Chapter 2: The Wait in the Morning
As the twin suns of Lunira rose once more, casting golden rays through the dense canopy of the forest, I prepared for another morning in the repetitive cycle of my existence. My home, a towering tree with a carved chamber inside, was draped in vines that glowed faintly in the dark and flowers that shimmered like stars against the earth. This forest, alive with the sounds of nature—from the crystalline chirps of birds with glass-like wings to the deep, distant rumble of unseen beasts—was the only world I'd known for the past five years. Early in the morning, as was my custom, I stepped out of my tree to gather fruit from the surrounding branches. Ripe berries the size of my fist and luminescent orbs that gleamed like moonlight in the night served as my sustenance, a ritual that lent a sliver of meaning to my life in this strange, magical world.
This part of the forest wasn't a haven for powerful monsters. The creatures here were mere trifles—slimes that oozed sluggishly across the mossy ground and wild rabbits with faintly shimmering fur that caught the sunlight. These were Level 1 to Level 3 creatures, too weak to attract the attention of serious adventurers. My territory was far from the bustling town of Rifongie, making it an unworthy destination for most. Killing a slime yielded just one experience point, a pitiful reward for anyone aiming to level up. The items dropped by these feeble creatures—slime crystals or rabbit pelts—were suited only for beginner quests, tasks assigned to novice adventurers who lacked the skill to venture into more perilous realms.
You might wonder why I'm alone here, without the company of other dwarves. The answer lies in the fact that my kind's original home is in another forest, far from this quiet corner, in a place teeming with danger. There, dwarves live in a region easily accessible to adventurers, a death trap disguised as a home. I've never understood their way of life. They know the risks, yet they remain, as if their minds are etched with an unyielding command to follow their leader and believe that's where they're meant to live and die. They're like automatons, bound to a script they never question. Me? I have no such loyalty. I share no special bond with them, nor do I heed their leader's orders. So, when I chose to leave their forest and carve out my own place, it was an easy decision. This territory, remote and unassuming, became my sanctuary—a place where I could live without the constant fear of hunters seeking to capture me.
As I plucked fruit, the fresh scent of ripe berries mingled with the cool forest breeze. The sounds around me—the soft whisper of the wind, the flutter of bird wings, and the distant thud of an unseen creature—wove a strange tranquility into my morning. But that peace shattered when I heard human voices. Even in this secluded place, a few adventurers occasionally wandered in, usually novices eager to collect items from creatures like me. Slime crystals were a common target, especially for new adventurers who were often bullied by stronger hunters chasing the same prizes.
My territory lies to the west of Rifongie, far from famed destinations like the Tower of Doom or the Dungeon of Darkness, where seasoned adventurers pursue high-stakes quests. Those who end up here are typically F-Class beginners, barely able to wield their weapons. They're no threat to me. Instead of worrying, I settled onto a high branch, my favorite perch, and bit into a juicy fruit. From there, I watched three newcomers chase slimes and rabbits, their movements a clumsy dance of inexperience. They were a comical sight—their swords missing their marks, the rabbits slipping effortlessly from their grasp. I pegged them at Level 10, F-Class adventurers here for the simplest of quests: collecting slime crystals. It was guild registration season, a time when eager but unskilled novices flooded the forests like overzealous ants.
Lunira's world operates on a peculiar system, both wondrous and cruel. When a monster like me dies, our body vanishes, and our soul is trapped in a crystal—slime crystals, dwarf essences, even dragon scales. These crystals are sold to guilds, used as materials by merchants crafting enchanted gear. But adventurers? They get a different deal. When they die, their souls soar to the chapel at Rifongie's heart, where their guild can pay to resurrect them. It's an extravagant privilege, isn't it? In this world, life can be bought, but only for those with coin. It's painfully unfair. We monsters become commodities; adventurers get second chances. But I don't lose sleep over it. In my five years here, no one has managed to catch me, and I doubt anyone ever will. The powers bestowed upon me by Lunaria—abilities rivaling those of a high-level adventurer—make me untouchable. Though my level is technically only 10, my strength and magic are comparable to a Level 99 adventurer, a gift from the goddess herself.
