—————
Seven months.
Two hundred and fourteen days since my awakening in this serpentine form, and I had grown in ways that extended far beyond simple physical development. My body now measured nearly five feet in length, my scales had darkened to an almost impossible shade of obsidian, and my accumulated soul age had crossed the four hundred year threshold just three days ago.
Four hundred and seventeen years, to be precise. The number sat in my consciousness like a quiet reminder of progress, a benchmark that separated me from the countless insignificant creatures that populated this jungle. I was no longer prey to be casually consumed by any passing predator. I was becoming something worth noticing.
Which meant I needed to be even more careful about not being noticed.
The morning had dawned warm and humid, the wet season having settled over the jungle like a suffocating blanket. Mist clung to the undergrowth in thick streamers, reducing visibility for creatures that relied on sight alone. For me, however, the moisture-laden air was a gift—the humidity enhanced scent trails, made chemical tracking more precise, turned the entire jungle into a readable map of recent activity.
I had relocated my territory twice in the past three months, each move driven by a combination of depleted hunting grounds and the fundamental principle that defined my survival strategy: never become predictable. Patterns attracted attention. Routine bred complacency. And complacency, in a world where Spirit Masters hunted soul beasts for their very essence, was a death sentence.
My current territory occupied a particularly dense section of the jungle, where the canopy was so thick that even the midday sun barely penetrated to the forest floor. The perpetual twilight suited my nature, and more importantly, it suited my prey.
I had been observing a particular specimen for the past two days, studying its patterns with the patience that had become my defining characteristic. The creature—a member of a species I had mentally classified as Shadow Weasels—made its den approximately two hundred feet from my current position, in a hollow beneath the roots of an ancient ironwood tree.
Time for the morning analysis.
I extended my tongue, sampling the air with deliberate focus. The chemical signature was strong this morning, indicating recent activity. The Shadow Weasel had been hunting during the night, as was its habit, and had returned to its den roughly three hours before dawn.
Species Identification: Shadow Weasel. A carnivorous soul beast approximately the size of a large ferret, distinguished by fur that actively absorbed ambient light, rendering the creature nearly invisible in low-light conditions. Native to heavily forested regions throughout the continent. Solitary hunters, territorial, known for ambush tactics.
Estimated Soul Age: Based on observed hunting efficiency, territory size, and physical dimensions, approximately one hundred to one hundred twenty years. A relatively young adult, still in its prime hunting years.
Known Behaviors: Strictly nocturnal. Shadow Weasels were effectively blind in bright light, their eyes adapted exclusively for darkness. During daylight hours, they remained in their dens, entering a semi-dormant state to conserve energy. Their primary prey consisted of small mammals and ground-nesting birds, which they stalked using their natural camouflage before striking with surprising speed.
Abilities: The Shadow Weasel's light-absorbing fur was its defining characteristic. This was not mere coloration but an active spiritual ability, a manifestation of the creature's soul power. In darkness, the effect was nearly perfect—the weasel became little more than a moving void, invisible to standard vision. Even heat-sensing predators struggled to track them, as their fur somehow dampened thermal signatures as well.
This ability was precisely why the Shadow Weasel had caught my attention.
Vulnerabilities: The same adaptations that made Shadow Weasels supreme nocturnal hunters rendered them helpless during the day. Their sensitivity to light was so extreme that direct sunlight caused physical pain and temporary blindness. The semi-dormant state they entered while denning reduced their reaction time significantly. Additionally, their light-absorbing fur was ineffective against scent-based tracking—a critical weakness that a serpentine predator was uniquely positioned to exploit.
Hunting Strategy: Daytime approach while prey is dormant. Navigate by scent and vibration rather than sight to avoid alerting the creature's sensitive hearing. Block the den entrance before initiating the strike, eliminating escape routes. Attack should be rapid and overwhelming—Shadow Weasels, when cornered, were capable of ferocious defensive action.
I reviewed the analysis twice, searching for gaps in my reasoning, vulnerabilities in my approach. The plan was sound. The only variable was timing—I needed the weasel to be deep enough in its dormant cycle that its reactions would be slowed, but not so late in the day that it began stirring in preparation for its evening hunt.
Mid-morning. Another two hours of waiting.
