Above it all, a crescent moon hung in the sky, but it was no ordinary moon.

Its shape was ragged and broken, like a dying blade of silver slowly falling apart.

Fissures glimmered across its surface, shedding faint trails of dust into the black sky.

Timothy's eyes swept the battlefield.

Limbs flew through the air.

Beasts grappled and tore at each other, dragging victims into puddles that gaped open like hidden rivers.

Yet the strangest thing was…

He saw only monsters fighting monsters.

There were no humans.

No "people" in sight.

He didn't even know if this battle concerned him.

For a fleeting moment, the chaos reminded him of ancient Spartans locked in brutal combat, a world of blood, roars, and relentless violence.

He stood at the edge of the doorway, uncertain.

The battle around the shelter didn't last more than an hour.

It flared up violently and was settled just as quickly, but not without casualties.

A few puddles still lingered in the vicinity, glistening ominously under the fractured moonlight.

Everyone gave them a wide berth, as if afraid something else might crawl out.

But for now, nothing more emerged, and no one was dragged under.

When the fighting ended, the settlement was a mess.

The four-armed creatures stood scattered around the clearing, blood streaming from cuts and punctures, yet seemingly unfazed by the damage.

Timothy found himself wondering if he appeared just as monstrous after a battle.

Well… I am a monster by some definitions, he thought grimly.

Their fighting style fascinated him.

Despite the ferocity of the clash, none of the survivors bore any truly critical wounds.

They fought as if they could read each other's movements in advance, predicting every strike or feint.

Their opponents, the creatures that had surged from the puddles had looked nearly identical to the four-armed monsters, except lacking those blazing red gemstone eyes.

The invaders were relentless, savage, and utterly barbaric.

Timothy imagined himself in a fight against either side.

The conclusion was clear: his odds of surviving a group clash were near zero.

Running would be his best bet.

When the battle ended, the victors dragged the corpses of their fallen enemies toward the roaring bonfire in the settlement's center and tossed them in.

Flesh crackled and turned to ash, sending thick smoke spiraling into the night sky.

Timothy lingered in the doorway of the shelter, watching with wary focus as he mentally pieced together what he'd witnessed.

Before long, the terrain looked almost as if nothing had happened.

The rain had long since stopped, and the ground began drying out, leaving only those treacherous puddles behind.

The creatures quarantined them, building low walls of rocks around each one.

Timothy couldn't tell whether it was for safety or ritual, it was all guesswork at this point.

Afterward, the weaker creatures, those nursing more serious injuries, retreated into their own shelters.

Hours passed in tense quiet.

The rest seemed to ignore Timothy entirely, resuming guard posts around the perimeter or disappearing into their shelters.

Eventually, only the six beings from Timothy's shelter remained; the one-eyed leader seemed the only one not with them.

They approached him in a loose formation and gestured for him to come out.

Timothy complied without argument, stepping into the crisp night air, he didn't really plan to sleep with those lightbulbs watching him.

They led him away from the settlement, following a path across rocky terrain in the direction opposite from where he'd first arrived.

After several hundred meters, they stopped.

Now they formed a loose ring around him, still keeping a respectful distance.

Their low, rumbling growls echoed in the stillness, a language Timothy had learned not to interrupt.

But then, without warning, a polearm swung at him from behind.

Timothy reacted instinctively, ducking low.

At the same instant, another creature lunged upward, driving a pitchfork-like weapon straight at him.

He drew his machete in a silver flash, slashing through the weapon's wooden shaft with precise, zig-zag cuts that splintered it into a useless stub.

He hadn't even finished moving when a massive foot, thick as a tree trunk, smashed into his side.

The blow launched Timothy sideways, sending him rolling across the rocky earth.

He braced for another strike, fully expecting to be battered back and forth among them like prey.

But instead… nothing followed.

He rolled to a stop a few meters away, blinking in confusion.

It almost felt as though they'd let him escape their circle.

He glanced back at the group.

They were approaching again, but one creature was clearly taking the lead.

This one seemed to harbor a special grudge against Timothy, its posture bristling with hostility.

