What the Hell Is That?

"What the hell is that?"

"What do you think it is?"

It was none other than a monster. But not your run-of-the-mill beast. It wasn't even native to the area around here, and even Vulcan, a Gloria Saga veteran grizzled from years in the game, had never laid eyes on anything like it. Hell, could you even call that a living creature? It looked like the twisted result of some mad magic experiment, and its movements were downright unnatural. Each one had a different form, sprouting black tentacles to swallow humans whole. Chop one down, and it split into more, multiplying like crazy.

"Where are the guards? What about the other players or NPCs?"

Even stranger was how few people were putting up a real fight despite these things rampaging freely. This was chaos in the middle of the city—guards should've swarmed the place by now, but there was no sign of them. Only a handful of players were resisting just to stay alive.

"They're either holed up inside or evacuating people."

Tud laid it out plain: either they'd already been eaten, or the guards were busy herding artisans without the chops for combat to safety. It made sense, sure, but were these things that tough? Where the hell did they even come from? Could this ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be tied to those 'black humans' somehow?

Vulcan scowled and put some distance between himself and the horde. No clue what was going on, but he needed intel before diving in. He'd already scanned them with Dragon Eye, but the info was sparse. Still, their identity was crystal clear.

"Homunculus?"

"Some clown pulled off a wild stunt at an alchemy contest once. Happens now and then among those tinkerers."

It sounded absurd, but Tud's explanation clicked. Homunculi—magical lifeforms, the pinnacle of alchemy alongside the Philosopher's Stone. The Stone could transmute anything, even gold. Homunculi were crafted humans—or better—from raw alchemy. Both were every alchemist's dream, but legends, pipe dreams. Few dared attempt it.

Especially homunculi. Failure meant nasty backlash, and the experiments on life itself were taboo. Not illegal, but alchemists shunned it unless you were at least advanced level—too risky, too inhumane.

"A contest? Those are mid-tier alchemists at best. Why risk something that insane...?"

According to Tud, these monsters busted out from the contest hall. Someone there cooked them up.

"Why? Blame yourself, punk."

"Me?"

"Yup. You wrecked shop here, hyped everyone up. Pressure spiked, someone pushed too hard."

"......"

Plausible enough. The monthly artisan contest wasn't just blacksmithing. Prelims ran parallel, finals started with smiths—so alchemists and architects next felt the heat. Someone cracked under it.

Vulcan couldn't dodge blame entirely, but it wasn't all on him. Still, homunculi? Even as a 'mishap,' was that okay?

Even so, how'd a novice alchemist have the guts—or ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠means—to try? He'd logged off briefly; no way to know details.

"Damn! Attacks aren't landing!"

"Magic damage only! Call a mage or use mana blade!!"

The fight raged on, fierce but tilting toward the homunculi. Undefined magical forms shrugged off physical hits, only flinching at spells, magic weapons, or mana strikes. But mages and magic gear were scarce. Players sought gear here, sure, but tentacles struck fast. Magic worked, but they resisted hard—damage stuck, but no quick kills.

'Not immune. They just regen instantly.'

Fighters struggled. Hits landed but healed fast, feeding on leaked emotional energy. Hit a threshold or take big damage? They split and fled, growing harder to pin. No info on killing them for good bred doubt, fear—more fuel for the beasts.

'High-levels sitting it out? Or tied up elsewhere?'

Even so, top players or NPCs could flip it: AoE spells, mana blades, aura blades would shred them. But who jumps into an uncredited brawl? Maybe none nearby, Vulcan figured. Unknown foes, crap drops—no risk worth it.

"Guess I gotta step up."

He gritted his teeth. Artisan city or not, weaklings dying? Not why. This place minted his gold. NPCs live or die, city stands or falls—he could relocate. But street stalls padded his wallet fat. Keep it bustling, save artisans—one more meant more business.

"Kreeuk?"

"Eat this!"

Thwunnn!!

A heavy boom cracked the air. Vulcan opened with range: sniper longbow, Tong-ah channeling Arrows of Denial. Speed and punch dwarfed power throws.

