Crazy World, Wicked System (3)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Killing him would be like tearing paper—effortless and absolute.

Conner's breath hitched in his throat.

If the red horses had terrified him, then the thing standing before him now was the embodiment of pure nightmare. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but his legs wouldn't move. His body, already drained, felt frozen.

With the last flicker of shadow essence left in him, Conner raised a barrier of darkness in front of himself. He knew it was pointless. Laughable, even. But what else could he do? He had nothing left—not strength, not speed, not power.

The beast raised its saber-like claw and swung.

In an instant, Conner's shadow essence shattered, ripped from him as if it never existed. He felt himself collapse further, his fragile body nearly folding in on itself. The air was knocked from his lungs, and he coughed violently, blood splattering the ground.

Still, he looked up—because he had to.

The creature loomed above him, its eyes filled with something worse than hatred: apathy. It didn't see him as a threat. It didn't even see him as prey. Just a worthless speck beneath its attention.

And then, it turned and walked away.

Conner could only stare in stunned silence. The beast had let him live. Not out of mercy—but because it believed killing him would be a waste of effort.

Oddly enough, he wasn't offended. Quite the opposite.

He was relieved. Deeply, utterly relieved.

But the danger wasn't over.

A guttural roar echoed through the forest—then another, and another. From the distance. From nearby. Different tones, different species. The message was clear: this forest was full of monsters, each one deadlier than the last.

And now that the lion-like beast had left—likely repulsed by Conner's weakness, by the "filth" he had dragged into its territory—the barrier of fear it had unknowingly created was gone.

The lesser beasts would return.

Whether he wanted to or not, Conner had to move. Fast. His essence was empty. His body barely hanging on. He needed to find shelter. Somewhere—anywhere—to hide his head and recover, before the forest swallowed him whole.

Minutes later, a figure dragged itself into a dark cave, the only light coming from the fractured moon above. Conner collapsed just inside, crawling forward on trembling limbs. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, his breath ragged and shallow. Every inch of his body screamed in protest, but for now… he was safe. Or as safe as this cursed world allowed.

He let himself fall onto the cold stone floor.

His stomach growled in protest, and his mind drifted to the red horse's corpse he'd left behind. Should he have taken the meat? No—no, he'd barely made it here alive. Lugging a massive corpse through predator-filled terrain would've been suicide. His decision, at least for once, had been the right one.

A cold chime echoed in his mind.

> [System Alert]

HP: 20/100 – Host critically injured. Immediate treatment recommended.

Conner scoffed bitterly. "No kidding," he muttered, wiping blood from his lip. "Thanks for the groundbreaking update, oh mighty useless system."

He leaned his head back against the cave wall, jaw clenched. It wasn't that the system was truly useless—it had potential. But so far, it had done little more than remind him how weak he was. He'd been thrown into this hellish world with next to nothing. One skill: Shadow Scout. A scouting ability, not an offensive one. Hardly the tool of a warrior. He was weaker than he'd been in his previous life. And back then… he hadn't exactly been powerful either.

It was as if the universe had handpicked him for death. First the warship. Now this godforsaken forest.

He grit his teeth in frustration, trying to calm his racing heart. The real kicker? The system had locked away his strongest ability—"Usurper." Treated as a passive skill, it would only activate if he killed something, granting him "affinity" with the victim's power. Whatever that meant. Not that it mattered. So far, everything he'd met could tear him limb from limb.

So yeah, he could give up. Lay down. Accept the inevitable. Let the beasts finish the job.

But…

"No," he whispered. "Screw that."

He wasn't going to die. Not again. Not in this place. Not as prey.

He would survive.

No matter how unfair this twisted world was. No matter how cruel the system seemed. No matter how monstrous the beasts that roamed it. He would live.

But to survive…

He'd stop being the hunted.

To live—he'd become the hunter.

And that was his plan.

No matter what it took.

He. Would. Survive.

> TO BE CONTINUED…

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