For a full day, Kaelen did nothing. He performed the menial tasks expected of him, his movements slow and tinged with a convincing, lingering sorrow. He helped salt and smoke the Crawler meat, he patched a tear in a hide tent with an awl and sinew, and he listened silently as the other scavengers discussed Fenn's injury. The man's leg was badly infected. Elara's poultices were not working against the filth of a monster's claws. Fenn was feverish, his breathing ragged. The Index now listed his threat assessment as a flat, absolute Negligible.
Kaelen observed this all with the placid interest of a man watching clouds drift by. Fenn's impending death was a fact, as immutable as the sunrise. It was also an opportunity. But opportunity required planning. Haste was the enemy of efficiency.
His true focus was turned inward, exploring the changes wrought by the First Tempering. He had reached the 1st Realm, Crucible Foundation, Phase 1. The power was subtle, not a dramatic surge but a fundamental elevation of his baseline. He felt a new density in his bones, a taut, coiled strength in his muscles that hadn't existed before. The world was clearer, colors a shade deeper, sounds a degree sharper. He could hear the frantic heartbeat of a rock-lizard hiding ten feet away. He could smell the coming rain on the wind. His body, once a simple vessel, was now a weapon being honed.
This new sensory acuity was a powerful tool. It allowed him to expand his awareness, to paint a more detailed picture of the camp and its inhabitants. He tracked their movements, memorized their routines, and logged their conversations. Borin was planning another hunt, but not for three days, waiting to see if Fenn recovered. Loric was anxious, spending more time sharpening his axe than speaking. Elara was worried, her attention almost entirely consumed by her patient. The camp's rhythm was disrupted, its guard lowered.
On the second night after the hunt, under the cloak of a moonless sky, Kaelen slipped away from the camp once more. He returned to his secluded alcove, the cold obsidian a familiar comfort against his back. He needed to understand the limits of his new power.
He began with simple tests. He lifted a boulder the size of his own head, a feat that would have been impossible three days ago. Now, he managed it with a sustained, straining effort, his newly woven muscles groaning but holding. He practiced moving, not just walking but flowing from shadow to shadow, learning how his stronger legs could propel him faster, how his enhanced balance allowed him to perch on the edge of a razor-sharp rock without a tremor.
Then, he experimented with his Aetherium. He had none of the formal cultivation techniques the sects practiced. The Index hadn't provided him with any methods for circulating or projecting energy. All he had was the raw, ambient power now residing in his body. He tried to push it out, to focus it in his palm as he had seen in embellished tales told around the campfire. Nothing happened. His energy remained contained, a latent reservoir of potential.
It seemed his Void Corpus was a one-way street. It was built for consumption and internal reinforcement, not for external application. To wield Aetherium like the cultivators of legend, he would need to do what the Index was designed for: harvest techniques from others. This was a crucial piece of data. He was strong, but he was still just a brute. To become a true predator, he needed sharper teeth.
His thoughts inevitably drifted to the warning from the Index. Failure to harvest from a sapient target... will result in progressive vitality decay. The 26-day timer was a constant, silent hum in the back of his mind.
Fenn was the logical choice. He was weak, isolated, and his death would be attributed to his festering wound. It was a clean, low-risk operation. But Kaelen's mind, a machine of cold calculus, processed another variable. Fenn would yield a Negligible threat Cracked shard. It was maintenance, yes, but it was inefficient. It was like eating bland rations when there was fresh meat to be had.
Killing Borin was the superior option. Threat Assessment: Low. Borin was likely a 1st Realm cultivator himself, perhaps even Phase 2 or 3. His Essence Shard would be Impure, perhaps even better. It would provide not just maintenance, but a significant boost in power. However, the risk was exponentially higher. Borin was the camp's strongest defender. His death would destabilize everything and draw unwanted attention.
High risk, high reward. Low risk, low reward.
For Kaelen, the choice was not about morality or sentiment. It was about optimization. The most efficient path was to use the low-risk target to satisfy the monthly requirement while simultaneously using the circumstances to acquire a high-value target. He simply had to connect the two events.
He returned to the camp before sunrise, his plan solidifying.
The next day, Fenn's condition worsened. He was delirious, muttering nonsense as Elara tried to force water between his cracked lips. By midday, a consensus had been reached among the scavengers: Fenn would not survive the night. Borin, his face grim, declared that they would give him a clean death after sundown rather than let the fever take him. It was a common mercy in the Expanse.
Kaelen saw his opening.
Late in the afternoon, he approached Borin. The big man was sitting alone, sharpening the iron head of his spear with a whetstone.
"Master Borin," Kaelen said, his voice quiet and respectful.
Borin grunted without looking up. "What is it, whelp?"
"It's about Fenn," Kaelen said, pitching his voice with a rehearsed, somber tone. "What you're doing… it's a warrior's mercy. He was a brave hunter. He deserves an honorable end."
Borin paused his sharpening, surprised by the boy's maturity. "He does."
"I want to ask for a privilege," Kaelen continued, his eyes downcast. "You gave me a chance. You let me see a true hunt. I want to be the one to… carry out the mercy. To show my respect. I know it is a great thing to ask, but I want to prove I have the strength to do what is necessary. To be a true scavenger."
He was leveraging their own primitive code of honor against them. He was asking for the responsibility to kill a dying man, framing it as a rite of passage.
Borin stared at him, his gaze intense. He saw a boy trying to grow up too fast, a youth hardened by the death of his mother. He saw a mirror of his own younger self. He saw exactly what Kaelen wanted him to see.
"It ain't a privilege, boy. It's a burden," Borin said gruffly. But he was swayed. "You think you can do it? Look a man in the eyes and send him on his way?"
"I can," Kaelen said, his voice steady. And in that moment, it was the truest thing he had ever said.
Borin was silent for a long moment, the only sound the scraping of stone on metal. Finally, he gave a slow, decisive nod. "Alright. After sundown. You'll use your own knife. Make it clean."
Kaelen bowed his head. "Thank you, Master Borin."
He walked away, his heart beating with the slow, steady rhythm of a patient predator. He would give Fenn a clean death. He would reset the 27-day clock. And under the cover of that solemn, sanctioned act, no one would ever suspect him when, hours later, the camp's strongest defender died silently in his sleep. Two birds, one flawlessly executed plan. The ledger was about to get two new entries.