The darkness of the pit is total, but for me, it is a kingdom. My Night Vision reveals the macabre details of my prison. The carcasses of Howlers, the remains of corrupted beasts, bleached bones. It is a charnel house, a landfill of death. The smell is unbearable, a mixture of decomposition and the putrid energy of the Void.
Pain is my universe. Every part of my body is a star of agony. My legs are broken, my arms twisted at unnatural angles. I cannot move. I can barely breathe. My status interface is a blood-red litany.
Name: Reinhardt Valdios
Level: 7
Status: Dying, Broken Limbs (Severe), Internal Bleeding
HP: 5/75
Five hit points. And they are dwindling, second by second. I am a candle burning down to its end.
Death is here. It is cold, patient. It is the logical end to my pitiful story. A rat who dreamed too high, and ends up in a trash heap.
But death did not count on my companion. My stowaway. The primordial hunger that refuses to be extinguished.
Gluttony.
It does not scream. It is calm. Focused. It is in this moment, on the threshold of annihilation, that I understand its true nature. It is not just a hunger for power. It is a hunger for life. It is the absolute survival instinct, stripped of all morality, of all fear.
"Eat," it whispers in my mind. "Eat, and live."
I cannot move my hand. But I do not need to. I focus on the carcass of a Shadow Howler just inches from my face.
"Devour."
The command is weak, a mental breath. But it is enough. Black energy seeps from my broken body and touches the carcass. The process begins. Slowly, painfully. The essence of the Void, corrupt and unstable, pours into me. It is a poison, but it is an energetic poison.
HP: 3/75 → 4/75
Debuff [Mental Instability (Minor)] acquired.
I gain one hit point. Just one. But it is enough. It is a spark.
I continue. Carcass after carcass. Howler after Howler. I devour everything within my reach. It is a feast of garbage, a banquet of rot. My mind is assaulted by the echoes of the Void, by visions of nothingness and madness. But I hold on. I hold on to the rage, to the memory of Roxis's face, as cold as stone, to Elian's averted gaze.
My hit points climb, slowly. 10. 15. 20. My body remains broken, but the bleeding stops. The energy I absorb is fueling my survival.
I have been devouring for hours. The pit around me is almost empty. I have consumed an amount of raw essence that should have made my body explode. But my Dying state seems to create some kind of safety valve. The energy is not strengthening me. It is keeping me alive.
Then, a notification, unlike any other, appears.
You have absorbed a critical amount of death and Void essence while in a dying state.
Your [Gluttony] skill is adapting to ensure your survival.
Trait evolution detected.
You have acquired the passive skill [Rudimentary Immortality (Lvl. 1)]: As long as you have at least 1 HP, your body cannot die from natural causes or wounds. Your natural regeneration is drastically increased but constantly consumes energy. This state requires regular consumption of essence to be maintained.
Immortal. The word is so absurd, so disproportionate to my broken-rag-doll condition, that I would have laughed if I could. I cannot be killed, but I can suffer. A curse within a blessing.
With this new skill, the process changes. The energy I devour finally begins to repair my body. I hear a dull crack. It is one of the bones in my arm setting itself. The pain is searing, but it is a pain of healing.
Status: Broken Limbs (Severe) → Broken Limbs
I continue to devour, and my body rebuilds itself, bone by bone, muscle by muscle. The process is slow, painful, miraculous.
By dawn, I am almost whole. My body is a patchwork of new scars, but it is functional. I am weak, my mind clouded by the instability of the Void, but I am alive.
That is when I hear a sound from above. Someone is approaching. A soldier? Come to check if I am well and truly dead?
A figure is silhouetted against the gray sky. It is not a soldier. It is an old man, dressed in animal hides, with a longbow on his back. A hunter. He throws a bucket of waste into the pit, without looking.
The bucket lands near me. The man is about to leave, but he stops. He must have noticed something unusual. The lack of corpses, perhaps. He leans over and looks down into the pit.
Our eyes meet. His are filled with surprise and pity. Mine are those of a beast that has crawled out of its own grave.
He stares at me for a long moment. I expect him to scream, to call the guards. But he doesn't. He shakes his head, as if he has just seen the ultimate proof of the world's cruelty.
He uncoils a rope from his belt and lets it drop down to me.
"If you've still got the strength to climb, kid, then you've got the right to live," his raspy voice says.
I don't know who he is, or why he is helping me. But it is a chance. The only one I will get.
I gather my last reserves of strength. I grab the rope. Every movement is torture. My barely-healed muscles protest. But I climb. Pulled by will, by rage, by this new, stubborn immortality.
When I finally reach the top, I collapse onto the ground, trembling and spent. The hunter looks at me, then effortlessly lifts me and throws me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"You don't look fit to walk," he says simply.
I lose consciousness.
I wake to the sound of a crackling fire and the smell of strong coffee. I am lying on a comfortable pallet in a small wooden cabin. Through the window, I see a large lake shimmering under the sun. The air is clean.
The old hunter is sitting on a stool, sharpening a knife.
"You slept for two days," he says without looking at me. "Looked like you needed it."
He gets up and hands me a wooden cup filled with a steaming black liquid, and a piece of steamed yam. "Eat."
I sit up. My body is sore, but... whole. There are no more broken bones. The deep cuts have become thin, pink scars. My regeneration, fueled by my macabre feast, has worked wonders.
I drink the coffee, the warmth spreading through my limbs. I eat the yam, the simple, earthy taste chasing away the flavor of corruption.
"Why?" I ask, my voice hoarse. "Why did you help me?"
He stops sharpening his blade and finally looks at me. His eyes are a pale, washed-out blue, but they see everything. "I saw what those soldiers did to you. I watched them. That wasn't justice. That was cruelty. And I hate cruelty." He shrugs. "Besides, a kid who survives that... deserves a helping hand."
I don't know what to say. After the absolute betrayal, this simple act of kindness from a stranger is almost harder to comprehend.
I look around. The cabin is rustic but clean. Hides are drying on the walls. Through the window, beyond the lake, I can see distant mountains, a different shape from those near Kryndal.
"Where are we?"
"At the edge of the world, as far as Kryndal is concerned," the old man says. "This is the Frontier Lake. On the other side are the Untamed Lands. Another nation, if you can call it that."
He has brought me to the very edge of the kingdom. Far from Tybalt, far from everything.
I finish my meal. I feel strangely well. Strong. My new immortality has done its work. But my mind is a chaos. I still can't understand. Roxis. Elian. Their kindness, their friendship... was it all a lie? It's impossible. And yet, I saw it. I heard it.
I don't understand. And that lack of understanding is a wound deeper than any broken bone.