Sato stood fully.
He flexed his half-regrown arm. The new flesh responded quicker, stronger.
He felt dangerous.
He gripped the Asam Sword tighter.
The tent flap burst open.
Cold wind and snow rushed in like a living thing.
A woman stepped through.
She was tall—about 5'8" broad-shouldered and powerfully built, dressed in thick wool and layered hides reinforced with thin chainmail across the chest. A massive fur cloak hung from her shoulders, swaying in the wind. In her right hand, she held a heavy iron axe, its edge glinting with fresh frost.
Her hair was long and pale blonde, the left side shaved close to the scalp in a brutal undercut, the right side braided tightly and thrown over her shoulder. Freckles dusted her cheeks and nose, stark against pale skin. Her eyes were piercing blue—cold, calculating, and utterly without mercy. She looked to be 19 or 20 years old.
Sato's first instinct was relief.
A woman, he thought. Not another one of those wild men.
But the relief died instantly.
She saw him.
Her gaze dropped to his half-regrown arm—now almost complete, fingers slowly forming like twisted roots.
Then to the Asam Sword in his hand.
Her face twisted with rage.
Sato felt it—not just on her face, but in his body. A wave of pure, murderous intent rolled over him like a physical force. His hand trembled on the hilt.
Damn it… she's one of them.
She wants to kill me.
But I can take her. I think.
The woman moved.
She was fast—terrifyingly fast.
The axe swung in a wide, vicious arc. Sato barely raised the Asam Sword in time. The impact rang through his bones, sending him staggering back. The force was overwhelming—far stronger than her size suggested.
He crashed into the far wall of the tent, hides tearing around him.
She didn't pause.
She lunged again.
Sato dodged—his new Agility saving him by inches. The axe cleaved through the tent pole, sending the structure collapsing inward.
Snow and wind poured in.
They tumbled outside into the blizzard.
Sato rolled to his feet in the knee-deep snow, sword raised.
The woman was already on him—axe swinging in unpredictable arcs, fast, precise, deadly. Each strike was a blur. Sato parried, dodged, countered—but she was relentless.
He blocked a high swing—sparks flew.
She spun low, axe sweeping at his legs.
He jumped back, but the snow slowed him.
She closed the distance.
A sudden burst of energy—her eyes flashed.
She thrust her free hand forward.
Three invisible slashes ripped through the air—claw-like, massive, tearing the snow apart in deep furrows.
Sato dove sideways. The shockwave hit him like a truck, throwing him backward into a snowdrift.
He scrambled up, coughing snow.
The woman advanced, axe raised.
Sato swung the Asam Sword—fast, strong—but she parried effortlessly, then countered with a brutal overhead strike.
The force knocked the sword from his grip.
It spun away, embedding in the snow ten feet behind him.
Sato stood unarmed.
She smiled—cold, triumphant.
Then she charged.
She grabbed him by the collar with one hand, lifted him like he weighed nothing, and slammed him into the ground.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Each impact drove the air from his lungs.
She hurled him sideways—he crashed through a ruined tent, rolling in the snow.
She stalked after him.
Sato crawled backward, hand groping desperately.
His fingers closed around something cold and hard.
A sword.
Not his Asam Sword.
A simple iron blade, half-buried in the snow—dropped by one of the dead tribesmen.
He raised it just as she swung again.
The axe met the blade.
The impact jarred his arms.
She pressed forward, strength overwhelming.
Sato was forced back—step by step—through the snow.
She was toying with him now.
Another claw-skill—three invisible slashes ripping the ground apart.
Sato rolled under them, snow exploding around him.
He came up swinging.
The iron sword bit into her chainmail—shallow, but it drew blood.
She snarled.
Another strike came—faster, heavier, more vicious than the last.
The axe descended like a thunderbolt.
Sato raised the scavenged iron sword to block.
The impact was catastrophic.
The cheap blade shattered in his hand—splinters of metal flying outward like shrapnel. The force didn't stop there. It transferred straight into his arms, his chest, his entire body.
He was hurled backward.
Sato crashed into the snow, rolling several times before slamming into the frozen side of a ruined tent. The air was driven from his lungs in a sharp gasp. Pain exploded through his ribs. His vision swam. For a moment, the world tilted dangerously toward darkness.