I settled into a comfortable coil at the base of a moss-covered boulder, conserving energy while maintaining passive awareness of my surroundings. The jungle moved around me—insects buzzing, birds calling, the distant crash of some larger creature pushing through the undergrowth. None of these signatures warranted concern. I was alone with my thoughts and my calculations.
During these quiet intervals, my mind often turned to reflection. Not nostalgia—I had little use for dwelling on a past I could not return to—but analysis. Understanding what I had become was essential to maximizing what I could achieve.
My innate ability had evolved.
The change had been gradual, manifesting over the course of dozens of successful hunts, but the effects were now undeniable. In my early months, the absorption had been purely spiritual—I consumed prey and drew in their accumulated soul age, adding it to my own cultivation. The physical matter of their bodies provided nutrition, nothing more.
But approximately six weeks ago, something had shifted.
The prey had been a Stone Beetle, a creature with a shell so dense that even my fangs had struggled to penetrate it. The hunt had been challenging, requiring me to target the vulnerable joints where the armor was weakest, and I had consumed the creature with considerable effort. The usual warmth of absorbed soul age had been accompanied by something else—a strange tingling sensation that spread through my entire body, concentrating particularly in my scales.
When I had examined myself afterward, the change was visible. My scales had become noticeably harder, more resistant, as if I had somehow absorbed not just the beetle's soul age but a portion of its defensive properties.
The implications had been… significant.
Over the following weeks, I had experimented carefully, targeting prey with diverse physical attributes and documenting the results. The pattern that emerged was both fascinating and deeply advantageous.
My innate ability had evolved beyond simple soul age absorption. I was now consuming approximately eighty percent of my prey's total essence—not just their accumulated cultivation, but portions of their physical and spiritual characteristics. The specific attributes absorbed seemed to correlate with the nature of the creature and the aspects I focused on during the hunt.
The Stone Beetle had enhanced my scales. A Swift Hare—a creature capable of bursts of incredible speed—had marginally improved my striking velocity. A Deep Root Toad, with its ability to remain motionless for hours, had somehow enhanced my already considerable patience, making the waiting aspects of hunting feel less tedious.
I was not merely accumulating years. I was accumulating capabilities.
The realization had immediately shifted my hunting strategy. Random predation was inefficient. If I could absorb attributes from my prey, then I needed to be selective, targeting creatures whose abilities would benefit my long-term survival. Speed. Stealth. Sensory acuity. Defensive capability. Each hunt was now an investment, a deliberate acquisition of specific advantages.
And stealth, I had decided, was the priority.
In a world where Spirit Masters hunted soul beasts for their rings, the most valuable attribute was the ability to avoid detection entirely. What use was speed if you couldn't see the attacker coming? What good was defense if a Title Douluo decided your spirit ring would look lovely around their soul? The only reliable survival strategy was to never be found in the first place.
Hence the Shadow Weasel.
Its light-absorbing ability represented exactly the type of attribute I wanted to cultivate. If I could absorb even a fraction of that capability—if my already dark scales could gain some measure of active light absorption—my chances of reaching true power would increase dramatically.
And when I eventually crossed the thousand-year threshold…
The thought sent a ripple of something almost resembling anticipation through my cold consciousness. I had been contemplating this milestone extensively, considering its implications from every angle.
At one thousand years, soul beasts gained the ability to manifest a soul skill—an active spiritual technique that could be consciously invoked. For most beasts, this skill was determined by their fundamental nature, shaped by whatever essential attribute defined their species. But I was not a standard soul beast. My innate ability was absorption, accumulation, the claiming of power from others.
If I could saturate myself with stealth-attributed prey before reaching that threshold—if the majority of my absorbed essence came from creatures of shadow and concealment—then perhaps my first soul skill would reflect that accumulated focus. A genuine ability to hide, to vanish, to become undetectable to sight or sense.
It was a theory, nothing more. I had no way to test it short of actually reaching the thousand-year mark. But the logic was sound, and I had always trusted logic over intuition.
Two hours passed in contemplative stillness.
The sun had risen to its mid-morning position, and the jungle's activity patterns had shifted accordingly. The nocturnal creatures had retreated to their dens and burrows. The diurnal species were fully active, filling the canopy with movement and noise. The Shadow Weasel's scent trail had not changed—the creature remained in its hollow, dormant and vulnerable.
