CHAPTER 170: MORE THAN A BLADE

The roof of the school was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that felt lifeless, but the sort that carried with it weight—the kind that held its breath. From here, Jin could see most of the territory: the central field, the winding paths that threaded through the overgrown campus, and past that, the edges of the forest, where trees stood tall like guardians carved in green and shadow. Vines curled across the walls now, but they didn’t choke. They shaped. Supported. Rebuilt.

He stepped over the loosened metal railing and into his usual spot near the far corner, where a cluster of root-thick growth had formed a sort of natural half-wall. The ground beneath was no longer cement—at least, not fully. Moss had taken over, weaving together cracks and old scorch marks with gentle patience.

Jin let out a slow breath and set his pack down beside him. In it was what could generously be called his "rooftop hammock attempt #6." The last five had all failed—spectacularly. Usually within minutes.

Tonight, he was stubborn enough to try again.

He crouched near two support beams where a thin overhang still stood—one of the few parts of the school that hadn’t fully been swallowed by roots. He hooked the first end of the hammock to a curled pipe that jutted out overhead, looped it twice, and cinched it with a knot that should hold.

"Alright," he muttered. "Round six. Let’s go."

The second end was harder. The beam he used was twisted, and the vine he’d wrapped around it as makeshift anchor kept slipping. After a minute of struggle, a solid knot finally held. The whole structure sagged just slightly—not ideal, but it looked better than his last one.

Jin gave it a test push. It swayed. No creaks. No tears.

Encouraged, he put one foot in, then the other, carefully shifting his weight onto it. The fabric held.

Then—crack.

The pipe snapped free from its root brace.

He fell.

It wasn’t a long fall. Maybe half a meter. But the embarrassment was immediate.

He landed on his back with a flat grunt, staring up at the vine-strung stars above. One of the hammock lines hit him in the face as it collapsed over him like a failed trap.

Jin closed his eyes.

"...Of course," he muttered.

He lay there for a moment, arms sprawled, weight sinking into the moss-padded roof like it was trying to swallow his pride along with the hammock.

Then, finally, he sat up, brushing the vine netting off his chest and tossing it aside with a dry exhale.

"Screw it," he said, raising his voice slightly. "I didn’t want help. But I’m asking now."

He turned and placed a palm flat against the nearest patch of living growth—roots curled against the cement like veins through stone.

"Hey," he said softly. "You around?"

The response wasn’t immediate.

But the air shifted.

The rooftop breeze slowed. The sound of insects below dulled. The temperature dipped just slightly—not cold, but cooler than it had been. Leaves rustled from above with no wind to blame.

Then she was there.

Not walking. Not stepping. Just... arriving.

She didn’t appear with drama or sparkle or the heavy presence of power. She came like dusk—gradually, undeniably. The forest spirit stood a few meters away, her form half-silhouette against the moonlight, framed by the edges of curling vines and distant treetops. Her body was still lean, graceful—composed more of form than flesh. Her eyes reflected soft green, and her expression was unreadable.

"You called."

Jin stood. "Yeah. Sorry. I know you and Aesteros said you were watching the perimeter, but—"

"Nature has no perimeter," she said plainly. "We walk where the land listens."

He nodded once, rubbing the back of his neck. "Right. Well... I need a favor."

Her eyes narrowed. "Is it urgent?"

"No," Jin admitted. "More... humiliating."

She tilted her head.

He gestured toward the collapsed hammock. "I’ve tried six times to get one of these to stay up. I sleep up here sometimes—helps me think. But nothing I build lasts."

The spirit didn’t speak. She just looked at the mess of fabric and cord, then back to him.

"You summoned me," she said, "for a hammock."

Jin nodded. "Pretty much, yeah."

Her eyes narrowed further. "Do you have any idea how many roots I had to redirect from the southeastern ward just this evening?"

"I’ll owe you," he said quickly. "I’m good at owing people."

There was a long pause.

Then—barely perceptible—her shoulders lowered. Not a sigh. Just a release of some unseen tension. She stepped closer, reaching one hand toward the same patch of roof he’d used.

