating heartily. They refilled his bowl, added more meat, poured water at his side—attending to him as if he were some wandering deity.

At one point, someone even brought out a clay jug of what smelled like potent, homemade liquor. But after a whispered warning from one of the hunters, the offer was hastily withdrawn, the jug carried away with reverence.

This wasn't just gratitude. It was something closer to devotion.

When he finally set his chopsticks down, feeling the comfortable weight of a full meal settle in his stomach, he figured it was only right to return the favor. He glanced at the hunters, his tone casual but direct.

"Tell me about the Steelclaws."

The moment the name left his mouth, the mood shifted.

The hunters' expressions darkened. Their easy smiles faded.

"The Steelclaws usually stay deep in the mountains," one said. "They don't come near human settlements—not unless something forces them to."

"But lately…" Another hesitated. His fingers tightened around the edge of the table.

"They've been appearing more and more. Getting bolder. Attacking livestock. Hunting people."

"We've already lost several of our own," a third murmured. "If this keeps up, the village won't hold out much longer."

Leon frowned.

Shadowbeasts didn't change their patterns without reason. Something was pushing them. Something stronger.

A slow, measured step echoed through the village square.

An elder approached, moving with quiet authority, her waist adorned with a string of beast fangs, each one worn smooth by time. The weight of her presence silenced the gathering. There was no need for her to announce herself—respect came naturally.

The hunters rose at once, lowering their heads as they made the introduction.

"Honored one, this is our village chief. She wishes to speak with you."

Leon cast her a glance, then gave a small nod.

The villagers, though clearly curious, knew better than to linger. One by one, they withdrew, until only he and the elder remained.

For a long moment, she studied him. Then, without preamble, she spoke.

"You carry a special stone, don't you?"

Leon stilled.

Not because of her bluntness—but because the fact that she knew at all was more surprising than the question itself.

After a pause, he gave a slow nod. No point in denying it. These people might live in a world far behind his in development, but they weren't fools. If she already knew, lying would be meaningless.

The elder exhaled, her gaze flickering with something unreadable—relief, perhaps. Or hesitation.

"I can tell you're not an unkind man," she said at last. "That is why I will only ask this once."

Her voice dropped, weight settling into every syllable.

"I need you to keep this world's existence a secret."

Leon said nothing.

He held her gaze, waiting.

She studied him for a long moment, as if weighing whether to speak further. Then, at last, she did.

"This village is called Watcher's Rest," she began. "Our ancestors were chosen as guardians of the Forbidden Grounds—entrusted with the duty of protecting this land."

She lifted her eyes to the sky, though not in search of answers. It was the kind of glance that carried memory, not expectation.

"This world," she continued, her tone steady, "is called Wutuo Realm."

More than fifty thousand years ago, a great one—whose name had long been lost to history—poured the last of his power into carving out this realm, severing it from the chaos of the outside world.

The King of that age led his people here, sealing the passage behind them. Once they crossed the threshold, they never looked back.

"There is no war here. No conflict. Our people live in peace."

"We do not seek conquest, nor do we wish to be conquered."

"That is why I must ask you—please, do not reveal this world's existence to outsiders."

Leon Chase didn't answer immediately.

He let the silence stretch, weighing her words.

This world was strange, yes. But to him, it held little value. There was no Reiki to cultivate. No advanced technology. Civilization was frozen in the days of agrarian life. But the people were sincere, untouched by the corruption that plagued the greater world. And though it wasn't his concern, he had no desire to see this place swallowed by forces beyond its control.

He exhaled softly.

Then, with calm certainty, he nodded. "I won't tell."

The village chief blinked, as if caught off guard by how readily he agreed. But after a moment, a quiet smile softened her face. The tension in her shoulders eased.

Just as she started to relax, something surged through his veins.

A sudden, glacial current—cool, crisp—rushed up from his core, flowing through his bloodstream like liquid clarity. It climbed his spine, filled his skull, swept through his mind like a cleansing wind. His thoughts sharpened. The dull weight of exhaustion lifted. His body felt light, refreshed, utterly awake.

His eyes dropped to the table.

"…This food," he murmured.

At first, he had only thought it tasted good—authentic, unprocessed, free of the synthetic dullness that plagued modern rations. But now, he could feel it. Something within it—something more than simple nourishment—was affecting him.

The elder nodded, unsurprised.

"Our food elevates the mind," she said.

Leon's thoughts turned back to the hunters. Their unnatural learning speed. Their rapid adaptation. Even the village chief herself—her ability to converse so fluently after hearing only a handful of words in his tongue.

If this entire world was under the influence of food like this, then their cognitive abilities weren't just a matter of talent.

They were evolving.

Not through cultivation. Not through bloodlines.

But through something embedded in the very fabric of their lives.

This world was far more than it seemed.

The village chief, however, had already moved on.

"There is something else," she said, voice steady, but with a new weight. "The Steelclaws' presence here is unnatural. They don't come near human settlements unless something forces them out."

Leon exhaled, nodding. He had already come to the same conclusion.

"A stronger predator."

She met his gaze. "Yes."

The mountain had something else in it—something worse than the Steelclaws. And whatever it was, it was pushing them toward human territory.

She held his gaze a moment longer before bowing her head slightly.

"We ask for your help," she said simply. "And we do not expect you to act without compensation. Our village has its own ways of showing gratitude."

Leon hummed, resting his chin on one hand.

No Reiki. No Aether. But the food alone had already proven itself unique.

Perhaps there was more to uncover here.

And if nothing else—he wasn't leaving the mines anytime soon. If he wanted the villagers' continued cooperation, it wouldn't hurt to return the favor.

"…All right," he said at last. "I'll take care of it."

The village chief's face brightened just slightly.

By the time night fell, the village had settled into a quiet peace.

Stars hung over the rooftops, their light unbroken by smog or city glow. The scent of firewood drifted on the wind, mingling with the crisp coolness of mountain air.

A modest house had already been prepared for him—a clean space, furnished with a wooden bed, a basin of warm water, thick woven blankets.

Just as he was about to step inside, the village chief—who had stayed behind—spoke again.

"Would you like a few girls to sleep with tonight?"

Leon nearly choked on his own breath.

He turned, staring at her in disbelief.

She met his expression with nothing but calm sincerity.

"They're the most beautiful girls in the village," she assured him. "Gentle. Kind. They'll ensure you rest well."

His soul nearly left his body.

"No—no, thank you!" He waved his hands frantically, nearly smacking himself in the face. "I'm good! Really!"

The village chief regarded him for another long moment, then simply nodded, as if filing the information away for future use.

Then, before she left, she set a small glass bottle on the wooden table beside his bed.

"A gift," she said. "Drink it before you sleep. It will strengthen your body."

Leon eyed the bottle.

It was beautiful—crystal-clear, like refined gemstone. The liquid inside was thick and milky white.

But what really caught his attention was the way the villagers reacted.

They were staring.

Not with fear. Not with caution.

With envy.

"…Interesting."

He picked it up, carefully removed the seal, and lifted it to his nose.

A scent drifted out—cool, herbal, almost floral. Just inhaling it cleared the last remnants of fog from his mind.

Without hesitation, he tipped the bottle back and drank.

Icy.

It slid down his throat, cold as fresh snowfall, spreading through his chest like melted frost.

His thoughts locked into focus. His fatigue vanished.

Then—

A wave of exhaustion crashed over him, heavy and absolute.

His limbs refused to move. His vision blurred. Before he could think, before he could react, before he could even fully understand—

Sleep swallowed him whole.