The silence was the loudest thing Valerius had ever heard. It was broken only by the soft, wet rasp of the dying monster's last breath, a sound that seemed to scrape against his very soul. He stood over the carcass, a boy bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon sun, the blood of a creature staining the earth around him. He felt a profound, gut-wrenching horror. He had taken a life. Not in self-defense, not as a panicked reflex, but as a deliberate, calculated act. The thrill of victory was a fleeting, bitter taste quickly replaced by the sourness of his own actions.
He stumbled back a step, his hands still trembling from the exertion and the shock. He looked at the creature, a grotesque, lifeless lump of meat and fur. It was no longer the terrifying beast that had stalked the forest's edge; it was just a corpse. A raw, gruesome testament to his newfound power. A wave of nausea rolled over him. This wasn't him. He was Valerius, the boy who read books, the son of a scholar, a man of peace. The man who had been helpless to save his home.
Hunger.
The thought came again, a sharp, unyielding demand from the tree in his mind. The feeling was a physical ache, a gnawing emptiness that overshadowed his nausea, his fear, and his disgust. It was a hunger so profound it felt like a cosmic void, threatening to swallow him whole. His stomach rumbled in response, a pathetic, animal sound that tore through the quiet air. The tree was a relentless taskmaster, a second self that had its own wants, its own needs, its own terrifying purpose.
He looked down at the corpse again, his eyes lingering on the gaping, Void-torn wound on its face. The smell of hot blood was almost unbearable, but underneath it, he could smell something else. The primal scent of raw power. It was an intoxicating, almost delicious aroma that seemed to promise strength and a cessation of the painful hunger in his gut. The thought of eating it, of devouring this rotting, monstrous thing, was repulsive. He had been a scavenger of his home, not a devourer of the dead. He had been a man of civility. But civility had gotten him nowhere. It had gotten his home burned to the ground and his people slaughtered.
He took a hesitant step forward. He knelt beside the beast, his hands, still shaking, hovering over its flesh. The tree in his mind pulsed, a frantic, rhythmic beat like a second heart. It was a siren's song, promising him that this was the way. This was the only path. The memory of his father's face, of his mother's gentle smile, flashed in his mind. They were gone. All because he was weak. All because he hadn't had the strength to protect them. The memory was a cold, hard stone in his gut, crushing his revulsion and his fear. He was not going to be weak again.
With a deep, shuddering breath, he plunged his hands into the thick, coarse fur. The texture was rough, the flesh underneath still warm. He pulled, tearing a strip of meat from the corpse, the sound a wet, visceral ripping. He didn't think; he couldn't think. If he allowed himself to think, he would vomit, he would run, he would succumb to the boy he used to be. He brought the piece of flesh to his mouth. It was tough and chewy, tasting of blood and dirt. He chewed, the act a savage, brutal violation of every rule he had ever known.
As the meat went down his throat, a surge of power, hot and invigorating, coursed through his body. It was a sensation of pure energy, of raw, unrefined strength. He felt the tree in his mind roar to life, a magnificent, vibrant thing. It drank the power from the meat, its roots burrowing deeper into the void, its branches reaching for a starless sky. The hunger in his gut, the gnawing emptiness, began to recede, replaced by a strange, satisfying fullness. He ate again, and again, tearing at the flesh with a desperate, primal abandon. He wasn't just eating; he was feeding the tree, feeding the curse, feeding the thing that had now become a part of him.
He ate until his stomach was full, until his revulsion was a dull, distant memory, and until the tree in his mind was humming with a quiet, sated energy. He sat back on his haunches, his face, hands, and clothes smeared with blood, the carcass of the monster a mangled, half-devoured thing. He was a monster, too. A man who ate the dead, who consumed the vile creatures of the woods to fuel a terrifying, unknown power.
But then, the tree stirred again. It didn't hunger, but it churned, a slow, methodical process. Valerius felt a sensation of creative energy, a feeling of shaping and forming. From its branches, two new fruits materialized, shimmering with a faint, otherworldly glow. One was a deep, earthy brown, shaped like a clumsy badger. The other was a low-grade Haki orb, a small, shimmering sphere of pure, unrefined energy. They fell, landing softly on the ground beside him, and the tree fell silent, its work for now complete.
He looked at the two strange new items. The Zoan fruit promised a new kind of power, a new form to take on. The orb promised to strengthen the Haki he now possessed. It was a gift from the tree. A payment for the harvest. A reward for his brutal, visceral act.
He picked them up, his heart a mix of fear and something new. Something he had never felt before. A strange, primal satisfaction. He had not only survived, but he had gained. He had traded a piece of his humanity for a piece of the world's power. It was a brutal, disgusting exchange, but it was one that promised him a future. He was not a helpless boy anymore. He was not a man of civility. He was a scavenger. A predator. He was a man who would live by the dangers of the forest, feeding on its monsters, and growing stronger with every harvest.
His path was now clear, carved in stone and painted with blood. He would live off the dead, he would feed the tree, and he would take back what was taken from him. He was a scavenger now, and the Cursed Woods was his hunting ground. He clutched the fruits, their promise of power a cold, hard comfort in his hands, and knew this was the beginning of the rest of his life.