Vines shifted instantly, coiling together like strands of muscle. Two tall anchor-points bloomed upward from the rooftop. Between them, a hammock began to form—not woven from cloth, but from soft-flexing greenery. It looked sturdy. Clean. Almost elegant.

She stepped back. "Try that."

Jin blinked, then lowered himself into it cautiously. It didn’t groan. Didn’t slip. Just swayed gently with the movement of his weight.

He sank into it fully.

"...Okay, that’s unfair," he muttered. "You just made the five-hour build look like garbage."

"It was garbage," she replied.

He smiled faintly. "Not even a little sugar with that honesty?"

"I speak plainly," she said. "You’ll come to appreciate that."

Jin let the sway take him for a moment.

The stars were visible tonight, unobscured by clouds. The trees around the school moved like they were breathing. Calm. Even the constant buzz of tension that usually followed him had quieted.

He looked at her again.

"I meant it wasn’t urgent. But I did want to talk."

She didn’t sit. But she didn’t leave either.

"About?"

He hesitated. Then said, "The sword. Or, more accurately... the fact that it’s not enough."

Her eyes flickered. "Go on."

Jin shifted in the hammock, still watching the sky. "Trial Three showed me how outclassed I really was. Not in effort. Not in intent. But in versatility. There were people out there bending the battlefield. Turning their bodies into weapons. Becoming lightning. Slipping through attacks like fog. My sword... it’s strong. But it has a shape. A limit."

He turned his head, meeting her gaze.

"I don’t want to be limited anymore."

The spirit stepped forward, her expression unreadable.

"You seek to become something more."

"Not just stronger," Jin said. "Smarter. Wider. I need to learn how to adapt—use terrain, control movement, pick up anything and make it lethal. Even the environment. Even the wind."

She studied him for a long moment.

Then, finally, she nodded.

"Then you are finally beginning to understand what it means to survive as part of the world—not just fight against it."

Jin didn’t answer.

But inside, he knew—this was the beginning of something new.

Something beyond just steel.

The forest spirit turned, her attention drifting toward the swaying canopy at the edge of the school. The moonlight caught faint glimmers in her eyes, and the vines that framed her silhouette moved just slightly—as if stirred by thought, not breeze.

"If you’re finished," she said quietly, "I’ll return to the perimeter."

Jin sat up in the hammock. "Wait."

She paused. Looked over her shoulder.

"You asked for a place to rest. You have it now."

"I didn’t call you just for that," Jin admitted. "I mean—sort of. That was the excuse, maybe. But not the reason."

She turned fully, arms folded lightly. "Then why?"

"I wanted to talk."

"You have allies," she said. "A team that trusts you. You could speak with them."

"I do. I have." He hesitated. "But I can’t ask them the questions I need to ask right now."

She raised an eyebrow. "Then ask Aesteros. He knows more than I do."

Jin gave a tired smile. "Aesteros doesn’t talk unless I already know half the answer. And even then, I’m lucky if he gives me more than a one-word confirmation."

That got a faint flicker of something behind her eyes. Humor, maybe. Or understanding.

Jin leaned back, not fully lying down this time. Just resting. Looking up at her.

"You’ve seen more than we have. More than me. And tonight, after everything—after seeing what kind of people exist beyond this place—I realized I need to understand what I really am. What they are. That... thing I fought in Trial Three? Seo? He wasn’t just skilled. He moved like the rules didn’t apply to him. Like gravity, damage, even logic bent around him."

The spirit watched him quietly.

"And then there’s the one from the maze," Jin continued. "The one who called himself Undefined. He made the system feel like background noise. Like it wasn’t built to contain him. And now..." His jaw flexed. "Now I’ve been called the same thing. A Transcender."

He looked at her. Really looked.

"I want to know what that really means. And I think you can tell me."

She was silent.

Not in avoidance—just weighing him.

Then she stepped forward and sat, legs crossed at the edge of the rooftop. Her form barely displaced the vines beneath her.

