The following day proved just as destructive as the last. Every attempt to condense the writhing mass of chaotic mana into a stable sphere left another scar upon the land, reducing the training ground to a barren, lifeless expanse. Grass blackened and crumbled to dust, trees stood twisted and brittle, and the very air felt heavy with the lingering remnants of entropy. Bones, stripped of his clothing time and time again by stray bursts of uncontrolled energy, didn’t even bother summoning new garments. He didn't consider it worth the effort to change until he finished.

  Two days passed, and while mental exhaustion gnawed at him, his perseverance was finally rewarded. A system message blinked into existence before him. However, it was not the one he had anticipated.

  [Chaos Affinity has advanced from Low to Medium.]

  The effects were immediate and undeniable. The exceptional mana regeneration that had allowed Bones to unleash spell after spell without concern, had stabilized—now more in line with conventional mages. The absurd wellspring of energy he had grown accustomed to had diminished, yet in exchange, the chaotic mana within him felt... responsive. Where before it had surged unpredictably, always threatening to spiral out of control, it now bent more willingly to his will.

  Emboldened by this newfound control, Bones extended his palm once more. The swirling clump of chaotic energy formed, coalescing not into an erratic, flickering mass but into something resembling a sphere—unstable, yes, but contained. It crackled, shifting and distorting like a captured storm, yet it did not dissolve or explode at random.

  A sharp ding rang out in his mind, signaling a system message and the addition of another spell to his skillset.

  Bones let out a slow exhale, his skeletal fingers tightening ever so slightly. This was it. He turned his gaze toward a distant, already-decaying tree, extending his arm and preparing to unleash the spell. He turned his head away, and with a snap of intent, he let the pent-up energy loose.

  The result was... as expected.

  Rather than launching forward as a singular projectile, the swirling chaos erupted in a violent, cone-shaped blast, surging outward in an uncontrolled wave. The already ruined landscape bore yet another layer of devastation, as a fresh wave of decay washed over it. He had never successfully released it as a projectile, stable or otherwise.

  With a weary "Finally," he brought up the system message.

  [New Skill Learned: Chaos Bolt]

  Description: The caster summons a volatile surge of chaotic energy, manifesting as a writhing bolt of darkness barely contained within their grasp. When released, the bolt streaks forward, distorting the air and twisting the light around it. Anything in its path withers, leaving behind traces of decay and disruption in the fabric of magic itself. Upon impact, the bolt violently shatters, latching onto its target with lingering necrotic energy that eats away at their vitality. If the chaotic surge is strong enough, it may arc to another nearby target, continuing its devastation. The ground and objects it touches are left tainted, carrying the mark of entropy long after the magic has faded.

  Bones lowered the message with a smirk forming in his mind. This spell had fought him harder than any he had learned before. Unlike Mana Manipulation or Mana Blast, which had come to him with relative ease, Chaos Bolt demanded something deeper—an understanding not just of magic, but of chaos itself.

  Determined to test its true potential, he lifted his palm once more. This time, he would not fail.

  A dark surge of energy swirled to life in his grip, its unstable surface rippling like a caged beast. Taking careful aim at another tree in the distance, he focused, commanding the spell’s volatile nature with his newfound control. With a snap of his wrist, the bolt surged forth, streaking across the air like a living shadow.

  It struck.

  The moment of impact was silent—an eerie, breathless pause. Then, rot spread like a disease. The bark blackened, veins of sickly green creeping through the trunk as the corruption seeped deep into its core. Leaves curled, shriveling into ash, and the tree groaned as if in pain. Even the earth beneath it darkened, the soil twisting as if recoiling from the unnatural force.

  Bones’ grin widened. “Now this was magic worth wielding.” he mused. Then, more solemnly, he muttered, "A shame, really."

  The system, ever the arbiter of classification, had bound Chaos Bolt under Necromancy and similar dark arts—categories outside the purview of his Bonemancer class. Like the other self-learned abilities before it, the spell was relegated to the general skill tab, limiting its experience gain and capping its maximum tier at Advanced.

  Summoning a fresh garment identical to the one that had been repeatedly incinerated, he then conjured his staff. Its weight felt reassuring in his grasp—a tool, a crutch if needed, should his chaotic mana prove too unruly.

  With a command, his golems gathered around him, their duty of guarding and patrolling fulfilled over the past days. They had earned their rest, their soul reservoirs depleted from constant vigilance. He stored them away, their forms dissolving into wisps of ethereal mist.

  Turning his attention to a crumpled piece of parchment, he scanned the information Lewry had procured for him—the movements of a marauder raid group known as The Growlers.

  "The Growlers? Really?" he muttered, shaking his head.

  Like most guilds in Serville, The Growlers were small-time—at least in comparison to the city’s more notorious factions. Five third-tier combatants led them, with a quarter of their ranks consisting of second-tier warriors, while the rest were first-tier riff-raff, best suited for pillaging and robbery. Hardly an elite force, but still dangerous in numbers.

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  The intel detailed their departure from Serville a week prior, heading west toward a region Bones had marked—an area where remnants of old research facilities lay buried beneath the land. Their exact target was unclear, but Lewry’s report pinpointed where they would rendezvous with another raid group.

  The Growlers’ leader, a third-tier combatant codenamed Black Wolf, stood at level seventy-six, with two direct subordinates: level seventy Garrik and level seventy-one Varek. The rest of the marauders ranged between level fifty-five and sixty-five, a force formidable enough to tackle medium-sized dungeons. Nothing was known about the second raid group, but given the nature of their mission, they were likely of equal strength.

