Ivor Hansen stalked through a small, dimly lit oasis deep within the Forsaken Plains, his short orange fur damp with moist air. As the First Ranger of Volun, it was his duty, his passion, and his honour to bravely go where none had gone before.

  He enjoyed toeing the line of civilisation because it presented him with unique and exciting challenges, fulfilling that competitive, adventurous part of his spirit he had cultivated since his raucous youth.

  Pupating within the Boiling Jungle to the East, he discovered the mythical Crystal Cicadas. To the South, sailing upon the back of a Sailfin Leviathan in the Tonnau Du oceans, he found a rare form of seaweed that could cure the weeping pox.

  He had seen marvels few would ever survive to tell about.

  His newest mission? Climb the near-impassible Looming Cliffs and investigate the silence of the bordering country, Lazfeld. His first obstacle had been getting permission to leave. His second? The Looming Cliff.

  At its lowest, the cliff stood only 10 miles tall. At its highest peak, it would take weeks for even a tier 5 Body cultivator, such as himself, to climb. He was challenging himself with the greatest treks of all: 150 miles of pure. Vertical. Danger.

  Volun lay near the foot of these looming cliffs. Drenched in a perpetual rain that fed the healthy Volun city tree, after which the city is named.

  Ivor Hansen called Volun home… and couldn't be happier to be away from it, because his spirit was born to be free. Sedentarily sitting still was for the timid and fearful.

  The great Ivor Hansen was neither.

  The cliffs served as a perpetually looming figure of authority, casting the humble Volun in shadow from Noon till Dawn.

  The midway point in the climb proved nearly impossible to traverse for mere mortals. Its gatekeeper? A monumental storm centre, perpetually crashing against the vertical landscape.

  Harsh winds plucked unanchored, unwinged cultivators from the precipitous surface – casting them into tempestuous air currents that ripped and tore off limbs through sheer hydrodynamic force.

  Water slicked the moss-leaden peaks, making the climb slicker than ice and each handhold a game of chance. Lightning, following the shortest route to earth, would crash against the cliff and strike down any unprepared traveller. Unless they had powerful enchantments, solely devoted to electricity negation, the ambient tier 4 lightning could incinerate mundane steel.

  To call it a mere ‘mountain range’ would also be doing the sheer verticality present an injustice. At specific points, like the Devil’s Teat, climbers would have to navigate a complex series of overhangs and roof systems, arch features, and backtrack for miles to find a suitable route. Due to the constant storms and the beasts that inhabit the cliff, the trails were ever-changing, and a climber had to adapt constantly as they ascended to the plateau above.

  Within the Everstorm that crashed against the cliff lived spirits, elementals, roc, fae, and angelic monks.

  If one were only to consider the avian monstrosities that inhabited the thermals and storms of the cliffs, then that alone would have been enough to scare away even the bravest of adventurers, but Ivor Hansen was no mere adventurer. He was the First Ranger of Volun, a rank bestowed upon him due to his bravery, hunger for adventure, and outstanding humility. He would, in fact, be the first to argue that none were as humble as he.

  On his journey up the cliff, he had faced many dangers: the time a cliff-snatching worm had disguised its mouth as a roosting ledge, and nearly swallowed Ivor Hansen whole. Luckily… no, not luckily, because luck had nothing to do with it; his reflexes were too great, and he escaped the tier 5 beast with his life intact. The worm’s tunnels weakened the structural integrity of the cliff face, and one or two close calls nearly had him plummeting into the deadly Everstorm.

  Large arachnids, carnivorous plants, dangerous cave systems, and flanged monkeys dog the steps of any explorer brave – or stupid – enough to attempt the climb.

  It was said that the cliff had once been the base of a World Tree branch, pruned by martial gods in a long-forgotten war. None but the emperor knew, for the cliff disappeared beyond even the Empire's borders, into lands uncharted and unknown. Lazfeld was the Yun Cheng Empire’s only contact beyond the cliff, and due to their independence, had kept tales of their lands a secret from the larger population.

  All these dangers meant that few have ever mapped a safe trail up the face. Even fewer dare to brave the perilous climb…

  Good thing Ivor Hansen was no ordinary man!

