Crispin surfaced into awareness the way a drowning man surfaced into air—gasping, panicked, and certain something was wrong.
His lungs burned, but the breath that scraped into him felt different. Thicker. Hotter. As if the air had weight now, and every inhale dragged it through narrow passages lined with heat.
He tried to move and struck something hard above him.
It was not a ceiling.
It cracked.
A jagged line of light split the darkness, thin as a knife, and the smell that poured through it hit him like a shock—wet earth, mineral stone, living green, and a cold thread underneath it all that made his stomach twist.
Water.
The need for it flared so fast it wasn't a thought. It was a command.
He shoved upward again.
The shell resisted, then gave with a brittle snap that vibrated through his skull. Fragments rained down around him in gritty pieces. Something scraped his forelimbs—his forelimbs—and he froze, breath hitching.
Forelimbs.
His hands weren't hands. He pushed again, harder, and the shell split wider. Dirt spilled in. Light spilled in. Air spilled in. He heaved, wriggled, and twisted with a body that did not obey the logic he expected.
He was on his belly. Wait, he had a belly? And a tail?
The thought landed like a falling rock, and for a moment he went still, trembling in the loose soil and shattered shell.
He was out. He was out of the egg.
Egg.
His mind snagged on the word as if it couldn't accept it. He stared down, chest rising and falling too fast, and saw clawed feet sunk into dirt that still clung damply to his scales.
Scales. Not skin. Not human.
His breath stuttered.
His vision swam. He tried to lift his head and nearly toppled forward. His neck muscles shook with the effort, weak and untrained, and his tongue flicked out reflexively—quick, tasting the air.
The world exploded into detail.
Not sight first.
Smell.
Layers of it.
Wet stone. Iron. Old ash. Fresh moss. Sap. Rot. The sharp, clean promise of water nearby, and beneath all of it, a warm scent like sun-baked clay that made his throat tighten.
His stomach clenched, empty and aching. Hunger wasn't a feeling. It was a pain. He swallowed, then tried to draw in another breath.
That breath brought in something else too—heat. Not the heat of a campfire. Not the heat of a summer day. The warmth felt deeper, as if his bones now held it, and his body expected it the same way lungs expect air.
A shimmer pressed at the edge of his sight. Words formed where they shouldn't have, clear and cold against the chaos of his senses.
[DRACONIC LEGACY SYSTEM ONLINE]
Name: Crispin
Form: Hatchling
Level: 1
Strength: 3 | Dexterity: 3 | Vitality: 3
Intelligence: 3 | Perception: 3
Condition: Exhausted
Hunger: Severe
The pane faded.
Crispin stared at the dirt in front of him as if it might explain what he had just seen.
Level? Form? Hatchling?
The word should have been absurd. It should have been impossible, and yet his body answered it.
He lifted one forefoot—no, his forefoot—and flexed it. Three curved claws slid free with the smooth certainty of something built for it. They weren't delicate. The things weren't human nails, but talons. They were weapons, naturally shaped and sharp enough to catch the light.
His breath caught again.
He shifted his other foot and dug the claws into the soil, testing. The dirt gave under him, soft. His weight felt wrong—lighter than he expected, but dense in a way that reminded him of a rock you could throw farther than it looked like it should go.
He tried to stand.
His legs wobbled immediately. His tail swung without permission, and the movement nearly threw him sideways. He caught himself at the last second, belly brushing the ground, heartbeat hammering against his ribs.
His ribs. He could feel them differently. Not as fragile bones under flesh, but as a firm cage under warm plating. He could feel the air moving through him. He could feel his heart pumping faster than it ever had, strong despite the shock.
More carefully this time, he steadied and rose again.
The second attempt worked. Mostly.
He stood low to the ground on four limbs, knees bent, body trembling with effort. He held there, frozen, afraid that if he moved, he would fall.
His eyes adjusted, and he understood why the world had felt too large a moment ago. He was small.
He was about the length of a large iguana, maybe a little more—long-bodied, tail adding another half of him behind. His head felt heavy for his frame, his jaw too full of teeth he could feel pressing faintly against his gums. The scales along his forearms and shoulders were harder, plated, and the ones along his sides were smaller, overlapping like armor.
His own body was a map he didn't know how to read. He turned his head and saw eggshell fragments scattered around a shallow depression in the dirt. Some pieces were thick and dark, veined faintly with bronze. Other fragments appeared as if something had burned them from the inside, with blackened and brittle edges.
He stared at them and felt an icy dread crawl through him.
The last thing he remembered was fire. Teeth around him. The smell of iron. The crushing presence above him, then pain so complete it had erased thought.
Now he was here, in dirt, in a world that smelled alive. He took a shaky step forward.
His claws bit into the soil. His body lurched, then found balance. The tail swung again, and he corrected it naturally this time.
The movement didn't feel learned. It felt remembered. A pressure brushed the edge of his mind.
Direction.
Low.
Stay low.
His body responded before his mind did. His spine sank. The ground got closer to his belly. His steps became quieter. His tail steadied.
Another impression followed, faint but insistent.
Hunt.
Crispin's throat tightened. "I—" The word came out wrong.
He tried again and managed a sound that was not a word at all—thin, rough, more like a rasping chirp than human speech. The noise startled him so badly he flinched and nearly lost his footing.
His pulse sped up again. He was not human. The thought should have shattered him. Instead, it slid into place with a terrible, steady certainty, as if some part of him had already accepted it and was simply waiting for his mind to catch up.
