MISSION ALERT!

MISSION: Save the Dungeon!

OBJECTIVE: Those FILTHY THIEVES are DEFILING the dungeon, draining its power for their WRETCHED GAIN. Their twisted rituals are corrupting the very essence of this place. Find them. Kill them. WIPE THEM OUT.

TASK: Stop the thieves from completing their vile rituals. Leave no one standing.

REWARD: Permanent +6 to all stats, +3 Skill Points, +20 Morphogen per disrupted ritual. Extra rewards for each elf killed. Special prize for eradicating all rituals.

PROGRESS: 0/4

PENALTY: None.

ACCEPT: Y/N?

The mission flashed, dripping with a thirst for vengeance. The familiar, goading murmur—usually playful, steering me toward the thrill of carnage—had vanished, leaving something raw and bristling, practically spitting with wrath.

And I wasn’t the only one feeling it. Around me, the glowing eyes of creatures scattered in the clearing had locked onto the site with shared fury, their own missions likely burning in their gaze. The call had sparked like dry tinder, and even the system seemed hellbent on putting a stop to this ritual.

But the cultists had come ready. Lining the edge of the clearing were masked warriors, elite guards stationed with chilling precision, carving down any creature reckless enough to rush in unprepared.

I watched as a group of ox-like beasts, horns flashing, charged the line—and in a blink, the masked warriors descended, turning the charge into a blur of black and a shower of entrails. The creatures poured in by the dozen, but they were nothing more than low-stage fodder, numbers barely enough to be a distraction.

The guards, twenty-strong and each at yellow core, cut through them with ease. Low-tier creatures didn’t stand a chance, no matter their numbers.

I glanced back at the screen, noting the empty “Penalty” slot. I couldn’t help but wonder: why include it if they never slap a punishment on refusal? But my eyes settled on the elves, and a deep-rooted revulsion twisted in me, burrowing under my scales like a thorn.

Watching them drain the dungeon’s lifeblood—warping its natural chaos, forcing it into those grotesque glowing sigils—made my teeth itch. It was like they were chaining something wild, something that wasn’t theirs to tame. This wasn’t just an affront to the dungeon; it was a sneer at everything that survived here, everything that clawed and fought for life. Even I, ravenous and merciless as I am, was woven into this. And these leeches dared to corrupt it. I could feel my snarl rising, the urge to rip them apart itching in my claws.

But I took a steadying breath, forcing the fury down. Focus first, bloodlust later. My claws flexed, and I nodded, the screen “Mission Accepted” appearing before me. Rewards or not, I wasn’t letting these vermin walk away from this one.

Oh, the old me might’ve had a moment’s pause, maybe even turned tail like a spineless dog, leaving them to it—cowardice plain as day. But that part of me was now dead and buried. I’d be damned before letting those grubby vermin waltz off with whatever they were after.

I ducked back into cover, pressing myself low into the brush, weighing up my options. Unlike those witless monsters charging headlong into their doom, I had no interest in playing the sacrificial lamb. This job wasn’t about body counts, just disruption. And the main thing was—mission didn’t say “ritual,” singular. It said “rituals.” Plural. Which meant other sites like this one were likely scattered around. So, all I needed to do was throw a spanner in the works here and avoid ending up on a spit.

Watching the chaos unfold, it became clear that not all these creatures were throwing themselves into the massacre blindly. Some flyers and slinkers were circling, lobbing attacks at the obelisk and those cloaked fanatics. But every time one got close, those masked warriors were on it, a split-second step ahead.

Looked like they had a knack for sniffing out mana buildup. Soon as a monster tried their luck with mana, these lot were right there, dropping them like rotten fruit, leaving behind scraps of feathers or scales.

Brute force wouldn’t cut it here; same principle as when I’d used my flamethrower. They sensed a surge before you’d even fully formed the attack. And any creature daft enough to get airborne got plucked from the sky by elves wielding bows and staves with deadly grace. They’d come ready for every bungled charge the dungeon could spit at them, which shot my original idea of sneaking in with a Lightning Bolt squarely in the foot.

Still, worth testing. I crouched low, activating my air sense to find the nearest monster. Not far off, a beast my size was lumbering straight toward the elves. Lovely.

Using its presence as my cover, I set to work, weaving the runes for Lightning Bolt and starting with Charge, hoping to slip under their radar. Barely got started when—bam!—three masked warriors’ eyes whipped right to me. Bloody hell!

I abandoned the cast and legged it, Quick Dashing again and again to stay ahead of the closing elves. They turned on the brute I’d used as cover, slicing it to ribbons in a flash of steel. Then, as calm as you please, they slid right back into formation, not a single glance in my direction.

Peeking out from the underbrush, I felt my heartbeat finally ease. So, there it was—no casting, not unless I fancied an early grave. Which left the crucial question: what the hell could I do? Every attempt at charging a rune got me seen before I’d even managed a spark.

