The air, thick with the metallic tang of goblin blood, thrummed with the echoes of battle.

  Noah surveyed the carnage. Hundreds of goblins lay scattered across the forest floor, testament to the devastating effectiveness of his new skill: Cry of War.

  A grim satisfaction settled over him.

  "Not bad," he muttered, the understatement barely masking the thrill that coursed through him.

  The Cry had been like bowling pins, he’d thought as he’d waded into the throng of level 1-4 goblins, just knocking ‘em down with each concussive pulse.

  The skill, a symphony of destruction, had carved a path through their ranks until the forest floor resembled a grotesque mosaic of broken bodies.

  "Clean sweep," he’d declared, the residual energy crackling in the air. Risky, draining his mana, but necessary.

  Finally! He pumped a fist in the air.

  "No more grinding these weaklings." The grind was over, for now.

  A sense of strengthening, a readiness for deeper challenges, filled him.

  "Alright, level 7," he mused, a glint in his eye, "let's see what you've got."

  The dead goblins, a grim testament to his earlier efforts, confirmed his suspicions.

  Lower-level goblins were a waste of time; the experience gain minimal.

  "Waste of time," he grumbled, glancing toward the denser trees, the second zone. Level 7.

  The whispers of higher-level goblins no longer sounded like a death knell, but a challenge, an opportunity.

  "Time to step up the game," he said, a predatory edge to his voice.

  The Cry of War had proven its worth. Now, it was time to test it against tougher foes.

  He sheathed his sword, the metallic click echoing in the sudden quiet, and stepped toward the shadows.

  "Let's do this," he whispered, the hunt just begun.

  Later, the thrill of the hunt faded, replaced by a gnawing loneliness. Stranded and alone, Noah’s desperation to reach level ten intensified.

  No humans, a broken communication system, and hostile goblins made his isolation palpable.

  He’d even tried to connect with the low-intelligence goblins, attempted conversation, only to be met with snarling attacks.

  This desolate world offered no companionship, only the constant struggle to survive and level up. The loneliness gnawed at him, a constant ache.

  He missed human connection. Even the mindless grind had been a distraction.

  Now, the silence was deafening, broken only by rustling leaves and guttural goblin cries.

  He pushed the thoughts away, focusing on the task at hand. Level 10.

  That was the goal, a beacon in the darkness, a symbol of progress, a promise of something better. He had to keep moving, keep fighting, keep leveling.

  He was alone, but he wasn't broken.

  Not yet.