Luke had finally reached level 60 in his profession as Guardian Botanist of Mother Freya. For the first time, the system offered him a choice of skills exclusive to that path. He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself, and began reading carefully. He was sitting in the inn’s dining hall. He could have waited until he returned to his hideout in the Wild Zone, but the anticipation was too much.

“When you’re done eating, wash your plate. You’re already past the usual time, I’m doing you a favor,” Layla called out.

“Of course, don’t worry,” Luke replied, watching her leave for the counter before turning back to the glowing system interface.

A list unfolded before his eyes. Four options. But what caught his attention wasn’t the number, it was the rarity. Every single one was Epic. Even without fully understanding the power scale of abilities, he knew what that meant. Epic skills weren’t just strong, they were game-changing.

The first one:

[Dense Foliage Barrier (Epic)]: The Guardian Botanist raises a living wall of interwoven leaves, roots, and vines, creating a natural bulwark against incoming attacks. Beyond defense, it can serve as a tactical obstacle, hindering enemy advances and controlling the flow of battle.

Not some passive perk about brewing potions or chatting with plants, this was combat-oriented. A Guardian’s weapon.

A living wall, huh?

That had potential. He could create cover in the middle of an open battlefield, duck behind it, and fire arrows without being completely exposed. Depending on its resilience, maybe it could even withstand magical strikes. The tactical advantages stacked up in his head.

The second option:

[Soil of the Fallen (Epic)]: Upon killing an enemy, the Guardian Botanist may mark it as a sacrifice to nature. The corpse becomes fertile ground, a living soil, that can be used to cast [Corrupted Plant Growth] and related skills. This allows the Guardian to fight in barren or urban environments, using sacrificed bodies as anchors to call forth flora.

Turning corpses into soil?

That was… clever. His corrupted roots were powerful, but situational. They only worked in environments with natural ground. Inside the fortress, against the Midnight Wardens, his roots had been almost useless.

But with this? If he kept sacrificing Warden corpses, he could build a battlefield inside their own fortress. Each body a new patch of living soil. Each death expanding his reach. He paused, thinking. With Soil Analysis combined with these makeshift patches, could he even track that invisible creature by sensing the vibrations through the ground? The possibilities were brutal. Corrupted roots to snare and bind. He wouldn’t need overwhelming power, just timing. A moment’s restraint on the Warden Captain could be enough to tip the fight.

What looked like a simple skill, just making dirt, might actually be the deadliest weapon on the list. Then came the third:

[Mutant Plant Tentacles (Epic)]: The Guardian Botanist summons up to three mutated plant tendrils within a ten-meter radius, infused with the power of [Corrupted Plant Growth]. Each tendril is a living weapon, its fibers dense and reinforced, strong enough to crush stone, tear trees from their roots, and block incoming attacks with sheer brute force. Resilient and difficult to destroy, they serve as direct extensions of the Guardian in battle.

Mutant tentacles?

The first thought that crossed his mind was about his corrupted roots. That power had always been tied to [Corrupted Plant Growth], but this was something different, an evolution. Normally, he could summon roots within a five-meter radius, useful for catching enemies off guard. Against beasts, it worked well enough, but there were still limits. The roots were too fragile to hold them for long.

Against humans, it was even less effective. Once they saw the roots emerging, all it took was cutting or destroying them, since they weren’t that strong. On top of that, there was the five-meter range restriction. But now he had a power that could make tentacles sprout within a ten-meter radius around him, and that would certainly expand his combat potential.

But this… this was something else. Dedicated, brutal. Tentacles. And what if he applied [Thorn Mutation] to them? The image was almost intoxicating. Tentacles already strong enough to crush stone and rip trees from the earth, now armed with serrated spikes? That would be a true weapon, a nightmare to anyone who faced him.

Each of the skills so far had been unique, versatile, and powerful. His eyes shifted to the final option on the list:

[Acid Blood Arrow (Epic)]: The Guardian Botanist sacrifices 100 HP to fuse the essence of [Dark Blood] with the [Corrupted Blood of Mother Freya]. From this unholy fusion, a [Rare]-tier arrow is formed, its shaft conjured from high-grade enchanted wood grown out of his own corrupted plant powers. Upon impact, the arrow releases a cloud of acidic mist that corrodes everything within its range. The cloud remains for some time, dealing continuous damage to all enemies who stay inside. Those who dare to challenge nature soon learn the price of defying its guardian.

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His eyes widened. Finally, an outright offensive skill. The others had combat applications, sure, but this one… this was different. This was direct. Lethal. Ideas flooded his head faster than he could catch them. He stopped focusing on the description and began imagining what it truly meant.

An arrow, born from his bow, just like every attack he’d honed until now. But this wasn’t for picking off a single target. It was devastation. A storm of acid mist, spreading through groups of enemies. Every kill with that arrow would grant him profession experience. And not just scraps, because it wouldn’t be indirect damage, but a clean execution delivered through a profession skill. That meant even greater gains.

