The hours following Fenn's sanctioned death bled into one another, marked only by the slow march of the stars across the ink-black sky. The scavenger camp slept a heavy, mournful sleep, its collective guard down, its focus turned inward on its grief. To Kaelen, this atmosphere was not somber; it was opportune. It was the deep, quiet dark of the hunting grounds just before the dawn, when the prey is at its most vulnerable.
He remained in his shadowed alcove, a statue cast from cooling obsidian. He was not resting. He was attuning himself to his newly elevated senses, weaving a tapestry of the camp's sleeping sounds. The gentle sigh of Elara from the main tent, the restless twitching of Loric, the low snoring of the other hunters—and the deep, rumbling breaths coming from Borin's tent. That was the sound he focused on, the rhythmic pulse of his true target.
The cracked shard from Fenn had done little for his power, but it had satisfied the gnawing hunger of the Void Corpus. The timer had been reset. This next kill was not for maintenance. It was for advancement.
Designation: Human. Name: Borin. Cultivation: 1st Realm - Crucible Foundation, Phase 3. Threat Assessment: Low. Essence Yield: Impure.
The data, logged earlier, was promising. A Phase 3 cultivator. Consuming his essence would provide a significant boost, far greater than the Phase 1 Crawlers. It might be enough to push him to the next phase of his own cultivation. The risk was trivial. In his sleep, Borin's threat level was no different from Fenn's. Negligible.
Kaelen rose from his alcove, melting into the deeper shadows that pooled at the base of the rock formations. He moved with a newfound grace, a predatory silence that was now second nature. He was not just walking; he was flowing through the negative space of the camp, his senses alert for the slightest change—a snapping twig, a sudden gust of wind.
He reached Borin's tent, a structure slightly larger and better maintained than the others. The hide flap was closed. Kaelen placed his ear against it, listening intently to the deep, steady breathing within. The hunter was in a deep sleep, unwary.
Kaelen's hand went to the dull skinning knife at his belt. His plan was identical to the one he had used on Fenn: a swift, silent, surgical strike. He slowly, carefully, lifted the edge of the tent flap, preparing to slip inside.
And then he paused.
A new thought, cold and sharp, cut through his mind. The plan was efficient, yes. But it felt… incomplete. It was the logic of a scavenger, not a predator. A scavenger takes the easiest meal. A predator asserts dominance.
Fenn was weak, a dying animal. He merited a quick, quiet death, the kind one gives to livestock. But Borin was a hunter. He was the alpha of this small pack. To kill him in his sleep felt like a hollow victory. The kill would grant the same power, but it would lack the crucial psychic feedback of a true, dominant kill. The Void Corpus did not just crave essence; it craved the assertion of will that came with overpowering a struggling target. The fear and rage of the Crawlers had felt more potent than Fenn's weary resignation. To maximize his gain, he needed to maximize the struggle.
A new plan formed, colder and crueler than the first. He would kill Borin, yes. But he would do it while the man was awake. He would look him in the eyes as he did it. He would give the hunter a final, terrifying lesson in the true hierarchy of the Expanse.
Kaelen let the tent flap fall. He slipped away as silently as he had arrived, his new objective clear. He would need a better weapon.
His skinning knife was a tool for butchers. He needed a killer's blade. He remembered Borin's spear, a formidable weapon of fire-hardened wood and a sharpened iron tip. It would be resting just inside the tent. Taking it now would be too risky. He would have to improvise.
His eyes scanned the camp. His enhanced vision picked out the details in the gloom. He saw the discarded tools near the cold forge, the axes and spare spearheads belonging to the other hunters. Then his gaze fell upon the central fire pit. The fire was down to glowing red and orange embers, but the heat was still significant.
Lying near the pit was a long, thick iron spike—a tent stake for anchoring against the strong winds of the Expanse, nearly two feet long and as thick as his thumb. It was crude. Unwieldy. But it was iron.
Kaelen retrieved the stake. It was heavy, the balance awkward. He took it back to his alcove and began to work. He didn't have a forge or a hammer, but he had patience and a new, unnatural strength. He found a large, flat slab of obsidian to use as an anvil and a smaller, dense rock as a crude hammer.
For the next hour, he performed a mockery of blacksmithing. He would heat the tip of the iron spike in the embers of the central fire until it glowed a dull red, then carry it back to his alcove and hammer it against the obsidian slab. The clang of rock on hot metal was a dull, rhythmic thud, easily lost in the howling of the wind. He wasn't forging a fine edge; he was simply beating the thick, blunt tip into a wicked, sharpened point. It was ugly, brutal work. His hands blistered, but he ignored the pain.
When he was done, he held his creation. It was no longer a tent stake. It was a crude stiletto, a sharpened iron shank designed for one purpose: punching through hide and flesh. The balance was still terrible, but the point was viciously sharp. It would suffice.
He waited. He waited until the deepest point of the night, when the chill was at its worst and sleep held its firmest grip. Then, with the iron shank in hand, he moved to Borin's tent for the second time.
This time, he did not enter silently.
He kicked the tent flap open and stepped inside, his form silhouetted against the dying embers of the distant fire.
Borin came awake with a roar, instinct snatching him from sleep. Years of surviving in the Expanse meant he went from slumber to combat readiness in a single, fluid motion. He reached for the spear that was always beside him, his eyes wild and struggling to adjust to the dark.
"Who's there?!" he bellowed.
Kaelen didn't answer. He simply took another step into the tent, letting the faint light catch the crude iron spike in his hand.
Borin saw the weapon. He saw the intruder's size—small, like a youth. Then his eyes fully adjusted, and he recognized the face. The whelp. The orphan he had taken pity on. Confusion warred with outrage on his face.
"Boy? What is this? Have you gone mad?"
"No," Kaelen said, his voice the calm, flat tone of a winter lake. It was the first time Borin had heard him speak without the mask of subservience or grief. The sound was deeply unsettling. "I've simply come to collect what is owed."
"Owed?" Borin spat, rising to his feet, spear now held expertly in a defensive stance. "I gave you food. I gave you a place. I am owed your life!"
"You misunderstand," Kaelen said, taking another slow, deliberate step forward. He held the iron shank loosely, naturally. "Your strength. It is a resource. And I have found you wanting in your position as this camp's alpha. I am here to correct that inefficiency."
The clinical, detached words finally broke through Borin's confusion and planted a seed of pure, cold terror in his heart. The boy's eyes… they were not the eyes of a human. They were the eyes of a waiting spider.
Borin roared, a sound of fury and fear, and lunged. The iron-tipped spear, a weapon that had slain dozens of beasts, thrust forward, aimed directly at Kaelen's chest.
[STATUS UPDATE]
Current Realm: 1st - Crucible Foundation (Phase 1)
Void Corpus Stability Timer: 27 Days Remaining