“Your strikes must be sharper, faster and more precise!” Tarum’s voice bood across the wide arena, echoing off its stone walls. He moved with the effortless grace of a predator, circling his pupil like a hawk. In the center, drenched in sweat and streaked with blue blood, stood Zarum. He steadied his breathing, lifted his fists once more, and set his stance.
Zarum had been forged for this very mont. All his life he had been prepared to lead the incursion into the newborn universe on behalf of the Kharzum Sect. Their sect stood as a formidable power. A C-grade force, commanded by a leader at the very peak of their rank. C-grade sects lived and perished by the strength of their leaders, yet the opening of this new universe promised opportunities to strengthen their foundation, expand their territory, and seize resources through war. Success depended on the incursion, establishing a foothold, crushing resistance, and most importantly, slaughtering the tutorial survivors. Those survivors carried the rings which were the keys to the System’s events and treasures no sect could otherwise dream of possessing.
But Zarum would not march alone. At his back stood a cadre of elite warriors, hardened by centuries of battle. Most were already stronger than any survivor could hope to be. Age had given them a depth of experience the fledgling newcors could never match. Their bodies had endured wars, bloodshed, and the harsh laws of the multiverse. The System had capped the incursion’s level at ninety-three, a limit far beyond what any fresh survivor could hope to reach. Against such overwhelming strength, the slaughter would be effortless. In the next two weeks, more than three hundred of their warriors would descend into the tutorial and that ant harvesting more than three hundred rings. It was destiny.
Zarum wiped the rivulet of blue blood from his brow before it could drip into his eye. His body ached, yet his spirit surged with pride. He was a mage-fighter, one of Kharzum’s unique creations. Their sect’s secret technique blessed every disciple with a skill. When unarmored and unard, their attributes soared. Zarum had endured brutal, excruciating training to temper his flesh into living steel. His fists could shatter stone, his blows carried shockwaves of thunder and lightning, and his mana-enhanced strikes were swift enough to cut down foes from afar. He was both warrior and sorcerer. A infighter of terrifying ferocity and a mage of staggering range. Against the hapless tutorial escapees, he would be an invincible reaper. He almost pitied them. Almost.
In truth, there was no pity to be spared. Life in the multiverse was rciless, and opportunities like this were priceless. Entire sects would willingly sacrifice thousands of E-grades for even a single ring. To claim hundreds at once was a fortune written in blood. The weak would be culled, as they always had been. Their deaths would pave the way for Kharzum’s ascension. With a deep breath, Zarum flooded his muscles with mana and lunged at Tarum once more.
His master was of another league entirely. Tarum, an early D-grade, was a warrior of millennia. To spar with him was to clash with a living mountain. Even holding back most of his power, Tarum’s casual blows forced Zarum to his limits. The gulf between E and D was unfathomable; Zarum had witnessed it countless tis in the mystic realms. Weak D-grades, dismissed as bottom feeders among the outer territories, still wielded power enough to slaughter entire battalions of E-grades with careless swings. When they fought each other in earnest, it was as if the world itself was breaking apart.
Legends whispered of rare prodigies, E-grades who had managed to slay an early D, but Zarum had never believed such tales. D-grades were living calamities. That was why weaker factions clawed and killed for even one. A single D-grade could elevate an entire sect, no matter how fragile their beginnings.
For weeks Zarum endured this crucible, his every strike refined under Tarum’s rciless eye. And then, at last, the ti ca.
Now he stood at the head of his army before the Incursion Pillar. To the untrained eye it resembled a monolith of obsidian, towering and silent, but in truth it was a portal: a gateway of shadows. It rose high into the sky, deliberately conspicuous, for the survivors were ant to see it even from afar. The Pillars were never hidden, if they were, closing an incursion would be impossible. Instead they stood as dark beacons, daring the weak to approach and die.
Zarum’s pulse quickened. This was it. All his training, all his pain, all his ambition. It all led to this mont. The Kharzum Sect would carve its na into the flesh of a new world, and he would lead the charge.
He had once heard that across all incursions, barely ten percent of tutorial survivors lived through their first year on a new planet. Zarum was not surprised. The System granted advantages, and even gods occasionally blessed newcors with divine favors, but those gifts were never enough. The temporary stat boosts earned during the tutorial could not rival the strength of veterans pouring in through the incursions.
Survivors were fractured into fragile bands, while the invaders were disciplined squadrons, forged in blood, who had fought side by side for decades under the guidance of seasoned warriors. Where the survivors scrambled to purchase knowledge from scrolls, the sect-trained arrived with battle-hardened instincts. Life was never fair, only power dictated worth. Soon, Zarum and his warriors would cut down these weaklings and claim their opportunities for themselves.
“You have been prepared well. I look forward to seeing you carve your path when the new universe unfolds.” Tarum’s deep voice carried pride as he extended his fist. Zarum t it with a firm bump, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Master and disciple both shared the satisfaction of progress. The odds of Zarum failing were slim.
“Of course, Master. Just try not to slack off,” Zarum replied with a grin. It was not arrogance but conviction. With the treasures awaiting them and the rewards of the System’s events, he would soon be able to close the distance between himself and his ntor.
“Hah, I’ll try...” Tarum began, but his words dissolved into the thunderous hum of the great pillar awakening. Shadows rippled across its dark surface as the air trembled with ancient power. There was no more ti for pleasantries. With one final bow of respect, Zarum stepped into the pillar, his figure swallowed by the void. Tarum’s dark eyes lingered on him until he was gone. Like many of the early D-grades, Tarum stood vigil as his trainees marched into the portal. Years of shared blood and sweat had forged bonds stronger than duty, and seeing them depart stirred both pride and sorrow.
For trainers such as Tarum, being chosen to guide an incursion leader was a privilege. Unlike the higher-ranked D-grades who risked themselves in brutal expeditions against rival factions, Tarum had been granted respite, ti to see his wife and children, ti to bring ho resources that allowed them to hone their affinities without gambling their lives. He cherished every mont. Normally, sect duties demanded three missions a month, each dangerous and often spanning weeks. Training Zarum had spared him that cycle, and for once he had known the quiet warmth of family. Yet there was always a price. Should the incursion fail, the burden of the sect would fall upon him. The punishnt would be missions so perilous that survival was little more than a whisper of hope.
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As the last warriors disappeared into the pillar, Tarum’s wife and two children joined him, watching in silence. When the dark gateway sealed, she leaned close and kissed his cheek. “I am so proud of you,” she whispered softly in his ear. Tarum closed his eyes, savoring the warmth that spread through his weary body.
He remained at his post with the other trainers, sitting cross-legged before the dormant pillar. It was a gesture of respect, an unspoken vow to their disciples who had crossed over. Tarum’s heart carried heavy hope for Zarum, the one he had tempered with his own hands. The sect had secured three incursions across three different worlds, and Zarum’s was ranked second in importance. That alone was proof of his potential.
Hours crawled by. Twenty-one passed, and only three more remained until the next wave of soldiers could be sent. Then, without warning, the pillar shuddered violently before shattering into a thousand fragnts. Shards clinkered across the stone floor, scattering like broken stars. Tarum’s eyes widened in shock. His expression darkened into grief as the inevitable ssage reached his mind, directly from his forr commander.
He rose slowly, head bowed, shoulders heavy as stone. There would be no chance to bid farewell to his family. His next mission had already been decided. He was to march under the command of early C-grades into a battlefield where his survival was as thin as paper. For an early D-grade like him, the odds were nothing short of a death sentence.
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