"?!"

BOOM!!

Arrow pierced; one shot, total erasure. Even Vulcan blinked, then got it: ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠unstable mana body crumbled on contact with anti-magic arrows. Structure collapsed—poof.

"Wheew!"

Easy mode. Vulcan whistled, spun the arrow with telekinesis, redirecting to skewer more.

BOOM BOOM BANGBANG!!!

One-shots galore. Arrows popped them like balloons. Tentacles whipped, mana shields formed—useless. Touch and done.

"Wheeew, whoosh!"

Smart ones split and bolted at predator vibes, but each whistle claimed at least one. 'This is fun.'

Bad matchup for the homunculi. More refined? Maybe trouble. But ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠these shattered at adamantium touch—unstable as hell. Size, fed energy? Irrelevant. They burst like dams breaking.

Amid the vanishes, Vulcan spotted something.

"Hm?"

Denser darkness in stronger ones left fragments post-pop: tiny black shards matching their hue. Too small for others, but Dragon Eye caught 'em.

"Everyone okay?"

"Y-yeah! Fine. But how...?"

"Huh? Vulcan?"

"What? The guy who crushed the smithing division?"

Vulcan feigned concern, sidled to corpses, pocketed a shard. Checked it.

'Well, well?' Tiny shard, but Rare grade. Whole thing? Unique at least. 'False' Philosopher's Stone? Fishy vibe. Dragon Eye showed truth, but others might see plain 'Philosopher's Stone.' How'd a scrub alchemist snag this? Not homemade. Worth digging.

'Telekinesis.'

Decision made, Vulcan yoinked shards to inventory stealthily. He killed 'em—ownership clear—but if value spread, gripes or rivals might swarm. Even 'false,' power to birth these? Prime material for alchemy or crafting. Swept clean, he hunted more.

"Whiiist—!"

Hunting ramped whistles louder, longer: signal position to survivors, lure oblivious homunculi. Repetition branded him—unexpected perks incoming.

'Whistling Man [Rare]'

Stronger whistle indirectly boosted arrow mastery. Foes fixate on sound? Perfect misdirect. Silent strike exploits it.

"Small fry cleared, looks like?"

Vulcan swept streets, Dragon Eye spotting homunculi, survivors—efficient skips of crowds. Save big groups? Cool, but frees high-levels to compete for shards. Prioritized loners in alleys, scaled to bosses. Thanks poured in, but none joined the fray.

'No backup, huh.'

"Teleport circle's trashed. Fixable, but takes time."

Hoped news drew reinforcements via gate. Nope. Homunculi smartly wrecked it.

'Maybe not homunculi.'

Magic backlash? Or feared chain explosion from giant circle? Damaged just enough. Instinct over intellect for them—newborn dumb. Targeted gate first? Sketchy. Accomplice? Or Stone-pusher synced perfectly.

'Not showing their hand.'

No high-levels from big cities. Smell folk vs. horde, solo. Foes eyed players' immortality, stayed shadows.

'Still my edge.'

Smell teetered. Vulcan dominated fringes, but cores swarmed. Holdouts bunkered—no damage dealt. Fear fueled growth.

'Drag on, even I struggle.'

Key spots like Tud's lab, Artisan Hall layered wards—safe. But leaked emotions fed beasts. Limits unknown; hit before they breach. Some already tanked arrows.

'Can't solo forever.'

Plan shift: rally. Scoped high for survivor hubs.

"What the—?"

One spot blazed. Not crowd size. White glow from survivors vs. black from homunculi—stark.

"Purple? So many colors?"

Lights bloomed: yellow, orange, purple. Meaning hit quick.

"Artisan Hall?"

Direction confirmed. Crisis unlocked vaults—prime gear out.

'Jackpot!'

Mind raced. Loans only, but Hall-grade? Grip one, snag recipes. Replicate or adapt techniques? Goldmine. Eyes gleaming, Vulcan bolted full tilt.