"I’ll answer what I can," she said. "But you should understand—what you’re asking isn’t light."

"I know."

"Good." She looked at the sky. "Then listen."

Jin stayed quiet.

"There have always been those the system could not measure. Even before it arrived in your world. It didn’t start here. It spreads. Consumes. Grows in complexity with every domain it invades."

Her voice was steady. Unemotional. Like she wasn’t explaining mythology—just recounting facts.

"But sometimes, people are born... or made... who do not follow its logic. They grow faster than they should. Survive things that should kill them. They bend stats. Break limits. They see the lines of power the system writes—and rewrite them."

"Transcenders," Jin said.

She nodded. "That’s the word that is mostly used today. It isn’t wrong."

He waited. She continued.

"The first known Transcender was not from this land. Long before Korea became what it is now, before the system touched these skies, there was a man who rejected it. He didn’t just fight monsters or outscore others. He looked at the core of what the system was—and tried to stop it."

Jin’s eyes narrowed. "He tried to destroy it?"

"He tried to sever it. Cut the flow of its power. Disrupt the control it had over how people lived. He succeeded... in part. The network paused. Some of its hold was broken."

"What happened to him?"

The spirit looked down. "He died. Sacrificed everything to halt the system’s expansion. It slowed—but it never stopped. His death gave people time. Years, even. But the system adapted."

"And now it’s spreading again."

"Yes."

Jin let that sink in.

"You said he was the first."

She nodded. "There have been others. Some noble. Most not. The system cannot create Transcenders. It cannot track their growth. It does not understand them."

Jin frowned. "Then why doesn’t it... fight them? Hunt them down?"

She looked at him. "Because it wants them."

Jin blinked. "Wants them?"

"Yes. You saw it in the trials. The way it studied. Adapted. Assigned titles, ranks, systems for power. It catalogues everything it cannot hold. Transcenders are anomalies—but anomalies that could, in theory, be absorbed."

She rested her hands on her knees.

"If the system ever convinced a Transcender to work with it—or worse, serve it—it would grow stronger than ever before. It wouldn’t need balance. Or evolution. It would have power that rewrites. That’s why it doesn’t destroy them."

Jin’s voice was quiet. "It lets them roam... hoping one will bend."

She nodded once. "Or fall into alignment naturally."

He leaned forward slightly in the hammock. "So then what am I supposed to do? Just keep walking forward and hope I don’t get turned into a pawn?"

Her gaze didn’t waver. "That’s your choice. You’re still you. But you asked how to grow. How to become like the ones you’ve seen."

"Yeah."

"There’s no shortcut," she said simply. "There’s no system-provided path. No blessing. No scripted event. You’ll grow through pressure. Through survival. Through pushing your body and spirit into places they weren’t built to go."

Jin’s fists tightened lightly at his sides.

"I don’t have some ancient weapon to offer you," she added. "No gift hidden in the soil. But if you keep moving forward—if you break your limits again and again and survive each time—you will reach a point where even the system stops trying to understand you."

He looked at her.

Not with doubt.

But with something steadier.

Resolve.

"Then I’ll keep pushing."

She didn’t smile. But her head tilted, just slightly. Approving.

"You still have allies. Use them. Train them. And be ready."

"I plan to."

Another quiet moment stretched between them.

Then, softer now, she added: "But be careful, Jin Yeong."

"Why?"

"Because even among Transcenders... not all are human at the end."

That landed heavier than he expected.

Jin didn’t reply. He just stared out at the moonlit horizon, mind moving faster than his mouth could catch.

The spirit stood again.

"I’ll leave you to your rest."

She turned once more, vines rising to meet her feet as she began to walk across the rooftop—light steps against living wood.

Jin called out, not loud.

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For not walking away when I started asking the wrong questions."

She didn’t answer right away.

Then, over her shoulder: "You haven’t asked the wrong ones yet."

Then she vanished—into the trees, the night, the quiet.

Jin sank back into the hammock, arms behind his head, eyes watching the stars and slowly fell asleep.