Time to hunt.
I moved with exquisite care, each progression calculated to minimize vibration and sound. The distance between my position and the weasel's den was significant, and I had no intention of alerting my prey through carelessness. Speed was irrelevant. Only precision mattered.
The journey took nearly forty minutes.
I navigated by scent, my tongue flickering constantly to track the chemical trail. The weasel's distinctive musk grew stronger as I approached, underlaid with the scent of its recent kills—small mammals, just as my analysis had predicted. The den entrance came into view as I rounded the base of the ironwood tree, a dark gap between the massive roots barely wide enough for my current body to enter.
I paused, reassessing.
The entrance was narrower than I had estimated from a distance. There would be no room to maneuver once I was inside, no space to dodge if the weasel mounted a defense. My strike would need to be perfect—immediate incapacitation or nothing.
I tasted the air one final time. The weasel's scent was concentrated, stationary, emanating from a position approximately six feet inside the hollow. Its breathing was slow and regular, consistent with deep dormancy.
The conditions were optimal.
I positioned myself at the den entrance, coiling my body in preparation for the strike. My heat pits strained to detect the weasel's thermal signature, but the creature's ability dampened even this sense—I could perceive only a vague warmth somewhere in the darkness, nothing precise enough to target.
I would need to rely on scent alone.
The strike happened in a single fluid motion. I launched myself into the hollow, my body flowing through the narrow entrance with serpentine grace, fangs extended toward the source of that concentrated musk. The darkness inside was absolute, but darkness meant nothing to a predator who hunted by chemistry rather than light.
Contact.
My fangs sank into flesh—soft, yielding, precisely where my tongue had indicated the creature would be. The Shadow Weasel exploded into motion, its dormancy shattering into desperate activity. Claws raked across my scales, searching for purchase, trying to tear me away. A high-pitched shriek filled the enclosed space, painfully loud in such proximity.
I tightened my coils, ignoring the scratches—my enhanced scales turned aside the worst of the assault—and pumped venom into the wound. The weasel's struggles intensified for a moment, then began to falter. Its claws scraped against my body with decreasing force. Its shrieks faded to whimpers.
Thirty seconds after the initial strike, it was over.
I maintained my grip for another full minute, ensuring complete paralysis, before beginning to feed. The hollow was cramped and uncomfortable, but I had no intention of dragging my prey outside where other predators might contest my kill. Efficiency demanded I consume everything here, in the safety of the enclosed space.
As I fed, the familiar warmth bloomed in my core. But there was something else this time—a secondary sensation, cool rather than warm, that seemed to seep into my scales from the weasel's consumed flesh. The light-absorbing property. I could feel it integrating with my existing attributes, subtle but definite, adding another layer to my accumulating stealth capabilities.
One hundred and seven years of soul age joined my total, bringing me to five hundred and twenty-four years. But more importantly, another increment of shadow had been added to my essence. Another step toward the soul skill I was attempting to cultivate.
The process was working.
—————
The wet season continued its oppressive reign over the jungle, each day bringing fresh waves of humidity and frequent afternoon storms that turned the forest floor into a maze of streams and puddles. I adapted my hunting patterns accordingly, taking advantage of the reduced visibility to target prey that might otherwise have detected my approach.
My fourth month in this new territory proved particularly productive. I successfully hunted three more Shadow Weasels, two Dusk Rabbits, a creature I had classified as a Mist Serpent—a distant relative of my own species with the ability to exude a light-obscuring fog—and numerous smaller prey whose soul ages measured in single digits but whose attributes still contributed to my growing capabilities.
By the end of the month, my soul age had reached six hundred and forty-one years, and my body had grown to just over six feet in length. More importantly, the stealth attributes I had been deliberately accumulating were beginning to manifest in observable ways.
My scales, already unnaturally dark, now seemed to drink in ambient light with almost visible hunger. In shadowed areas, I became genuinely difficult to perceive—not invisible, but somehow less present, less noticeable, as if the eye naturally slid past my form without registering it. The effect was subtle, nothing like the near-perfect concealment of an adult Shadow Weasel, but it was real and growing stronger with each relevant kill.