And since it was fired from a bow, his class experience would rise at the same time. Two systems feeding each other with a single strike. It was already powerful on its own, but then he noticed the detail that made his pulse quicken: the arrow’s tier. [Rare].

His quiver only produced [Common] arrows. That had been his greatest limiter. He couldn’t channel too much mana or stamina into them without the shafts splintering. He’d struggled to scrape together even a handful of [Uncommon] arrows, resources he guarded fiercely. But this? This gave him a renewable source of [Rare]-tier ammunition.

Arrows durable enough to withstand his mana infusion. Strong enough to carry real explosive power without snapping. He could burn through them without restraint, because he could just make more. Against a high-level enemy, he could fire, detonate the arrow with mana, and let the acid cloud do the rest, all while keeping his distance, safe from the backlash.

No, it wasn’t quite on the same level as the [Epic]-tier fang arrow he’d forged from the Beast Lord. But compared to the brittle [Common] shafts he’d been shackled to, this was revolutionary. More than enough reason to choose it without hesitation.

Dark Blood and Corrupted Blood of Mother Freya working together…

This wasn’t just a skill. It was a weapon worthy of war. The arrow still produced an acid cloud. Luke’s mind jumped back to the day he’d accidentally brewed acid by mixing a healing recipe with Dark Blood. This skill felt like a cousin to that mistake. Mother Freya’s blood healed plants; pair it with corruption and you got something that ate through anything it touched.

It was because of that Dark Blood concoction that this arrow could even exist. And this version was stronger. He hesitated. Part of him hated the idea of poison. It felt like stepping over a thin line, the last sliver of his humanity scratching at the brakes.

Technically, acid lived in a gray zone. He’d created a super-strong acid as an ace up his sleeve. Why didn’t that bother him the way poison did? Was it just a weird quirk of conscience, or something colder? Maybe some part of him wanted enemies to know it was his power that broke them. Acid, at least, behaved like a spell. You could see a cloud rolling in, see a liquid burn, see him throw it. Poison was invisible. You nick someone, walk away, and wait. No hunt. No acknowledgment.

He wanted to believe that was it, some crooked code. Face an enemy with power they could see. Give them a chance to dodge the cloud like a fireball. But deep down… maybe he’d started to like killing. Maybe that was why poison felt wrong. There was no satisfaction in watching a slow, unseen death.

He rubbed his face and let the thought pass. Whatever. He’d been dealing with psychos since the day he accepted the damned system. Picking up a mild case of psychopathy beat dying to someone else’s. Even so, he didn’t lock in the arrow yet. For the plan he had in mind, it wasn’t strictly necessary. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t itching to try it, though. Ironically, it reminded him of Franky.

I can’t believe I unlocked something that feels like that idiot snake’s specialty.

He steadied his pulse before the system could read it. This wasn’t a free toy. He didn’t know the mana cost to forge each shot, and every arrow would shave off 100 HP. A steep price, but it made sense: blood for blood. He had roughly four thousand HP. Do the math and he could produce forty arrows before he dropped.

Which meant the skill could kill him if he got greedy. Clear enough: save [Acid Blood Arrow] for pivotal moments. Use his normal quiver for the grind and keep the blood shots for when the board needed flipping.

He scanned the list again and felt that pull toward the tentacles. Brutal control, immediate presence, the kind of pressure that could turn a clean duel into a mauling. The itch to pick one and move on didn’t go away. So he did what he always did when instinct and appetite started yelling over each other.

He sat back, breathed, and forced himself to think like an analyst. But when his eyes slid back over the list, the temptation of those tentacles returned. The doubt lingered, scratching at the back of his mind. So he forced himself into analysis.

The first skill was defense, a wall to hold enemies at bay. The second expanded his current arsenal, turning corpses into fertile ground, letting him fight even in deserts or stone-choked cities. The third was a true evolution of his corrupted roots, a direct, brutal weapon made to crush and bind. And the fourth was an arrow meant for killing, a ranged execution that would expand his offensive options and pump his profession full of experience.

“All of them are useful,” he muttered.

But his thoughts kept circling back to the tentacles. He was going to that fortress alone, straight into the siege of midnight. Dozens of Wardens, and at the heart of it, the Warden Captain. Cold strategy whispered to him: if he could somehow drag the captain outside, those mutant tentacles could pin the monster down.

“If I can immobilize him, victory’s guaranteed.”

He let out a slow breath and stared at the choices. What was smarter? Prioritize the plan and pick Mutant Tentacles, or gamble on the arrow? Three living whips bristling with thorns, able to crush and rip apart anyone in his path, or a blood-forged arrow that bloomed into an acid cloud, death spreading on the wind. Which would it be?

Part of him wanted to give in to that inner pull, the thread inside his mind that had taught him so much, but every time he tugged on it, he sank deeper into the thrill of killing. Not just killing. Hunting. The thrill of the chase. The pleasure of being the predator.

Strategy or instinct. Those were the paths before him. A weapon tailored to his plan, or one that fed the predator within.

He made his choice.

“All for the plan,” he whispered, and pressed his finger to the skill.

[You have acquired the Profession Skill: …]

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