  Level 56 Body cultivator at the Bloodline Refinement stage, with a subpath in Core cultivation (level 25) at the Spell Inscription stage, with an overall level of 81. Of course, he had a Nature elemental-alignment to complement his frequent natural excursions. His natural talent, [Sure Footed], allowed him to traverse impossible terrain, which made him more than suited to the climb.

  Ivor Hansen was born and bred to conquer the wilds.

  The only reason he hadn’t braved the climb earlier was that he had sought more complex challenges before deigning to grace the cliffs with his majesty. Top of his class in Ranger School, he was near the peak of his rank in the Empire. He then went on to exceed all expectations by discovering some of Volun's major export items, such as the precious gem chitin of the Crystal Cicadas, and the ominous black wood of the Watching Grove. His talent, [Sure-footed], allowed him to walk on any surface as if it were horizontal, turning a perilous climb into the matter of a long jog. It had taken him thirty cycles at a careful pace to make the climb. It was now the 15th of Noon, 10201st year of the Golden Dragon.

  His Nature alignment helped him find or create food on the Forsaken plains, atop the cliff -- though his Nature-aligned Leaf stock, to make said food, was running low. Only twenty Tier 4 Nature leaves remained, each able to provide 30 modest meals. He was not in any danger, but the climb had taken longer than he had expected, yet no longer than he had foreseen, because Ivor Hansen could foresee any danger.

  The sheer size of the cliffs prevented the upper plateau from receiving regular rainfall, creating climates where the terrain grew dry and rocky, with a particular emphasis on arid, windy conditions.

  The beasts that lived topside were either nomadic -- travelling from oasis to oasis -- or elementally aligned to survive without any water at all. Beasts such as Helion Raptors: large, carnivorous reptiles that had dogged his steps for nearly six cycles before he’d managed to lose them.

  The oasis in which he currently found himself, dubbed “The Jungle Oasis” by Ivor Hansen himself, was home to a particularly nasty creature that would constantly stalk one from the trees, hiding whenever one came near.

  Once one sought rest, a scream would startle one from their slumber. Over and over. Each plagued cycle. A deviously clever technique that ensured the weak either died of fatigue, or by some other monstrosity due to exhausted mistakes -- after which the devilish beast would scavenge the remains.

  Ivor Hansen had found and killed the one stalking him, all thanks to one of his newest bloodline mutations [Nose of the Seeker].

  He had subsequently named the beast 'The Exhaustion Stalker' as the job of a ranger was to name things as accurately as possible, ensuring that others had a general idea of what that beast was capable of, just as he had named the Helion Raptor, so called because of its Light-aligned physiology.

  As he hopped over a particularly large root, he huffed a breath.

  Upon landing, he froze - there was blood in the air.

  Taking another deep breath through his somewhat flat nose, he scented the air...human-breath… blood-breath… male-breath… mortal-breath… badly infected.

  He cautiously peered around, legs crouched and ready to jump in any direction to evade an attack.

  A normal cultivator's first instinct would be to start cycling mana and prepare for an attack. He wouldn't be so amateurish because out on the frontier, where focused spikes of elemental mana occurred very infrequently, it would be like sending up a flare to all beasts within the area. So, instead, he calmly crouched lower to the ground. His hands slowly, silently, strung his bow, his green eyes constantly scanning his surroundings. His ears strained for any sound beyond the wind, anxiously rustling leaves, creaking branches, and the occasional shriek of an Exhaustion Stalker. Even the screaming cicadas…were strangely quiet.

  Now, an average ranger would have assumed, based just on their 'not hearing anything', that nothing was the matter, but Ivor Hansen was a master of his craft. Predatory creatures were often very suited to blending into the sounds of their surroundings. It could be entirely possible that the rustling leaves were, in fact, the beast itself. Now even more hyper-aware, Ivor Hansen slowly stalked towards where the smell originated. Such was his stealth that none would be able to hear him. Not even the most sensitive bat would be able to hear him creeping through the damp undergrowth of the jungle. Such was his stealth that-

  "H-help me..." A weak voice called just to his left, scaring the everloving sap out of him! He all but yelped, and had his underlings been present, they would have likened his landing posture to that of a frightened feline. The voice trailed off like the last death rattle of a dying man. Horrified that someone was in need in this accursed oasis, Ivor probed with his magical senses, yet felt only the faintest of magical sparks within the man: he had cultivated less than a child fresh off their 20th birthday. It matched the scent he had smelled. Mortal. Those who had not reached their first tier.