It was during the fifth month that everything nearly ended.
The day had begun normally. I had identified a potential prey—a Ground Stalker, a lizard-like soul beast with chameleonic capabilities that I estimated at roughly eighty years—and was conducting my pre-hunt analysis when something caused me to freeze.
Vibrations. Heavy. Rhythmic. Multiple sources.
Bipedal.
The realization hit me with the force of physical impact. In seven months of existence, I had encountered countless soul beasts of varying sizes and dangers. But never, not once, had I detected the distinctive vibration pattern of walking humans.
Until now.
I abandoned my planned hunt instantly, every instinct screaming for me to find concealment. My body moved before my conscious mind had finished processing the situation, sliding into a gap between two roots with fluid speed. I pressed myself flat against the earth, minimizing my profile, and went absolutely still.
The vibrations grew stronger. Closer.
I tasted the air, desperate for information. The scent was unmistakable—human sweat, human breath, the strange chemical signatures of worked metal and tanned leather. Multiple individuals, at least three, possibly more. Moving through the jungle with the casual confidence of apex predators.
Spirit Masters.
I tracked them by vibration as they approached, estimating their path, calculating the likelihood of detection. They were moving roughly north-northwest, a course that would bring them within fifty feet of my concealed position. Close. Dangerously close.
For the first time since my awakening, I felt genuine fear.
Not the calculated awareness of danger that guided my hunting decisions, but true, visceral terror that threatened to override my rational mind. These were Spirit Masters—beings who killed soul beasts as a matter of course, who absorbed their essence to fuel their own cultivation. To them, I was not a thinking being with memories and goals and a desperate will to survive. I was a resource to be harvested.
Control yourself, I commanded internally. Fear accomplishes nothing. Analyze the situation.
I forced my racing thoughts into order, applying the same methodical approach I used for hunting to this new threat.
Threat Assessment: Spirit Masters, unknown number and power level. Presence in this region suggests either a training expedition or a deliberate hunting mission. If the latter, they would be seeking soul beasts of specific ages to match their cultivation needs.
Detection Risk: My current concealment was physical only—I was hidden from sight but not from spiritual detection methods. If any member of the group possessed sensing abilities, they might identify my presence despite the visual cover.
Evasion Options: Limited. Any movement would create vibrations and possibly sound. Flight was impossible without revealing myself. The only viable strategy was absolute stillness and hope that I remained beneath their notice.
Survival Probability: Unknown. Entirely dependent on factors outside my control.
I hated that last assessment. I had built my entire existence around calculated action, around identifying variables and manipulating them to my advantage. But there was nothing to manipulate here. I could only wait and hope.
The vibrations reached their closest point—I estimated forty-three feet—and I caught my first indirect glimpse of the Spirit Masters through a gap in the roots.
Three figures. Two men and one woman, all wearing matching uniforms of deep blue with silver trim. Their ages were difficult to estimate from my limited vantage point, but their movements suggested youth and vigor rather than the measured confidence of true veterans. Students, perhaps, or junior members of some Spirit Master organization.
They were talking. My hearing, while different from human auditory processing, could still interpret the vibrations of human speech if I focused.
"—told you this was a waste of time. There's nothing worth hunting in this part of the jungle."
The speaker was one of the men, his voice carrying a note of complaint that immediately categorized him in my mind as the weakest member of the group. Complainers were rarely leaders.
"The elders said to sweep this entire sector." This was the woman, her tone clipped and professional. "We follow orders, whether you agree with them or not."
"But we've been walking for three hours and haven't seen anything above fifty years. What's the point?"
"The point is thoroughness. And discipline, which you clearly need more practice with."
The third figure—the second man—remained silent, his posture alert, his head moving in slow scanning arcs as he surveyed the jungle around them. This one concerned me more than the others. His behavior suggested competence, awareness, the kind of trained observation that might notice something amiss.
I pressed myself deeper into the gap between the roots, willing my body to become one with the earth, the shadows, the very fabric of concealment I had been cultivating for months. My evolved scales seemed to respond to my desperation, drinking in what little light reached my hiding spot, rendering me just slightly less visible than I had any right to be.