You might ask why I don't unleash my full potential, why I don't crush every adventurer who crosses my path. Truth is, I've tried fighting. Back in the dwarves' forest, I faced entire parties of adventurers. I lost count of how many fell to my arrows, their armor pierced, or to my magic, their bodies consumed by flames. In those moments, I realized I could wipe them out, destroy their chapel, and become the villain they already see me as. But it's not that simple.
Lunira's laws are unyielding, woven into the fabric of this world. As an Omega Class monster—the lowest rank—I'm forbidden from attacking Rifongie. Only high-breed creatures—Alpha, Beta, down to Epsilon Class—can assault the town. It's a frustrating restriction, as if the universe is telling me, "Karma, stay in your forest. Don't dream of anything greater." And what's worse? Even if I kill adventurers, they're back in three days, standing before me, ready to fight again. It's exhausting, battling with no gain, no end.
It's boring, isn't it? I'm left with no choice but to avoid trouble, seek out a quiet place, and live day after monotonous day. Yet, despite the tedium, a part of me clings to life, if only for the simple joy of eating fruit and watching novice adventurers trip over their own feet.
As I amused myself watching the three adventurers chase slimes, I failed to notice a shadow creeping up behind me. As a dwarf, I lack the innate ability to sense danger unless I'm actively vigilant—a weakness I despise, despite my powerful magic. A sword sliced through the air, nearly striking me. In a flash, I leaped to another branch, my heart pounding. "Whoa, that was close," I muttered, brushing leaves from my faded t-shirt.
Below stood a girl, her silver hair glinting in the sunlight, clad in plate armor and a small helmet that seemed comically oversized for her slight frame. A quick glance at her status revealed she was only fifteen years old, a Level 5 swordsman—the weakest adventurer I'd ever seen in my territory. But something was odd: her name and personal details were hidden, a rarity in Lunira, where status screens typically reveal everything. I can read the information of most beings in this world, but not hers.
She scrambled to her feet and leaped again, trying to attack me, but I knew she couldn't reach me. At her level, her jumps were feeble, her sword incapable of harming me. When she fell from the tree, she tumbled across the ground, her back slamming into another trunk. Moments later, she stood, adjusted her armor, and, realizing she couldn't reach me, began hacking at the base of my tree. "Doesn't she ever get tired?" I whispered, a smirk tugging at my lips.
She was a comical sight, like a child trying to fell a giant tree with a toy sword. She even tried throwing her blade at me, but it missed by a wide margin, clattering uselessly to the ground. "Does she even think? A swordsman throwing her sword," I muttered, shaking my head. She wasted energy retrieving her weapon, tossing it again, and retrieving it once more. Finally, exhausted from hacking, she decided to climb the tree, moving like a lizard weighed down by her armor.
"Well, she's persistent, I'll give her that," I said, mildly impressed by her tenacity. If I were an ordinary monster, I'd have attacked her mid-climb, when she was defenseless. But I wasn't interested. What would I gain? If I killed her, her soul would return to the chapel, and she'd be back, angrier and more determined. Believe it or not, she'd been at this for nearly two months, returning to my territory to try and capture me. She was no threat, but her relentless interference—especially during my afternoon naps—was starting to wear on me.
Still, I couldn't deny she was human, with her own life and dreams. What kind of gentlemanly dwarf would mercilessly strike down a cute, innocent girl giving her all? "That would be me," I whispered, nocking an arrow and aiming at her back.
My arrow struck true, piercing her back, and she collapsed. In moments, her soul would vanish, whisked back to Rifongie's chapel to be revived, like all the others. I'd ended countless lives, and I'd grown numb to their dreams, their identities. It's easy to call me a monster, but if you were in my place—a dwarf branded as a beast from the start—you'd likely do worse. In this world, monsters and adventurers are locked in an endless feud, fueled by rage and vengeance. The fighting never stops, and me? I've chosen my side.
.