  Feeling a lot more confident that he hadn't been ambushed, he nevertheless kept low and quiet as the stench became stronger and stronger.

  He had awakened his new nose bloodline only a little more than three months ago and was still distrustful of what it told him.

  He soon came upon a fully naked skeleton of a man, hidden beneath the shade of a large green frond.

  Ivor Hansen could now fully hear his breathing: short, shallow, raspy, likely as his body tried to fight off the infection Ivor Hansen could see oozing through his veins.

  His brown hair was cut patchily and short, his nails overly long, and his emaciated form was more reminiscent of a corpse than anything that should have been alive. His ribs clearly showed through his thin, sallow skin, and his eyes sunken into his skull. Worst of all were the cuts in his skin.

  All across his body, large lacerations seeped disgusting yellow pus. His cheeks, pale as they were, stood rosy red from fever. Perspiration borne of intense internal struggle beaded his pallid forehead.

  Such was the poor man's condition that Ivor Hansen nearly ran forward… but resisted the almost overwhelming urge to help.

  Thinking that the prone man could have been left as a trap, Ivor Hansen scouted the perimeter and found not one, but two large spiders looming in the canopy above.

  They were only mid-tier 4, so they were easy enough to dispatch with a neat application of [Dash] and [Blade of grass piercing oak trunk].

  He would have to harvest their cores later, but a man was in need.

  He landed next to the unconscious corpse and started tending to his wounds. There was one thing you could always say about Ivor Hansen: He was extraordinarily humble. He always helped a fellow traveller in need.

  -

  Gareth Elson slowly left his mental delirium to find a world of plants, for the first time in his life.

  I have to be glitching, man.

  His hands were no longer shackled, his neck wasn't strapped down, but he could still feel something wrapped around his waist, arms and legs.

  His fever had receded, and his wounds didn't pulse nearly as much as they had.

  He opened blue eyes ringed in red, only enough to allow through the tiniest sliver of light. The longer Ian thought I was unconscious, the longer he would leave me alone.

  Gareth found himself next to a small campfire, logs burning merrily with two strange creatures sizzling away on a spit. If the Doctor hadn’t carved out his optics, he would have said he was glitching, that someone had jacked his line and was messing with him.

  On the other side of the fire, sitting hunched forward on a log, was a large monkey-man. At least, Gareth assumed he was a monkey man based on his large, hairy, bare feet, with a thumblike big toe, and his dexterous brown tail turning the spit. Large green eyes, sparkling with a gold internal light that had to be cosmetic, were staring straight at Gareth.

  His face carried a quiet intensity – sharp, composed, and grounded in calm authority.

  He had a broad, intelligent forehead, high cheekbones that tapered into a narrow, strong jawline, and a subtle cleft in the chin that added character to his otherwise smooth, composed complexion.

  He had a short-cropped black head of hair that gave him a militaristic air, but sprouted thick orange fur below the neckline, which ran thickly down his sleeveless arms.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  People really go for some absurd dermal chrome sometimes.

  A large rucksack strapped with an axe and icepick rested against his log chair, along with a massive longbow and a quiver of arrows.

  His athletic form was covered in a thick but flexible army-green camo robe, loosely draped over his form. The cut on his pants sleeves tapered off, wrapping tightly around the ankles. He wore metallic bracers on his forearms, with a red bead bangle knotted with leather around his right wrist.

  "Ivor Hansen sees the man awake at last."

  The monkey man whispered with a slight accent Gareth couldn't place. At least, a different accent than the Common the Doctor had forcefully taught him.

  Giving up the pretence that he was still sleeping, Gareth tried to rush to his feet, but in a flash of orange firelight, Ivor was next to him and pressing him back into the bedroll with an unyielding hand on his chest.

