Ex rank talent Awakening: 100% Dodge rate
Chapter 301 - CHAPTER 301: GROWTH LIKE WEEDS

[Law of Darkness Assimilated: 47.001%]

Greg stood still, watching the last of the shadow slaves squirm helplessly in the grasp of his divine clones. All others had already been reduced to nothing more than residual dust and darkness.

Without wasting time, Greg opened his independent space with a flick of his fingers. A dark rift split open behind him, and from it stepped Void — the firstborn of the copycat race. The moment Void appeared, the oppressive atmosphere around the area shifted slightly, as if the very air recognized the anomaly that had stepped into the world.

"Here you go, buddy." Greg said with a smirk, gesturing casually to the immobilized shadow slave.

With an eerie silence, Void moved. There was no hesitation in its steps, no emotion in its gait. Its body — humanoid yet inhuman — glided across the field. Then, with one swift, clean motion, it bit into the shadow slave and swallowed it whole. There was no crunch, no struggle. Just silence and assimilation.

A soft chime echoed in Greg's mind.

---

Void (Copycat Race – Bloodline Purity: 100%)

Title: Primogenitor of the Copycat Race

Level: 2

Health: 200,000

Strength: 11

Speed: 11

Stamina: 200

Intelligence: 11

Constitution: 200

Bloodline: Replica Bloodline

Abilities:

Propagation: Inherited and optimized from Vibro Nitrogens. The host can reproduce autonomously every ten minutes, creating new independent copies with minimal mana intake. (Passive – Toggleable)

Autotrophism (Sunflower Fairies): Gains energy from sunlight, regenerates mana, stamina, and even body parts under solar exposure.

Solar Flare: Can unleash stored solar energy in a devastating area-of-effect blast.

Shadow Core: Gains a core within the body with damage resistance equal to current health. All damage not targeting the core is rendered null.

Adaptation: Any attack that lands is immediately analyzed, copied, and mastered.

Reanimation: Any being killed by Void is assimilated and resurrected as a member of the copycat race.

---

Greg chuckled, pleased beyond measure.

"Exponential growth in strength and population... and I don't even need to babysit them. They just grow — like weeds in the dark — as long as I let them be."

He turned to his four divine clones, who now stood attentively behind him.

"You four, scatter. Scan the region, save any players you can find, and wipe out every last shadow slave you come across," Greg ordered. "I'll handle the dungeon."

With that, Greg took a step forward and vanished into the swirling portal leading to the Night Witch Dungeon.

---

[Night Witch Dungeon]

Choose Difficulty:

[Easy] [Hard] [Nightmare] [Hell]

Without flinching, Greg selected Hell.

The scenery around him dissolved, replaced by a dark, twisted valley bathed in crimson moonlight. The sky overhead pulsed red, and eerie laughter echoed in the distance. Dozens of witches, with black pointed hats and flowing robes, soared overhead on flying brooms, their manic cackles bouncing off the blood-tinted cliffs.

"Let's get this over with, shall we?" Greg muttered, a cocky grin carving across his face.

He took off like a bolt of lightning, Heaven Defier gleaming in his grip. The closest witch barely had time to register his presence before she instinctively screamed and flung a fireball toward him.

The attack meant nothing.

One strike was all it took — the witch's health dropped to zero, her body dissolving into ash before her broom even fell.

Then the second witch. The third. Fourth. Fifth.

He stopped counting after that.

His Intelligence stat surged with every takedown, the numbers climbing in rapid succession. Greg moved like a vengeful storm, tearing through the sky as witches screamed in panic.

"Run! Run! He is the Witch Hunter!" one of them cried out in terror. The remaining witches broke formation, scattering like leaves caught in a hurricane.

"You can run, but you can't hide," Greg smirked, vanishing mid-air and reappearing before one of them. "More importantly—you can't outrun me."

"Fire Storm!" one of the fleeing witches shrieked, unleashing her strongest spell. A vortex of fire and wind roared through the sky, swallowing Greg in its inferno.

From afar, the witches gasped in triumph.

"Hahaha! Fool! To rush at me like that—there's no way he survived!" she crowed, gloating proudly.

But then the smoke cleared.

There stood Greg — untouched. Not even his coat was singed.

He clicked his tongue, annoyed. "What exactly is my problem... To think I chickened out from using Dragon's Tongue because of one damn setback."

He raised his hand.

"Don't move." The words rolled from his lips in the language of dragons, the ancient command imbued with absolute force.

Instantly, the witches froze mid-air, paralyzed by the weight of his command.

Greg finished them all in seconds, Heaven Defier dancing through the night like a silver phantom.

---

[Congratulations! You have cleared the first stage.]

Proceed to the next stage or exit dungeon?

[Y/N]

He selected Yes.

The terrain shifted again, this time revealing a darker and more treacherous landscape. Stage two had arrived — and unlike before, the witches were now joined by their familiars: mutated beasts of flight and bone, loyal to the core and twice as aggressive.

While the witches attacked from the air, the familiars served as ground tanks and mobile defense, forcing most raiding players to split their attention — a recipe for disaster in this dungeon's Hell difficulty.

Greg smiled coldly. He wasn't "most players."

Opening his independent space, he summoned one of Void's freshly propagated offspring.

"Target only the familiars," he ordered. "Leave the witches to me."

The copycat's gleaming, slitted eyes scanned the battlefield hungrily. New genetic material. New prey. Its body trembled with excitement as it advanced slowly, almost savoring the anticipation.

Greg raised his voice again, his tone sharp and commanding.

"Don't move!" he commanded in Dragon Tongue.

The entire battlefield froze — witches, airborne — suspended like puppets mid-dance. Only the familiars remained unaffected, snarling and lunging.

Greg soared through the witches, one by one, cutting them down cleanly while their frozen eyes watched helplessly. Each death raised his intelligence further, bringing him closer to his evolving goal.

Meanwhile, the copycat lunged at the familiars with ravenous joy. Every kill fed its evolution. Every bite shaped it further.

Greg hovered above the battlefield, arms crossed, watching it all unfold.

"To think they can stand their ground against level 75 familiars and still come out on top... That's praise-worthy," he muttered, clearly impressed.

One by one, the familiars fell — only to rise again, reborn under the Replica Bloodline as new members of the Copycat race.