The silent man's gaze swept across my position.
My heart—did I even have a heart in the human sense? Whatever organ pumped blood through my serpentine body—seemed to freeze in my chest.
His eyes lingered for a moment. Then moved on.
"Let's keep moving," he said, speaking for the first time. His voice was deeper than the others, more measured. "We still have a lot of ground to cover."
The complaining man grumbled something inaudible, but the group resumed their march, continuing on their north-northwest course. The vibrations of their footsteps gradually faded as they moved away, diminishing from immediate threat to distant presence to barely perceptible tremors to nothing at all.
I remained frozen for another full hour, not trusting the apparent safety, waiting for the return that might signal a detected presence and a hunting party doubling back for their prey. But the jungle remained quiet, and eventually, I allowed myself to believe that I had escaped.
That had been too close.
—————
The encounter with the Spirit Masters fundamentally altered my approach to this existence. I had known, intellectually, that humans posed the greatest threat to my survival. But knowing and experiencing were different things. I had felt the weight of their presence, the casual power that radiated from beings who could end me without a second thought.
I needed to be better hidden. Faster to detect threats. More cautious in my movements.
And I needed to accelerate my cultivation.
The mathematics were simple enough. At my current rate of accumulation—averaging roughly three to four years of soul age per successful hunt, with hunts occurring every two to three days—I would reach the thousand-year threshold in approximately eighteen months. Eighteen months of vulnerability, of exposure, of the constant risk that another group of Spirit Masters might pass through my territory and prove more observant than the last.
I needed to hunt more efficiently. Target prey with higher soul ages. Take greater risks in pursuit of greater rewards.
But I also needed to maintain my focus on stealth-attributed creatures. The encounter had only reinforced the importance of my chosen strategy. When I reached one thousand years, I needed a soul skill that would help me hide, not fight. Fighting attracted attention. Fighting left evidence. Fighting was the path of beasts who were eventually hunted down and slain for their valuable spirit rings.
Hiding was survival.
I began ranging further from my established territory, seeking out hunting grounds where stealth-attributed soul beasts might be more common. The expanded range increased my risk of encounter—more ground covered meant more chance of stumbling across Spirit Masters or powerful soul beasts—but it also opened opportunities that had been unavailable in my previous, more conservative approach.
Three weeks after the Spirit Master encounter, I discovered a section of the jungle that seemed purpose-built for my needs.
The area was characterized by a peculiar geological formation—a series of sinkholes and underground caverns that created a network of lightless spaces beneath the forest floor. The surface above these caverns was unstable, riddled with gaps and collapses that allowed access to the darkness below. And in that darkness, an entire ecosystem of shadow-adapted soul beasts had evolved.
I spent two days observing the area from a safe distance, cataloging the species I could identify by scent and vibration. The variety was remarkable. Shadow Weasels were present in significant numbers, along with at least three other species I had never encountered—creatures of darkness and concealment that represented exactly the prey I was seeking.
One species in particular caught my attention.
I detected it by sound rather than scent—a soft, almost subsonic humming that seemed to emanate from the caverns during the early evening hours. Following the sound to its source required careful navigation of the unstable terrain, but patience and caution eventually led me to a vantage point overlooking one of the larger sinkholes.
The creature within was unlike anything I had seen in either this life or my previous one.
Species Identification: Unknown. Tentative classification: Void Moth. A flying insectoid approximately eighteen inches in wingspan, with wings composed entirely of what appeared to be solidified darkness. The creature's body was similarly obscured, visible only as a vaguely moth-shaped absence of light against the slightly-less-dark background of the cavern.
The humming was its flight sound, I realized—the beating of those impossible wings creating vibrations that I perceived as a low, continuous drone.
I watched for hours as the creature hunted, mesmerized by its capabilities. It moved through the darkness with perfect confidence, seemingly able to perceive its environment despite the complete absence of light. When it struck at prey—smaller insects, primarily—the attack was invisible, instantaneous, undetectable until the prey simply vanished.
Estimated Soul Age: Difficult to determine given the unfamiliar species. Based on its size and the sophistication of its abilities, I estimated a minimum of two hundred years, possibly significantly more. A dangerous prey, but an incredibly valuable one.
