The teleporter circle hummed, its gentle blue light a stark contrast to the oppressive gloom of the collapsed dungeon. It was a siren's call, promising an end to the pain, the hunger, and the fear. For a long moment, Keiz stood before it, the cold mist from his new frost-rimmed blade swirling around his ankles. He could step through and leave this nightmare behind forever. He could return to the world above, a one-armed failure, just as his father had always seen him.
Or he could stay.
He looked down at his right hand, at the faint, dark patterns that now seemed etched into his skin, the mark of his bond with the Mimic. He thought of the Gravechill Shard, of the surge of cold power he felt when the Mimic consumed it. It was a terrifying power, born from his own mutilation, but it was his.
A grim smile touched his lips, a bitter, unfamiliar expression. He had spent his entire life trying to live up to the expectations of others, chasing a legacy that was never his. He had been betrayed, stripped of everything, and left to rot. The world above had cast him out.
Fine. He would find his own world down here.
With a resolve that felt as cold and hard as the dungeon stone, Keiz turned his back on the light. As he took his first step deeper into the darkness, the blue glow of the teleporter behind him flickered once, twice, and then died completely, plunging the chamber back into near-total blackness. The path of escape was gone. It didn't matter. He hadn't been looking for an escape anymore.
He was looking for a hunting ground.
His stomach clenched with a painful spasm of hunger, a stark reminder of the choice he had just made. He had turned his back on safety for a chance at power. Now, he had to hunt, not just for strength, but for his next meal.
The adrenaline from the fight had faded, leaving behind a gnawing emptiness in his gut and a thirst that felt like sandpaper in his throat. His body was a wreck, bruised and cut from being dragged and thrown across the stone. He needed supplies.
He followed a collapsed corridor, the only light coming from the faint glow of mana seeping through cracks in the walls. The silence was heavy, broken only by the drip of water somewhere in the distance and the sound of his own ragged breathing. He moved with a new kind of caution, not as prey, but as a predator assessing its territory. His eyes scanned every shadow, and the Mimic, unbidden, coiled a thin layer of protective substance over his bare torso, a second skin against the biting cold.
It wasn't long before he found what he was looking for. Slumped against a pile of rubble was a figure in rusted chainmail. An adventurer who hadn't been as lucky as him. The body was little more than a skeleton, picked clean by time and the dungeon's unseen scavengers. But the gear remained.
Keiz crouched beside the corpse, his single hand moving with practiced efficiency. There wasn't much. A short sword, its blade chipped and dulled. A small, round shield made of wood and iron, surprisingly intact. And, most importantly, a waterskin, still sloshing with a small amount of stale but precious water.
He drank sparingly, letting the water soothe his parched throat. The relief was immediate but fleeting, a temporary reprieve from a thirst that would soon return. The hunger, however, was a far deeper ache, a hollow gnawing in his stomach that the water did nothing to soothe.
He turned his attention to the rest of the loot. And that's where the problem began. He picked up the short sword, its weight familiar but awkward. He could hold the waterskin or the sword, but juggling both while trying to manage the shield was impossible with only one arm.
Frustration, hot and sharp, flared in his chest. He let out an angry sigh, dropping the sword with a clatter. "Useless," he hissed. How was he supposed to survive if he couldn't even carry a weapon and a drink at the same time?
He stared at his right hand, the one the Mimic used as its anchor. It had formed a blade. It had consumed a magic shard. At its core, its original form… it was a chest. A container. The thought was a desperate leap of logic, but it was the only one he had.
He closed his eyes, concentrating. He focused on the memory of the Mimic's original form, the black wood and iron bindings of the chest that had taken his arm. He pushed that thought, that concept, through their bond. Store. Hold. Keep.
The black substance on his arm rippled faintly, but nothing happened.
"Damn it," he muttered, opening his eyes. He tried again, this time with more force, focusing all his will on a single command. Open.