It advanced until it was inches from Timothy, looming over him by a full head.

The stench rolling off its fur was sharp and animalistic. Timothy didn't bother to look it in the eyes.

Instead, his gaze stayed locked on the creature's massive limbs, the same leg, no doubt, that had just smashed him.

A low, guttural sound rumbled in the creature's throat, followed by a hacking cough.

Then it finally spoke in broken words:

"You… stay… here."

Without another glance, it turned and began marching back toward the settlement.

The others followed, leaving Timothy standing alone in the alien night.

Confusion lingered across Timothy's face, but he held his tongue until the creatures were well out of sight.

Only then did he allow his body to buckle, collapsing to one knee as pain surged through his ribs.

That kick… There was no doubt about it, he'd broken something.

No, he definitely had broken something.

With a sharp breath, he willed his machete to vanish from his hand and pressed his palm to his aching side.

After a moment, he let himself fall backward, sprawled across the rocky ground, staring up at the night sky and the sickle-shaped moon that hung fractured and dying overhead.

Throughout the chaos of this single night, Timothy had come to grips with three crucial truths about this world, its quest, and himself.

The first was simple:

'This world is broken', Timothy thought grimly.

It's obvious.

'A world where most of the terrain is wilderness, where plant life feeds on blood as much as it does sunlight.'

'A moon that's crumbling apart in the sky.'

'Rains that transform the entire landscape into an aquarium crawling with sea monsters eager to tear you to pieces and then, once the rain stops, puddles remain behind, spawning watery copies of the very species who live on land'

'And though it might seem as if those water-born creatures exist only to slaughter the land-dwellers, most of them simply drag their victims down into the depths of those puddles.

It's madness.'

The rage simmering inside him eased a little as he reflected.

The second truth he'd realized was about the beings who inhabited this place, the so-called monsters.

'These four-armed people call themselves the only living civilization left, but I don't believe that.'

'There are too many unknowns.'

'It's absurd to claim that rain and puddles alone wiped out their entire population.'

'Besides, the footsteps I followed here belonged to them.'

'That means there's a larger group somewhere else, maybe in the opposite direction.'

'So why aren't they all banded together?'

Timothy clenched his jaw, remembering another thought that had crossed his mind earlier.

'Survival depends entirely on an individual's ability to adapt. And those who can't adapt… get left behind.'

It was a simplified echo of a quote from someone famous, but it felt truer to him than ever.

Maybe that was why these creatures splintered off into separate destinations.

Or maybe he was missing something deeper.

He exhaled sharply, muttering to himself:

"Just because they can talk doesn't mean they're intelligent."

But it was the third truth that disturbed him the most, the truth about himself.

'This is, quite frankly, the most unprepared I've ever been for a battle.'

He winced as he shifted on the rocky ground.

"If I'd at least bought those spare clothes for my inventory like I was supposed to, I wouldn't be worrying about this. But no… I let myself get distracted. Now look at me."

It was clear he couldn't simply purge these beings, not easily, at any rate.

He hadn't even managed to kill a single creature so far.

A monster? He wasn't sure he could even define what counted as a monster here.

Apart from the water-born invaders, he hadn't encountered any truly mindless beasts.

And a more troubling question gnawed at him:

Would I even earn experience points from killing these creatures?

He didn't know.

'It's like asking whether I'd gain experience from killing humans, actual, innocent humans.'

'I don't know the answer because I've never tried....'

'...And I have no idea how the system classifies them.'

'And even if I could gain experience from fighting them… there's the problem of their combat style'

He clenched his hand into a fist on his chest.

They're able to predict and react to nearly every move, every feint, every attack.

'I saw it clearly when they fought among themselves and when I clashed against them twice now'

'I'd be a fool to think I could win in a straight fight.'

His thoughts churned like a storm, but they all converged on one final truth:

"I need power."

At last, exhaustion claimed him, here where no red bulbs were.

Timothy let his eyes drift shut and surrendered himself to sleep, trusting his body to do the only thing it could: heal.