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I needed a plan. Any plan. But after what felt like ages of turning over every useless idea, my mind was drawing a bloody blank. Just as I was about to throw in the towel, a bigger stir broke out right in front of me.

A massive wolf had prowled silently into the clearing, hackles raised, eyes glowing a fierce crimson. First, its sheer size struck me—this beast wasn’t merely large; it was monstrous. Second, the way it moved wasn’t reckless. No charging straight at the elves, just a slow, assessing stalk. Its fur was dark as shadows, flecked with streaks of silver. Thrice the size of any wolf I’d ever seen, a creature that must’ve survived countless fights to evolve to this, a Stage 4 at the very least.

The wolf’s gaze scanned the scene, and for once, the Elven warriors were on edge. My enhanced vision caught a glint in its eyes, a flicker as five warriors closed in, cautious, aware. It was almost as if I could see it calculating every step, every strike.

Its muscles tensed, lightning crackling across its fur. In an instant, it disappeared, only to reappear with a terrifying snarl right in front of the first line of masked warriors, jaws sparking with electric fury as it lunged at the nearest elf’s head. I thought he’d be done for, but the warrior vanished too, moving with an almost supernatural speed, blade flashing. The wolf twisted mid-air, narrowly dodging the strike and snapped back toward another warrior, teeth bared for a brutal bite at the leg.

The wolf moved like a spectre, slipping past the first wave of elven swords with an uncanny, nimble grace. The air was a blur of blades, yet somehow, not one struck true—not on that beast. Then I spotted it—a masked warrior with an arm hanging mangled. Instead of backing down, the fool popped a potion and downed it in one swig. Just like that, the arm knitted back together. Bloody hell.

Then the wolf sprang, all teeth and fury, and for a heartbeat, I thought it might actually shatter their line. It moved like sin incarnate—too fast, too shrewd for even these elves to match so easily. It faked left, then lunged right, catching an elf’s throat in a brutal snap. But those warriors were no strangers to blood; they tightened formation, their masked faces as blank as stone, every move as sharp and coordinated as the next. And mind, this lot weren’t even all on the wolf—it was just one monster in a field of others. But damn if it wasn’t the deadliest.

Then, after a vicious back-and-forth, the tide seemed to turn. One muttered some gibberish, and a group of mages peeled away from the main force. I watched as spell matrices sparked underfoot, and in the blink of an eye, they’d surrounded the beast, weaving a net of gleaming energy around it. A cage shot up around the wolf, and for once, it was trapped. It bolted forward, slamming into unseen walls. Lightning arced off its claws, but not a single crack appeared in those barriers.

Just then, a masked warrior lunged from the side, blade aimed straight for the wolf’s spine. But that was his mistake—the wolf’s eyes gleamed; it had been waiting. With a vicious twist, it sank its fangs into the poor sod’s arm, sending a surge of lightning through him that lit him up from the inside out. Blood sprayed, splattering grass and barrier alike, and for a fleeting moment, I thought the beast might turn this whole bloody mess on its head.

But no, that wolf was caged tight, held fast in a shimmering octagon, and I could see it plain as day—someone, somewhere, was pulling the strings, keeping those walls firmly locked around it.

The elves didn’t dare close in now, not once they realized the beast still had enough wit and brawn to bite back. They struck in measured bursts, each jab precise; whenever a spell entered, a sliver of the barrier would vanish, only to snap shut just as quick, holding the wolf pinned. Slowly, its movements grew sluggish, breaths turned ragged. The shimmering walls tightened, squeezing round its limbs until it could barely twitch. It tried to guess where the next strike would come from, but the controller had it sussed out like a child’s book. And then, just as it made one last desperate move, a masked warrior drove his sword straight through its heart. The wolf crumpled, defeated at last.

And my blood ran cold.

Watching from the shadows, I felt a pang of... what? Frustration? Envy, even? There was respect there, for how fiercely it had fought, and a thrill at the sheer havoc it had wreaked. But in the end, it was always the same tale—strength, wit, defiance, all ground to dust. The elves, nonchalant as anything, resumed their places, their ritual unbroken, one of their own lying dead as if it meant nothing at all.

I stole a look at the wolf’s body. Poor beast tried its best. All that power amassed, and downed by a pack of blasted elves working in lockstep. The frustration knotted in my gut. What could I do, eh? Those pointy-eared bastards were too well-trained; I’d be down before I even made a dent. The wolf, too. If only there were more of them, though... Just a few more, and I’d love to see these overgrown tree-huggers try to hold their ground then.

My eyes narrowed as the idea struck. What if more high-tier beasts caught wind of this little ritual? They’d be drawn in, with the promise of reward from the system, and then the real fun would begin.

More monsters, this was it. My answer. My solution! I needed more monsters here.

Enough to get their hands full and let me charge up my lightning in peace. No need for a win—just a distraction, that’s all.

A devilish grin split my face as I slid away. Time to give these elves a taste of the beta version of The Wave.