"Another summoned one?" Daion repeated in disbelief, staring at the man before him. The hooded figure's metal gauntlet looked far more imposing than the one Daion had been given. For a brief moment, he couldn't shake the feeling that the so-called god who summoned him had handed him the most basic model—like something pulled from a bargain bin in some celestial warehouse.

"You were just summoned, weren't you?" the hooded man asked in a calm, measured tone. Though his face was hidden beneath his hood, Daion could feel his gaze, studying him, evaluating him. There was something in his voice—almost pity—that irritated him.

"Eat it, or you'll lose too much blood," the man added, gesturing toward the small white orb still in Daion's hand. "Trust me, bleeding out is not the best way to die in a place crawling with beasts."

Daion hesitated. He wasn't sure how trustworthy this guy was, but there was no hostility in his demeanor. Eventually, exhaustion got the better of him. With a weary sigh, he let his sword slip from his fingers, the weight of it embedding into the wooden floor with a dull thud. His whole body trembled from exertion, and the memory of the monster's gaping maw was still fresh in his mind.

His eyes fell to the strange white orb in his palm. The idea of eating something so alien disgusted him, but the pain in his wounded arm was unbearable. With a deep breath, he threw caution aside and popped the orb into his mouth.

"How is it?" the hooded man asked as he moved silently across the ruined build. His footsteps made almost no sound—like a shadow gliding over the wreckage.

At first, Daion was surprised. The orb had a mildly sweet taste, almost pleasant. "Not bad, actually—"

Then he bit down.

A vile, putrid taste exploded in his mouth, like a mix of rotting meat and chemical waste. His entire body recoiled, and he barely managed to swallow it without gagging.

"That was disgusting!" he gasped, fighting back nausea.

The hooded man didn't even glance his way. "I warned you." There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but his overall demeanor remained eerily detached.

Suddenly, a cold sensation surged through Daion's wounded arm. His eyes widened as he watched the gashes rapidly close, his skin knitting back together in mere seconds. Even the cuts that should've left scars disappeared completely. His arm was as good as new.

"Unbelievable..." he breathed. A strange rush of energy coursed through him, making him feel almost… reborn. The lingering foul taste in his mouth, however, dulled his excitement.

Meanwhile, the hooded man had begun rifling through the belongings of the fallen villagers. Daion watched warily as he searched the body of a recently deceased man, extracting a silver watch, a small dagger etched with golden inscriptions, and a pouch that jingled with coins.

The hooded man turned, his gaze hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. He said nothing. Daion, unsure of what to say, decided against questioning him. The dead wouldn't be needing their belongings anymore.

A heavy silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional sound of shifting debris. Standing there, Daion felt like an outsider—like a clueless fool in a world that made no sense.

"That thing... does it cure infections?" he finally asked, desperate to break the silence.

"No idea." The hooded man's indifference sent a chill down Daion's spine.

"What?!" Daion's voice shot up in alarm.

"Worried about rabies or something?" The man chuckled dryly. "Relax. The gem neutralizes any environmental damage this world throws at you."

Daion thought back to earlier—when the thick, choking air had nearly crushed his lungs.

"So that means... no diseases, no infections..." The realization hit him like a hammer. "No aging?"

The hooded man gave him a knowing look.

Daion's mind raced. If healing was this easily accessible, how were they still losing the war in this world? Something didn't add up.

"However," the hooded man continued, breaking Daion's train of thought, "it doesn't protect you from the wilds."

With a slow, deliberate movement, he kicked the decapitated head of the monster Daion had killed.

"We don't die unless we're killed. This world has only one fate for us—live and die by the sword."

Daion studied him carefully, trying to grasp the weight of those words. The hooded man met his gaze and added:

"And just so you know, those orbs only heal superficial wounds. If that beast had shattered your bones, you'd still be screwed."

As the man resumed looting the corpses, Daion couldn't shake the feeling that he was more scavenger than soldier—someone who took whatever he needed, morality be damned.

There were too many questions swirling in Daion's head, and this guy clearly knew far more than that so-called god had bothered to explain.

"What happened to the villagers?" he finally asked. "There aren't any bodies."

The hooded man froze mid-motion, as if the question had struck a nerve. He flexed his fingers, thinking for a moment before replying.

"You've noticed that some monsters like human flesh, right?" he said casually, kneeling beside the criature that he kill.

"Yeah, but—"

"They prefer to enjoy their meals at home," he added with a twisted smirk. "Nothing like a warm meal in the comfort of their den."

A sickening dread twisted in Daion's gut. "And the women...?" The words barely left his lips. He almost didn't want to know the answer.

The hooded man let out a slow sigh and cast him a sidelong glance. "They take them too. But I doubt I need to explain why."

A wave of nausea hit Daion. His stomach churned, and cold sweat trickled down his back. "That's... horrible."

"Welcome to your fantasy world," the hooded man said, his voice laced with grim amusement. Then, as if the conversation had never happened, he motioned toward the dead monster at Daion's feet. "So, what are you gonna do with it?"

Daion blinked. "What am I supposed to do? Roast it?" he asked, half-joking, half-serius.

The hooded man scoffed. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you." He paused, as if considering. "Besides, nocturnal beasts don't taste great."

Daion raised an eyebrow. Was this guy serious? But before he could comment, the hooded man raised his hand over the corpse.

A blinding light erupted from his palm.

Daion instinctively stepped back as the air thickened, charged with energy. His clothes and hair lifted slightly, caught in an invisible force. Before his eyes, the monster's body began to break down—not in a natural way, but as if something were consuming it.

The energy released from the corpse surged into the hooded man, flowing into his gauntlet. The metallic surface pulsed, glowing with newfound strength. His rifle, slung over his back, also reacted—the barrel lengthened, the stock reshaped itself into a more ergonomic form, and small, jagged spikes emerged from the gauntlet.

The transformation stopped, and the hooded man flexed his fingers, inspecting his weapon.

"Good," he muttered, completely unfazed. "Leveled up."