  "Rest-rest is the best-best. Do not sully my stitch-work in your haste to rise. You are safe."

  His palm on Gareth’s chest was gentle but firm, like someone chromed to the tits with gorilla arms. No matter how hard he pushed, Ivor Hansen did not budge in the slightest. Gareth was also embarrassingly weak after who knew how many years of sedentary torture.

  So, just another psycho that's stronger than I am.

  "Who are you?" Gareth asked in a resigned voice as he lay back down.

  A rolled-up wool blanket cradled his head. He was comfortably warm under an animal pelt of some sort. The thin futon-like thing, the only comparison Gareth could make, was extremely comfortable. Disturbingly so.

  As he lay back, his hand absently brushed against a hand-sized rock next to his bedroll. He subtly palmed it, ready to smash the guy’s head in.

  "This one is Ivor Hansen, ennobled third Class, first ranger of the Volun military and saviour... of you.”

  Gareth felt his throat tighten because he was once again in someone's debt over health reasons.

  “You were at the edge of death when this one found your unconscious body beneath a carnivorous frond. You are very weak for being so far into the Forsaken Plains. Explain yourself." Ivor’s green eyes peered pointedly at his bandaged, emaciated form.

  Gareth likewise studied Ivor intensely, looking for any hint of shady intentions. It wouldn't do to escape captivity, only to be caught again in a different trap.

  "Thanks for saving me, choom. I’ll return the favour by giving you a heads-up: I think it would be best for you to leave now. The people looking for me won’t hesitate to throw you in a cold cell as well."

  Gareth’s voice was grave with the hopelessness and negativity of his upbringing.

  He had lost so many facets of himself in his miserable life, but he tried to keep one of his most important principles: doing the right thing even if it screwed him over.

  While he did not let people take advantage of him, he tried to be kind, tried to keep others safe. He would see if his principles would help him in this situation.

  -

  Ivor Hansen instantly put his guard up.

  Was someone looking for this person?

  He hurriedly extended his magical and physical senses to the expansive oasis surrounding them.

  A horned hare was fornicating with its family members in a burrow nearby. A dust devil from the wastes beyond was drowning in a puddle of water. A twig snapped under the boot of a tier 4 cultivator- wait, what?

  He focused his senses toward them and found four more Body Refinement cultivators, spread out and walking toward them.

  Showing none of his alarm, he calmly asked the wounded man, who had yet to introduce himself, "Why, and who would be looking for one such as you?"

  He studied the man before him, searching for any hint of deceit. Any hint of a trap.

  His expressive blue eyes shone with fear and hardness – with a thin nose that only made his angular, emaciated cheeks stand out even more. A scraggly sandy blond beard grew from a bone structure that was bold and clean, with high, prominent cheekbones that tapered into a square, confident jawline. His chin was pronounced but smooth, balancing the sharpness of his cheeks. He had full lips that flaked from dehydration. Had he been in a better state, the man would have been quite handsome.

  While he was thin, his face bore no wrinkle or laughline; inexplicably smooth for a mortal.

  Strange.

  -

  One such as me? Gareth thought in alarm. Can this guy sense my immortality?

  Panic started to set in as horrible, horrible memories resurfaced from the bottomless mental pit where he had temporarily buried them.

  He couldn't be captured again. If he were, he would go insane. He would deliberately discard the part of himself that made sense of reality and die in a mental capacity, even if he couldn't die physically.

  "Wha-what do you mean, 'one such as me'?" He fought his body to stop trembling, but it nevertheless reached his voice.

  -

  Ivor Hansen looked at this strange man as he devolved into hysterics. The boy’s pale blue eyes went wide as saucers, his skeletal hands trembled, and Ivor Hansen had to once again calm him with the little bit of Aura control he possessed. As emaciated as he was, the look of fear in this mortal’s straight brows turned his visage from hauntingly sick to hauntingly innocent.

  "One who is so gravely…injured?" Ivor Hansen once again probed him with his magical senses, to little effect. He was just a mortal.

  At 100 feet away, the footsteps froze. They must have sensed either the injured man or the campfire still smouldering in the humid jungle.