The darkness on his arm swirled. A small, unstable flicker of a void, no bigger than his thumbnail, appeared in the air before him and immediately collapsed. It was progress, but not enough. He was missing something. The connection felt… shallow.
He remembered the feeling of feeding it the Gravechill Shard. The bond between them had solidified in that moment, a clear channel of master and tamed beast. He needed to re-establish that same clarity. He wasn't asking a tool to work; he was commanding his monster.
Keiz took a deep breath, picked up the iron-banded shield, and held it out. He focused not on the memory of the chest, but on his will as its master. "Take this," he commanded, his voice a low whisper.
The black substance flowed from his hand, swirling into a stable, shimmering tear in reality, a portal into a pocket of pure night. It was larger this time, steady and expectant. Hesitantly, he pushed the shield into the dark opening. The moment it touched the event horizon, it was silently pulled in, vanishing without a trace.
A wave of dizziness washed over him. He felt no new weight, but he could sense the shield's presence, resting somewhere within the Mimic, within him. He let out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure, triumphant relief. He did it.
With newfound confidence, he commanded the Mimic to store the short sword. It vanished just as easily. He reached his hand toward the void, thinking of the waterskin. The dark portal rippled, and the familiar leather strap emerged, ready for him to grab. He pulled it out, took another sip, and then willed it to return. It vanished back into the Mimic's hoard.
This changed everything. He wasn't just a fighter; he was a self-sufficient unit.
His eyes fell on one last item clutched in the skeleton's gauntlet: a small vial containing a swirling red liquid. A standard-issue, low-grade healing potion. His body ached, and cuts from the dungeon's collapse still stung. His body screamed for sustenance, for anything to quiet the painful rumbling in his gut. Drinking the potion wouldn't feed him, but healing his wounds seemed like the most sensible first step to survival.
He uncorked the vial, the faint herbal scent a ghost of civilization. But as he brought it toward his lips, the Mimic reacted. A thin, black tendril shot out from his arm and wrapped firmly around his wrist, stopping his hand inches from his mouth. He felt a jolt through their bond—not a command, but a powerful, primal surge of raw hunger.
"What are you doing?" Keiz snarled, trying to pull his hand back. But the tendril's grip was like iron. "Let go! I need this!"
The feeling of hunger from the Mimic intensified, a desperate craving that echoed in his own mind. It didn't want him to drink the potion. It wanted to eat it.
A conflict raged within him. This creature had saved his life, armed him, and now given him a way to carry supplies. But it was still the monster that had mangled him. Was this hunger a sign of its alien nature, a desire that would harm him? Or was this another instinct he needed to trust?
He stared at the red liquid, then at the tendril wrapped around his arm. Healing his cuts was temporary. But understanding his power… that was permanent. It was a risk, but every moment in this dungeon was a risk.
"Fine," he gritted out, relaxing his arm. "You win. Let's see what you want so badly."
The tendril loosened its grip. As before, a hungry maw formed from the back of his hand. Keiz hesitated for one last second before tilting the vial, pouring the entire contents into the opening.
The maw snapped shut.
This time, the sensation wasn't a freezing jolt, but a surge of gentle warmth. It didn't heal his wounds. Instead, it spread through his body before coalescing into a single point of latent, life-giving energy that he could feel resting within the Mimic's essence. He didn't get a clean message in his mind. He just felt… a potential. A single, contained spark of restorative power. He didn't know how to use it. He didn't know what it did. It was just… there. A stored resource. A mystery to solve later.
Keiz stood up, a new sense of purpose settling over him. He was no longer defenseless. He was supplied. And he was beginning to understand.
He looked deeper into the dungeon, his eyes now fully adjusted to the gloom. The shadows no longer seemed menacing. They looked like cover. The twisting corridors were no longer a terrifying maze. They were a hunting ground, filled with monsters to kill and secrets to devour.
His hunt, for both power and knowledge, had just begun.