  With a final glance at the parchment, Bones set off. His destination: the convergence point of the two groups. He would wait, observe, and follow them to whatever their next objective may be.

  By morning, he picked up traces of a large group heading west. The countless footprints in the soft earth confirmed it.

  "This should be them," he murmured, though caution lingered. The chances of it being another group were slim, but not impossible. He tracked them for an hour before catching sight of their rear—an undisciplined mass moving in small clusters of three and four, lacking the formation of a true military unit.

  Bones shadowed them at a distance, analyzing their movements. Their behavior revealed an uneasy alliance; interactions were tense, bordering on hostility. This wasn’t a unified force. The Growlers and their closest men held an air of camaraderie, while the rest—likely mercenaries or temporary allies—moved with distrust.

  His assessment was sound. A small guild like The Growlers shouldn’t have the manpower to deploy this many second-tier combatants unless they had committed the bulk of their forces. The raid consisted of members from at least two other guilds, evident in the fractured social dynamics within the group.

  Hours passed before they finally halted, setting up camp at their designated meeting point. By the following afternoon, the second raid group arrived, hauling a carriage laden with prisoners.

  Ten captives—five men, five women. Malnourished, but alive.

  Bones circled the perimeter, keeping clear of the third-tier warriors as he closed in on the prisoners. Shackled, bruised, and collared, their presence puzzled him. Then, through Omnipresent Perception, he noticed something chilling—an absence of mana.

  Impossible.

  All living beings innately absorbed mana, even if they lacked the ability to wield it. This void meant only one thing.

  "Suppression collars," he muttered. "They’re blocking their mana... but why?"

  Shouts broke his concentration. He turned his attention to the camp, where tensions flared between the two raid groups. Voices rose, accusations flew, but it never escalated beyond words. Eventually, the leaders disappeared into the largest tent.

  Bones waited.

  When they emerged, Black Wolf approached the carriage, unlocked the doors, and gestured for one of his men to remove the captives' collars. The moment the suppression devices fell away, Bones felt it—each of the prisoners had mana, all of them first-tier combatants.

  Their purpose? He wouldn’t assume. Not yet.

  The leaders then gathered in the center of camp, each selecting three subordinates before departing, leaving the rest of the raiders under Garrik and Varek’s command.

  That foreboding sensation in Bones’ gut twisted tighter. Something’s off.

  Without hesitation, he abandoned his vantage point and followed the departing group. Their movement patterns suggested caution—they frequently scanned their surroundings, aware of the possibility of being trailed. Bones adapted, keeping beyond their range, relying on the tracks they left behind to trace their path.

  Hours later, they arrived at a clearing where cloaked figures awaited them.

  Bones stilled, watching. His first assumption was an ambush, but then Black Wolf approached the central figure and spoke—an actual conversation rather than a challenge. The tension in the air shifted.

  A deal was being made.

  The central figure removed his hood, revealing a gaunt, timeworn face, yet exuding an undeniable aura of power. The revelation sent an unpleasant chill through Bones’ core.

  An Elder Vampire.

  Mana within Bones churned, as if reacting to the presence of such a being. He forcibly quelled it, knowing that any disturbance could give him away. His gaze flickered to the other cloaked figures—likely vampires as well.

  The exchange unfolded swiftly. Two of the vampires stepped forward, inspecting the prisoners. Satisfied, the Elder Vampire produced a single parchment, handing it to Black Wolf and in return, Black Wolf handed over captives—human prisoners.

  "All that for a note?" Bones mused, narrowing his eyes.

  The relationship between the raiders and vampires was perplexing. This wasn’t a first-time transaction. There was history here—an established arrangement.

  Then, the Elder Vampire’s voice carried through the clearing.

  "Do you want me to deal with them?"

  Bones’ body went rigid. His mind raced, but he held his ground. The ‘them’ in question wasn’t him.

  Black Wolf chuckled darkly. "No need. We’ll take care of it."

  Then, before Bones’ very eyes, their bodies began to shift.

  Muscles expanded, backs arched as they grew more robust. Hair lengthened, claws extended, and fangs protruded. Yet their transformation remained incomplete—halted at a stage just shy of full bestial form.

  Bones’ grip on his staff tightened. Werewolves.

  He exhaled slowly. This situation had just become far more dangerous than he’d anticipated.

  Both leaders exerted a thin layer of mana, coating their claws and sharpening their deadly edges. In a single, fluid motion, they shifted into a sprint, their bodies a blur of movement as they surged toward Bones’ hiding place. He remained still, rooted in place like the surrounding trees, his mind screaming conflicting messages—they’re not coming for you. And yet, as Black Wolf’s aura pressed down on him like a suffocating weight, doubt gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.

  Then, in a terrifying display of precision, the two leaders vaulted over his position, their claws raking through the air. Each slash unleashed a razor-sharp gale that swept through the forest, reducing trees, bushes, and everything else in their wake to splintered remnants. It was only when the gales subsided that Bones saw the true target—less than fifty meters away, a hidden party of adventurers lay in ruins, their shredded bodies strewn across the ground. The assault had been swift, brutal, and absolute.

  The leaders emerged from the carnage, each carrying a severed head as trophies. Their faces were unreadable, their beast-like transformations receding as they returned to their normal state. The Elder Vampire barely acknowledged the massacre, giving only a nod before offering a simple, “Until next time.” With that, he and his cloaked entourage vanished into the night.