The Mire whispered behind him.
With the deaths of three Awakened creatures in 4 days, the scent of venom and black blood clung to Ren like a second skin. His bruises had faded. His breath was stronger. The soul core within him pulsed with slow, deliberate life, fed by the essence he was beginning to understand—poison.
He was no longer prey.
The Spell Interface shimmered softly above his palm, unseen by any eyes but his own:
Poison Essence:5 / 1000
Memories:1
Echoes: —
But that last entry had only just appeared.
The first creature Ren faced that morning had come fast. A blur of pale fur and six clawed legs, moving low to the ground with terrifying speed. The Ravager Hound, the Spell had called it afterward. An Awakened beast, lean and vicious.
Ren met it in a patch of shallow fog near the roots of a broken tree.
He'd relied on his instincts—and his own crude weapon. A jagged dagger he had hastily crafted himself back during his second day in the Mire, hammered from scavenged steel and wrapped in corded hide. It had saved him once before.
Now, it did again.
He dodged the first lunge, ducked under snapping jaws, and scored a cut along the beast's front leg. The venom he had smeared from the glands of a previous kill helped slow it—just enough. As the creature howled and collapsed in spasms, Ren drove the blade into its chest. One final shudder. Then silence.
The Spell pulsed.
Poison Essence: 3 → 4 / 1000
But nothing else came. No Memory. No Echo.
He moved on quickly.
Later that day, the forest began to thin, the dense canopy peeling back into tangled birch groves. The highlands rolled in gentle waves toward the eastern edge of the Mire. He was close to home.
He thought he'd make it without incident.
He was wrong.
The second beast waited in silence—coiled among the roots of an ancient tree, disguised by moss and soil. Its body resembled a tangle of wet bark and twisted vines, glistening in patches where the light filtered through. It had too many eyes—glowing faintly like fungus on its back—and a jaw that split vertically down the center.
It didn't stalk him. It ambushed him.
He caught the shift in the air just before it struck.
Ren leapt to the side, his boots skidding in wet leaves. The creature lashed out with a whip-like limb, barely missing his throat. He rolled backward, drawing his handmade dagger mid-motion, breath tight.
Too slow.
The monster surged forward—larger and heavier than the last. A hunting predator, but with intelligence behind its movements. Its limbs hissed as they dragged over stone and bark.
The Spell named it later:
> [Grovetongue]
> Rank: Awakened (Low)
> Type: Nightmare Creature
> Classification: Cursed Flora
> Born in tainted glades where cursed rain seeps into tree roots. It mimics plant life until prey wanders near, then feeds on blood and marrow. Its venom paralyzes, but it prefers its food alive.
It lunged again, and Ren had to drop flat as its tendrils snapped over his head. One caught his arm—ripping skin and leaving a stinging trail of sap-like venom behind.
He bit down a cry and struck, driving his blade into the beast's flank.
It screamed. The sound wasn't natural. It was wet and ragged and echoed through the trees like an echo of something half-formed.
He stabbed again, carving open a pulsating cluster of vine-flesh. His blade shattered something inside—perhaps a core—and the beast convulsed.
This time, when it died, the world shifted.
The Spell awakened on its own.
A new line bloomed into the interface:
> [Memory Acquired: Venom Fang]
> Type:Weapon — Dagger \[Dormant]
> Enchantment:Toxic Bite I (Wounds inflicted by this dagger carry a minor venomous effect.)
> Essence Cost: 1 Poison Essence / Hour of Summoning
>
> Forged from the fangs and hardened vine-bones of Grovetongue. The weapon echoes its predator's instinct—to wait, to strike, and to silence. The blade weeps venom where it cuts.
And something stirred inside his soul.
In the dim ocean of his Soul Sea, a shape took form—a curved dagger, slender and predatory, with a silvered blade and a green-tinted hilt wrapped in some dark leather. It floated there, waiting.
He reached for it.
And it appeared in his hand.
Unlike the makeshift dagger he'd used moments before—now cracked and splattered with plant blood—this one was different. Lighter. Balanced. It vibrated faintly with a pulse that matched his heartbeat.
His first Memory.
He dismissed it with a thought and stood in silence, heart racing.
The Poison Essence counter remained steady.
Poison Essence: 5 / 1000
No Echo followed.
That, he would have to earn another day.
By late afternoon, the wild began to retreat. The roots grew thinner, the air lighter. The hills beyond the Mire rose gently under fading sunlight, scattered with old farm terraces and skeletal ruins.
When Ren reached the ridge, he paused.
Below him, nestled beneath a rise of low stone and wind-worn pine trees, was his village.
Smoke curled from the chimneys. Distant voices carried faintly up the slope. Lanterns flickered as early evening fell.
He pulled his cloak tighter.
Even now, the weight of his Drifting Corruption lingered like a shadow over him. His presence subtly tainted the world around him; even without direct contact, organic life seemed to weaken and decay in his proximity. It was a constant reminder of the cost he carried — a silent rot that separated him from others. He kept to the shadows as he descended, careful not to harm what he passed.
He didn't look back until he heard a bird take flight behind him.
Nothing was following.
Near the old watch-post, a startled cry went up. One of the guards had spotted him—then ran.
By the time he reached the village gate, his mother was already waiting.
Her face was pale, her hair wind-tossed. Her eyes widened.
"Ren."
Her voice cracked on his name.
"You're alive."
He gave a crooked smile.
"Barely."
She stared at him for a long moment. His clothes were torn, his cloak frayed. There was blood on his sleeves—some his own, some not. His expression was... different. Sharper.
"Come inside," she said finally.
Ren followed her down the lantern-lit path, footsteps light.
In his soul, the dagger floated like a promise—his first earned tool in this long war.