Blood of the Beast God

Chapter 04: The Green Treasure Chest

The sun showed no mercy that day. It burned high overhead, flooding the land in gold, the kind of glare that made the air ripple like a mirage. Beautiful, sure, but in that way where beauty feels dangerous, almost fake.

The campfire snapped and spat sparks into the sky, chewing through wood like it had a grudge. The smell of wolf meat roasting over the flames clung to everything, thick and smoky. One of those scents that followed you long after you’d left.

Kaelen sat there with a wolf’s leg in his fist. He tore at it like a starving man, though his head wasn’t in the meal. It hadn’t been for a long time. Since getting tossed into this warped world, the only quiet he ever got was when his stomach was full and the fire was steady. And even then, his mind wouldn’t stop.

Right now, one thing mattered more than anything else. He needed to heal.

The wound carved across his chest wasn’t just pain—it was a ticking clock. Every day it cut deeper, dragging him closer to the edge.

Weakness: All attributes –2.

That little line might as well have been his death sentence. Yesterday, it was –1. Today –2. Tomorrow –3. An invisible blade was shaving away at him piece by piece until there was nothing left.

With his stats crippled and no one left to watch his back, surviving the Trial of Death wasn’t just hard—it was flat-out impossible. Even praying for a miracle was pointless. Maybe if his party hadn’t ditched him, he’d still have a shot. But that rope was cut yesterday. They left him to rot.

Unlucky didn’t even begin to cover it. From the moment he crossed over, death had been sitting right beside him. Escaping the wolves had been dumb luck, nothing more. Fate wasn’t about to loosen its grip now.

No potions. No allies. No last-minute save. Just him.

He chewed without tasting, his eyes distant, flipping through memories like a stack of worn-out maps. The Valley of Death unfolded in his mind—every path, every shadow, every little secret he’d ever learned. Somewhere in there was his answer.

For most people, wounds like his meant game over. Potions could’ve helped, but those were locked to full-fledged professionals. And Kaelen wasn’t one of them. Reserve candidates like him could fight, could use gear, but potions were off the table. That was the rule.

That was also why his team had cut him loose. One healing vial could’ve saved him, but who wastes medicine on dead weight?

What he had left was knowledge. A lifetime of it. Hours upon hours of grinding, quests, guides—all of it carved the Valley into his memory like scars.

And that memory gave him three options.

Turn back. Give up. Fail the trial.

Push forward. Three days ahead, the Fountain of Life.

Or… take the short path. Half a day’s journey beneath a cliff, the Blood of the Beast God.

The first two? Already dead ends. Turning back meant five days of travel, and he’d never last. The fountain? Three days away. He’d be gone long before that.

That left one card to play: the Blood.

Funny thing was, back in the game, it hadn’t been anything special. Just a beginner’s quest reward. Warriors got the Beast God’s Blood, mages got the Divine. Flashy names for a measly +2 to all attributes. Barely worth mentioning.

But here, where numbers meant muscle and pain and blood? +2 was huge. This body had sweated and bled for years to claw its way to Stamina 8 and Strength 7—every point won through endless mornings, torn hands, scars piled on scars. Now? That Blood wasn’t just healing. It was hope.

It was survival.

It was his future.

Kaelen didn’t hesitate once the decision was made. He wrapped up strips of meat, slung them over his shoulder, and left the camp smoldering behind him.

The ground stretched hard and barren under his boots. Ahead, the official trial path wound along—a thin strip of stone, neat and predictable. Walk from one end to the other, survive, and congratulations, you passed.

But Kaelen wasn’t here for neat and predictable. He turned his back on it and struck out the other way. The Blood was waiting beneath a cliff, and that was where he’d go.

Time bled away as he moved. His stride was steady but sharp, each step a reminder of how fragile he’d become.

At last, the cliff rose before him, jagged and sheer. He peered over the edge. Forty meters down. The ground was visible, but if he jumped? He’d end up as a red smear.

There was only one way down: the chain. Grip tight, use the footholds, and pray his body didn’t give out.

He studied the scene, comparing it to his memories. Nearly perfect. The grass is thicker, the beasts below are more restless, but otherwise the same.

Three hours of walking weighed on him, so he forced himself to wait. Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty. He couldn’t afford to hit that chain weakly. Not here.

When his breathing steadied, he moved. Just where he remembered, he pushed aside tall grass and found the hidden iron chain. It clattered in his grip, loud enough to make his pulse spike.

He looped it once around his arm, sucked in a breath, and started down.

This wasn’t a game anymore. No respawn. No second chance.

The chain bit into his palms as his muscles strained. Veins bulged, sweat ran in streams. Step after step, the world shrank to nothing but chain and stone. Grip. Foothold. Grip. Foothold.

Ten meters from the ground, he finally let go. Dropped the rest. Landed hard, knees bending with the impact, but steady. Alive. He rolled into the tall grass and vanished, lungs burning.

Down here, the world felt different. Wilder. The path to the Blood of the Beast God was supposed to take four hours. He’d already carved through most of it. But the last thirty minutes? That’s where death lived.

Above, the worst had been cliffs and broken paths. Down here, beasts prowled. And he’d already seen the shadows moving.

His health sat at fifty-five. Once, he’d been eighty. Now sixty was all he could hope for. Slower, weaker, easy prey if a pack decided to swarm him.

Every step mattered now.

The brook whispered as it wound through the grass. A breeze sent the field rippling like waves. A giraffe towered above it all, graceful as it wandered. Around it, fat white lambs nibbled, their coats so soft they almost glowed.

The picture of peace. Gentle. Perfect.

In another life, Kaelen might’ve laughed. Maybe even muttered a poem under his breath.

But this wasn’t another life.

Because here, no matter how harmless they looked, those creatures were stronger than the wolves he’d butchered. Wolves didn’t even count as Level 1. These? They did.

That was the rule here. Levels ruled everything. A rabbit one level higher could slaughter a tiger without breaking a sweat.

Kaelen pulled his gaze away, instincts prickling. He turned—

—and froze.

From the grass behind him came a faint green glow.

A chest. A treasure chest, pulsing emerald light through its seams.

A green treasure chest.