  Ivor Hansen was not yet entirely sure about the situation and would rather avoid getting involved in anyone's dirty business. Yet while he generally avoided getting into a lower tier's business, he had to acknowledge that this man needed help.

  It might not be the smart move, but it was the right move.

  "Someone approaches. I will scout ahead." Ivor lied, needing more information before he could decide whom to help.

  He quickly turned and disappeared up the side of a nearby palm tree.

  -

  Gareth Elson froze.

  So Ivor isn't with The Doctor? That's good, right?

  His worries somewhat chilled regarding the monkey man, but a new fear took hold.

  Who’s coming?

  As quickly as his wounds would allow, he got up and hobbled away from the campfire – only to turn back, grab an animal from the spit, and then run to the nearest tree in an attempt to climb it.

  He reached its base and froze, realising something very, very important. He came from a highly advanced cyberplanet and had no real experience with tree climbing. Adventure BD’s didn't count for shit because it was never his actual body and his actual muscles that had performed the actions.

  Resolving to at least try, he put the searingly hot rabbit in his mouth…and tried to climb the palm tree.

  Unfortunately, years of captivity and inaction had deteriorated his muscles significantly.

  He was therefore only able to hug the tree somewhat tightly.

  Gareth quickly gave up any hope of climbing the tree. He instead put his back against it, and faced the dark oasis...alone.

  The oasis was mainly palm trees that kept the forest floor dark, though glimpses of the bright blue sky peeked through the fronds.

  Years of captivity, and I still can’t see the fucken sky! – He internally raged at the injustice.

  He clutched the rock in one hand and took a bite from the scalding meat in the other.

  He had no clue where these bastards would be coming from because Ivor had left before he could ask him. So he couldn't even run in a direction because he might run right to them!

  If these truly were Ian's people, and Gareth very much thought that they were, then he knew one thing for certain: He couldn't outrun them, but he could lead them into dangerous territory. He’d done it before; he’d do it again.

  He calmed his racing heart and listened for roars, howls and growls.

  …The oasis was deathly quiet.

  I can’t lead them into something if I can't even fuckin find it! – He raged some more, internally.

  He felt helplessness boiling up in his chest and the beginnings of desperate tears prickling the corners of his eyes.

  I don't want to be captured and tortured again! I refuse to go back to the Doctor, to Ian!

  Just about to hedge his bets and run in a random direction anyway, a rough, deep, nasal voice pierced the silent darkness.

  "Well, well, well...well. If it ain't the runaway we's been lookin’ for." A sneering voice came from the shadows to Gareth's left.

  -

  Ivor Hansen watched the five bulky men who were covered in sweat, blood, and dust descend on the injured man.

  Armed with curved sabres and ugly expressions, they circled the injured man like the sharks of Tonnau Du.

  "D’yew know how far we ran looking for you, slime? D'yew fink it was funny when you led us into that dust devil den? I lost three fuckin’ men!"

  "Then you shouldn't have followed me, cunt!" The injured man fired back.

  One hand grasped desperately at the bark behind him while the other clung to the horned hare skewer.

  Ivor Hanson could only admire his ingenuity. Dust Devils were relatively simple-minded creatures and would attack the most significant threat within their territory.

  I would have done the same if a more powerful foe were pursuing me.

  The main speaker took the injured man's insult to heart, because he sneered even further – if that was even possible – his brown eyes hateful, "Oh we followed yew, and now we'll make yew pay!"

  The dust dug divvies in his skin as he snarled, his shadowed facade ancient and seemingly demented.

  The head man addressed the men, who had encircled the tree Injured Man was against.

  "D’yew know the good fing about dem immortals, boys? They don't die easy-like. Hehehe!" He lunged forward and hit the injured man in the stomach as hard as he could, putting his entire weight behind the blow.

  Now, Ivor Hansen was many great, great things, and one of those was that he stood up for those who could not stand for themselves, especially if cultivators bullied those of a weaker tier. Tier disparity was something that had to be observed when choosing your opponent, and it was commonly believed that you only fought cultivators one tier higher or lower than yourself. To hit someone so much weaker than oneself was a grave loss of face.

  He had no idea why this cowardly fool would think the injured man was immortal, but as he vomited blood, Ivor could stand back no more.

