Exile willed a sample of his divine blood to materialize.
A small glass vial shimmered into existence, suspended midair, holding only a few drops of liquid-crimson as fresh steel. The air seemed to thicken around it, charged with a weight that made the shadows tremble.
Umbra, the first crow, stepped forward as if sensing the power contained within. With a sudden beat of its wings, it launched into the sky. Higher and higher it climbed, slicing through clouds, past mountains, soaring for two kilometers, each flap of its wings leaving ripples in the air.
Exile lifted a hand. The vial trembled. Slowly, deliberately, he poured his divine blood into Umbra's beak. The crow hesitated for a heartbeat, sensing the raw, unyielding force within, then drank. Slowly at first… then with growing hunger, greedily swallowing every drop, the crimson fire coursing through its veins.
CAWW! CACAWW!
The scream split the sky, a mixture of pain, ecstasy, and power. Umbra's feathers ruffled violently, shadows twisting and writhing around its form. The crow staggered, then steadied, its eyes glowing with a light that was no longer natural.
Exile watched in silence. What had just passed between them was not mere feeding. It was a covenant, a forging of blood and will. A seed planted in power. What Exile had done was more than an act; it was an investment.
He shared just a fraction of his power. A part of himself, willingly given away. That small gift granted Umbra the potential to evolve far beyond the limits of a mere crow. For what Exile had done was not just feeding, it was unlocking something vast, something primal, something magical: mana.
On Centrion, an ordinary crow was roughly on par with a bald eagle back on Earth: fast, sharp, intelligent. Its superiority lay in its mind, outshining every other bird. But now, Umbra could surpass those natural limits. Strength, speed, endurance. All of it could grow. One day, perhaps, it might soar alongside a god.
Exile knew the cost. He couldn't grant such power to every crow he commanded. It drained him, leaving his own strength diminished, leaving him vulnerable to rival contenders. Yet this sacrifice was necessary.
It was time to set his true plan in motion.
Six of the remaining crows scattered into the forest, each tasked with seeking something similar, yet foreign: a mate. Not just any mate, but one from a different species entirely. Exile guided them carefully, instructing them to begin with other birds. Over generations, they would push further, crossing boundaries that nature itself had set.
In essence, they were his test subjects. But the goal was far grander: a hybrid army, each creature stronger, faster, and smarter than its predecessors. A force born of evolution, magic, and Exile's own divine will. And it all began with Umbra. The first spark of what would one day become unstoppable.
Umbra's role was unique. He had two purposes: first, to grow stronger; second, to do the dirty work.
Any failed "experiments" would be his responsibility to eliminate. Perhaps, one day, even threats to the tribe would fall under his claws. The path ahead was long and grueling. That's why it had to start now.
Umbra had changed. His body had grown, roughly the size of a wolf, wings stretching four meters from tip to tip. Feathers that had once been pure black now shimmered with streaks of red and grey, a mark of the divine fire coursing within him.
Umbra
Strength: 11
Agility: 5
Resilience: 9
Intelligence: 20
Divinity: 1
Divinity was barely awakened: mere sparks at this stage. His stats were modest, comparable to an average hunter in the Kramlin tribe.
But that didn't matter. His first task had already begun: find an opponent, fight, and grow stronger. No delay, no hesitation.
Umbra spread his powerful wings, veering away from his kin. Drawn toward where stronger prey awaited. Exile's plan was complete.
Meanwhile, the Kramlins carried Jermal into the cave, laying him down where he would be safe.
What came next, none of them knew. This was unprecedented in their tribe's short history, an event unlike any tale their elders had ever passed down.
The tribe was divided evenly between hunters, and those who did not fight, elders and children. They were not true nomads. Only when every root, fruit, and beast in the surrounding forest had been exhausted would they move on.
That time was drawing near. Even with their cunning, they were lucky to bring down one kill a day. And now… it seemed a higher being had revealed itself to them.
"It is time," declared Totat, the oldest elder. His voice was frail, but it carried the weight of their past. "We must follow the river and seek better hunting grounds."
Totat was the tribe's memory. The keeper of stories, rites, and roots. All their history lived within his mind, like a library of flesh. He had been just an infant when their people split from a larger cluster of tribes, nearly seventy-five years ago.
Now, his back was bent, his legs trembling with age. His mate, Geophina, had passed only months earlier. Not from hunger or thirst, but because her years had simply ended. His own time, he knew, was not far behind.