Known Behaviors: Strictly subterranean. The Void Moth seemed to exist entirely within the cavern system, never emerging to the surface even during the darkest nights. Its hunting pattern was patient, methodical—it would hover in place for extended periods, waiting for prey to pass within striking range, then attack with that impossible speed.
Abilities: The darkness that composed its wings and body was clearly not mere coloration. It was an active spiritual manifestation, a weaponized void that could consume light and, apparently, prey with equal ease. This represented an advanced form of the same stealth attribute I had been cultivating—not just concealment, but the active negation of visibility.
If I could absorb even a fraction of this creature's essence…
Vulnerabilities: The Void Moth's exclusive subterranean existence suggested an inability to tolerate surface conditions. Light, perhaps, or simply the exposure of open air. Its flight-based mobility was an advantage in the three-dimensional space of the caverns, but might become a liability in more enclosed areas where its wings could not function effectively. Additionally, its apparent reliance on motion-based hunting suggested that a stationary predator might escape its notice.
Hunting Strategy: This would require careful planning. The cavern environment negated my primary advantages—ground-based vibration detection and chemical tracking were both compromised in the three-dimensional, air-current-rich underground space. I would need to adapt my approach, find a method of drawing the creature into a position where I could strike effectively.
The planning took three full days.
I explored the cavern system cautiously, mapping its layout through a combination of scent tracking and careful physical investigation. The sinkholes connected to a network of passages that varied from tight squeezes barely large enough for my body to vast chambers where my vibration sense could not detect the distant walls. The Void Moth I had observed seemed to prefer one particular chamber—a roughly spherical space approximately sixty feet in diameter with multiple entrance points at varying heights.
My strategy crystallized gradually.
The Void Moth hunted by detecting motion, then striking with speed that I could not hope to match. Direct approach was impossible. But the creature's hunting pattern required it to remain stationary for extended periods, waiting for prey to enter its range.
What if I could become that stationary element? What if I could enter its hunting chamber and wait, motionless, until the creature approached closely enough for a strike?
It was risky. The Void Moth's speed meant I would likely get only one chance. If I missed, or if my strike failed to immediately incapacitate, I would be facing a dangerous predator in an environment where it held every advantage.
But the potential reward…
I made my decision.
The approach took most of a day. I navigated through the cavern system with excruciating care, testing each surface before committing my weight, relying entirely on my enhanced chemical senses to track my path. The darkness was absolute—even my serpentine eyes, adapted for low light, could perceive nothing in the complete absence of photons.
But I could smell. I could feel vibrations. I could taste the air and construct a mental map of my surroundings that, while different from vision, was equally functional.
I entered the Void Moth's hunting chamber through a low passage on what I estimated to be the eastern side. The ceiling was approximately twelve feet above me, far enough that the moth could fly freely, close enough that the creature might descend within my striking range if properly motivated.
I found a position against the chamber's wall, coiled myself into a tight spiral that minimized my profile, and went absolutely still.
Then I waited.
The first hour passed in complete sensory deprivation. The darkness seemed to press against me like a physical weight. The silence—interrupted only occasionally by the distant drip of water or the skittering of small insects—was oppressive in its totality.
I focused on my breathing, keeping it slow and shallow. On maintaining absolute stillness. On patience, that cultivated virtue that I had been accumulating alongside my more direct attributes.
The humming began somewhere in my second hour of waiting.
It was faint at first, barely perceptible even to my enhanced vibration sense. But it grew steadily stronger, indicating the Void Moth's approach. The creature was entering its hunting chamber, taking up position for its nightly vigil.
I tracked its location by sound alone, building a mental model of its movement through the space. It descended from somewhere high on the opposite wall, spiraling down in slow, lazy circles until it reached a hovering position roughly eight feet off the ground and perhaps twenty feet from my concealed location.
Close, but not close enough.
I waited.
The moth hung motionless in the darkness, its wings beating with that low, continuous hum that served as my only indicator of its position. Minutes passed. Hours. The creature's patience was formidable—a predator evolved for this exact form of hunting, capable of maintaining its vigil indefinitely.
But I was patient too. I had been patient my entire previous life, waiting for opportunities that never came. I had been patient through months of careful cultivation in this new existence. I could wait as long as necessary.