  Funnelling mana towards a seldom-used spell, he projected his voice through a plant near the men.

  "This one commands you to stop, weakling! Leave now or face the wrath of Nature!"

  A deep booming voice emanated from a young palm sapling -- the strongest life-form Ivor Hansen could currently channel the spell through.

  "What du fuck!" Old-man-face exclaimed; his men were likewise startled as their wide eyes looked to their leader for direction.

  They didn't hear the words so much as the open threat associated with the deep tone, which quickly flopped because it came from a two-foot sapling.

  Ivor Hansen shrugged, "It is a new spell that this one is not yet familiar with," he acknowledged to himself.

  "Yew hear dis plant then, Tim? Finks it can fretten us? Ha! Take that, ya-dumb plant!"

  As one of Tim's subordinates started stomping on the poor palm sapling, Ivor couldn't help but think that something might be…off.

  It was cowardly, and usually a bad sign, if someone hits below their level, but what were five tier 4s doing in a tier 5 environment?

  They acted foolishly and couldn't survive without someone stronger to aid them.

  Ivor Hansen also couldn't get over the fact that Tim had called the injured man immortal.

  He had heard myths about immortal people, but they were just that: myths.

  And yet, when Ivor Hansen had dressed wounds that should have killed the man because of blood loss, nevermind the rampant infection… he had survived.

  A throwaway comment, or a vital piece of information that these fools let slip?

  Re-evaluating rapidly, Ivor Hansen searched around with his senses, trying to detect any hidden masters that could interfere with what happened next.

  He found none.

  Although if someone were powerful enough to hide from his tier 5 senses, they wouldn't need to.

  -

  Gareth Elson lay in the fetal position, his arms curled over his head as one of Ian's hired help kicked him mercilessly.

  This beating caused pain, sure, but he had experienced far worse pain as the Doctor cut him open as a test subject.

  He felt no fear because he could. Not. Die.

  What he did fear, however, was being taken back to the Ostigal mine and being kept there indefinitely.

  So, he mustered what little strength he had and kicked out, striking a shin.

  He heard a condescending laugh as the superpowered, chromed-up, psycho barely felt it, while it felt like Gareth had kicked a cement wall.

  He couldn't understand it.

  How are these people so fucking strong!?

  For years, they had manhandled him like he was as strong as a newborn, and since he’d met no one weaker than himself, he had to assume 'extreme and overwhelming strength' was the norm among these cruel cunts.

  A brief pause followed his kick, and in his mind Gareth could see Tim pulling back his foot to break another rib… but the blow never landed.

  -

  Ivor Hansen saw the cruel fool raise his foot and acted.

  They were in the Tier 4 Body Refinement stage, just one tier below his own Tier 5 Bloodline Refinement stage. The difference in strength was not that great, especially considering that he was outnumbered. But their skill masteries were sloppy, their bodies gangly and uncoordinated.

  These were not the cultivators of Volun, who spent their lives mastering their respective dao. These were System-assisted bullies who had everything handed to them.

  All he needed to do was apply his considerable intellect and cunning.

  He tilted his head forward to shift his centre of gravity over the branch until his head was level with Tim's, then pushed off with not even a quarter of his strength. He nevertheless shot forward like a leopard, flipped around mid-air, and hit Tim in the ribs with both bare feet: Heels first, his legs fully extending with perfect timing, to deliver the ultimate martial drop kick.

  While Tim had the durability natural to all tier 4s, he did not have the trained musculature of a warrior. His chest caved and snapped like tinder.

  Ivor Hansen used his prehensile tail to rebalance his centre and land on his feet, then grabbed the nearest man by the neck with his powerful hands.

  “Yield, and you shall live.”

  He threatened quietly, but the man unfortunately threw a punch. Ivor Hansen was forced to dodge his head to the left. He pulled back his right hand, folded his fingers at the joints immediately after the knuckle, and pierced them through the man's throat. Phoenix Eye Fist took the man’s mediocre life.

  Two down.

  The other three weaklings saw their compatriots collapse to the ground and drew their swords. They were not nearly wary enough.

  First Ranger is a title earned, not given.