He tasted blood again.
The woman advanced, boots crunching through the snow, axe still raised. She was speaking—low, furious words in that guttural language, spitting curses he didn't understand. Her blue eyes burned with rage.
Sato forced himself up.
His legs shook. His half-regrown arm throbbed. The broken sword hilt slipped from his numb fingers.
She was almost on him.
He raised his empty hands in a desperate gesture.
"Wait!" he shouted, voice raw and cracking. "Please—stop! I'll explain everything! Please don't kill me! I'll tell you everything!"
The woman froze mid-step.
Her axe hovered in the air.
For the first time, the murderous light in her eyes flickered—replaced by confusion, then something close to shock.
She lowered the weapon slightly.
"You…" she said slowly, in a language Sato actually understood. "You're from the Continent too?"
The words were clear. Familiar. The same tongue he'd spoken his whole life.
Sato's heart lurched.
She speaks my language. But, how...
He opened his mouth to answer.
But the pain, the blood loss, the exhaustion—it all crashed down at once.
His vision darkened.
His legs buckled.
The last thing he saw was her face—stunned, uncertain, axe still half-raised—as the world tilted sideways.
Then everything went black.
Sato slowly regained consciousness.
His face was pressed against cold stone, one cheek numb from the icy floor. He tried to sit up, but his arms and legs wouldn't move—they were tightly bound with coarse ropes.
He was in a cave.
A real cave, not the ruined tent. Rough stone walls rose around him, lit only by a small fire pit in the center. The air smelled of smoke, wet fur, and fresh blood.
Footsteps echoed from behind.
Sato closed his eyes again, pretending to be unconscious.
The footsteps stopped beside him.
A heavy object thudded to the ground.
"You can stop pretending," a calm voice said in his language. "I knew you were awake the moment you stirred."
Sato opened his eye.
The woman stood there, arms crossed, axe propped against the wall. A large boar lay at her feet, half-skinned, blood pooling beneath it.
"How did you know?" Sato asked, voice hoarse.
"The moment I entered the cave. Your breathing changed. Your heartbeat sped up," she said simply.
Sato glanced at the boar.
"You… how do you speak my language? Are you from the Continent too?" he asked.
"Yes. To be precise, I was from the Continent," she replied.
"Was?" Sato frowned.
"I died there. Then I was reborn here. In this tribe. As a newborn."
"Reborn?" Sato's voice cracked. "How?"
"Hey, you seem to have forgotten your current situation," she said, her tone turning serious. "Stop asking questions."
Sato fell silent.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Sato."
"Sato?" She tilted her head. "Easterner?"
"Yes."
She resumed skinning the boar with practiced strokes.
"My name here is Kervon-born Veyra. Just Veyra is fine."
Sato stayed quiet.
"What's your name in this world?" she asked.
"What do you mean by 'in this world'?"
"What else? Isn't Sato your name from your previous life?" Veyra asked, surprised.
"No. Why would it be?"
She paused, knife hovering. "You didn't die in your previous life?"
"No. I don't even know how I got here. A blue portal just… pulled me in. When I woke up, I was in a tent," Sato said, then stopped himself. Kervon-born… The man I killed was Kervon. If I tell her, she might kill me.
Veyra looked at him closely.
"You arrived like this? When?"
"I don't know. Maybe recently. After killing that giant serpent near the tents, I passed out from blood loss. I must have been unconscious for a while. I'm not sure."
"If that's the case… did you open the System? What level are you?" Veyra asked.
Sato hesitated. If I tell her everything, will she kill me?
"Just before I fought you," he said. "I'm Level 9"
Veyra's knife stopped.
"Level 9?" she repeated slowly. "You fought that serpent at… what? Even without opening the system?"
Sato nodded.
She stared at him.
Then she laughed—a short, disbelieving sound.
"You killed a Level 48 Fazulin Serpent without opening the system? But how?"
Another pause.
"You're either insanely lucky… or the System really favors you."
She set the knife down.
Then she asked the question that made Sato's blood run cold.
"What's your title?" she said, voice low and serious. "Or to put it another way, what is your number?"