The opportunity came near the end of my fourth hour.
Something moved in the cavern—a small creature, an insect perhaps, scuttling along the wall approximately fifteen feet from my position. The Void Moth's humming shifted in pitch, indicating movement, and I felt the pressure wave of displaced air as it dove toward the prey.
The strike brought it within ten feet of my coiled form.
I exploded into motion, every ounce of accumulated speed channeling into a single, desperate lunge. The darkness made targeting impossible—I was striking at sound alone, aiming for where the humming indicated the creature should be.
Contact.
My fangs pierced something that felt like shadow given form—cold, insubstantial, wrong. But there was also flesh beneath the darkness, and my venom found it with the unerring instinct that had served me through dozens of successful hunts.
The Void Moth's reaction was immediate and violent. Its wings beat with sudden fury, generating winds that buffeted my body and threatened to tear me loose. The darkness that composed its form seemed to reach for me, tendrils of absolute black that I could somehow feel even in the lightless chamber.
I tightened my grip, coiling around whatever portion of the creature I had managed to capture, and pumped venom with desperate intensity. My muscles strained against its attempts to break free. My scales, hardened by months of Stone Beetle consumption, resisted the probing darkness that seemed to be trying to dissolve them.
The struggle lasted perhaps thirty seconds, though it felt like hours.
Then, gradually, the moth's resistance began to fade. Its wingbeats slowed. The darkness that composed its form lost coherence, becoming less solid, less aggressive. The humming dropped in pitch and intensity until it finally ceased altogether.
I had won.
The consumption took time—the creature's unusual physiology made feeding difficult—but I persevered through discomfort and uncertainty until nothing remained but a cooling satisfaction in my core.
Two hundred and thirty-seven years of soul age joined my accumulated total. But more than that, I felt the cold essence of the Void Moth's abilities integrating with my own developing nature. The darkness. The absolute, light-consuming, perception-defying darkness that had made it such a perfect predator.
I was now at eight hundred and seventeen years. The thousand-year threshold was within reach.
And when I reached it, my first soul skill would be something truly formidable.
—————
The journey out of the cavern system was slower than the journey in—exhaustion and the disorientation of feeding in complete darkness made navigation treacherous. But I emerged eventually, sliding up through one of the sinkholes into the relative brightness of a moonlit jungle night.
The contrast was almost painful. After hours in absolute darkness, even starlight seemed harsh and intrusive.
But as my eyes adjusted and my other senses recalibrated to the surface environment, I noticed something remarkable.
My scales, already dark, now seemed to be actively drinking in the moonlight that filtered through the canopy. Where the light touched my body, it seemed to dim, as if being absorbed into my very essence. The effect was subtle—nothing like the Void Moth's dramatic light-negation—but it was real and visible.
The absorption was working better than I had hoped.
I found a safe location—a hollow log reminiscent of my earliest shelter, though larger now to accommodate my increased size—and settled in to rest. The hunt had drained me, but the rewards had been worth the expenditure.
As I coiled into a comfortable position, my thoughts turned to the future. One hundred and eighty-three years separated me from the thousand-year threshold. At my current rate of hunting, that distance could be closed in three to four months—faster if I continued targeting high-value prey like the Void Moth.
Three to four months until I gained my first soul skill. Three to four months until I became something more than a soul beast with unusual abilities.
And in a world where Spirit Masters treated my kind as resources to be harvested, where power was the only reliable currency, where the strong consumed the weak without hesitation or remorse…
I intended to become very strong indeed.
The cold, calculating part of my mind—the part that had been Drake Morrison, accountant, analyst, survivor—was already planning the next phase of my cultivation. More stealth-attributed prey. More shadow essence. More preparation for the thousand-year threshold that would transform my accumulated adaptations into genuine power.
The protagonists could have their dramatic battles and emotional growth arcs. The villains could scheme their schemes and build their empires of cruelty. The fate of the continent could hang in the balance while gods and monsters clashed for supremacy.
I would be in the shadows, watching and waiting and growing stronger.
And when the dust finally settled, when the story reached its predetermined conclusion…
I would still be there. Coiled in darkness. Patient. Eternal.
The serpent endures.