He breathed slowly until his shaking eased, then he lifted his head and looked around.
He was in an open place, but not exposed. Dense foliage ringed a shallow clearing—ferns, low shrubs, thick moss creeping over stone. Tall trunks rose beyond, their canopy filtering light into shifting patterns of gold and green. Somewhere above, a bird called out sharply.
A breeze moved through the leaves. It carried water-scent.
Crispin turned toward it.
He moved cautiously, claws placed carefully, body still clumsy but improving with each step. The world stayed sharp in a way that made his head swim—every flicker of movement in the undergrowth, every shifting shadow, every insect wing, every tremble of a leaf.
Perception. The word floated up from the system pane he'd seen.
He didn't know what it meant, so he couldn't explain it, but he felt it. His senses were not just stronger. They had layers. He could distinguish scents. He could track motion at the edge of his vision without turning his head.
He followed the pull of water until the foliage opened onto a small pool fed by a trickling spring. Clear water spilled over stone and gathered in a basin lined with moss. Tiny fish flickered in the shallows like living shards of silver.
The sight made his stomach cramp so hard his body went tense.
Food.
His body wanted it with a violent certainty. He crept closer to the water's edge, claws sinking into damp soil. The fish darted lazily, unbothered.
Crispin lowered his head and watched them. His tongue flicked out again, tasting. He didn't understand why he had done it. He knew only it felt right, like gathering information his eyes couldn't provide.
Then, he tensed and lunged.
It was… not graceful.
His front half shot forward too fast while his back legs lagged. He hit the water with a splash loud enough to startle the entire forest. Fish scattered instantly, vanishing into deeper shadow. Water soaked his chest scales, cold against heat-warm plating.
Crispin froze, horrified.
He had just announced himself to everything nearby. His head snapped up. He scanned the foliage, heart pounding. No immediate movement. No predator charged, but the ancestral pressure brushed his mind again, sharper this time.
Still.
Low.
Crispin backed out of the water slowly and crouched, belly nearly touching dirt. He didn't know why, but he forced himself to obey. His breathing quieted. His tail went still. He lowered his head, revealing only his eyes at the pool's edge.
Minutes passed.
The hunger didn't fade. It sharpened. The fish did not return at first. Crispin's muscles twitched with the urge to move, to try again, to do anything rather than lie there in the dirt feeling helpless. He clenched his claws in the soil and held himself down through sheer will.
Eventually, the water calmed. The fish returned. Not all at once. One flicker at the edge, then another. A small cluster glided near the surface again as if the danger had passed.
Crispin watched them, unmoving.
His mind raced, but his body steadied. His senses locked.
The fish swam closer.
A low branch hung over part of the pool, leaves draping into the water like a curtain. Crispin's eyes traced it, and something in him clicked—not a human thought, but a predator's awareness of angles and cover.
He shifted backward slowly, careful not to rustle too much, then moved toward the branch.
Climbing was awkward at first. His claws hooked into bark naturally, but his legs didn't coordinate the way he expected. He slipped once and caught himself, startled. The second attempt went smoother. He hauled his small body onto the branch and settled low, hugging the wood.
From here, he could see the fish clearly. His shadow lay across the water in broken patterns through leaves.
He waited. The ancestral pressure didn't speak. It simply held.
Hunt.
Crispin's hunger made his mouth water, and he discovered with a faint, horrified fascination that saliva now felt different too—thicker, warm, slick over sharp teeth.
The fish drifted beneath him. One slid closer than the rest, bold or stupid. Crispin's muscles tensed. He held. He waited until it was directly beneath the leaves, until the branch shadow darkened its back, then he dropped.
His body moved before his mind could interfere. He fell like a stone, claws forward, jaws open.
He hit the water with a smaller splash this time, and his teeth closed around something soft and wriggling.
The fish thrashed. Crispin stumbled, nearly losing it, but his jaw clamped harder. The fish went still in a few violent flutters, then hung limp between his teeth.
Crispin stood there in shallow water, stunned. He had done it. The satisfaction that surged through him was not human pride. It was deeper, older, and terrifyingly clean. His body recognized success as survival and rewarded him with a rush that made his limbs feel steadier.
He dragged the fish onto the mossy edge and ate it.
There was no elegant way to do it. He tore, chewed, swallowed, and felt warmth spread through his belly like fire settling into coals. The hunger dulled from agony to ache. His breathing slowed. His shaking eased.
As he finished, a new pane slid into view.
[ADAPTIVE INSIGHT GAINED]
Predatory patience increases survival efficiency.
Perception: 3 → 4
The words faded.
Crispin blinked.
He didn't know what any of this meant in the way a normal person would. He knew only that it was real. Immediately, he could feel a difference, his awareness sharpening. The forest seemed slightly clearer at the edges, movement easier to track, sounds easier to separate.
He lifted his head and stared across the pool. The world was beautiful in a way that almost hurt. Not because it was gentle, but because it was alive, and he was alive inside it, remade into something that belonged here regardless of his feelings on it.
He looked down at his claws again. He flexed them once, slowly, as if proving to himself they existed.
The ancestral pressure brushed him once more, calmer now, almost approving.
Stay low.
Survive.
Crispin stood at the water's edge with fish-blood warm on his tongue, and for the first time since waking, he understood one simple, brutal truth.
Whatever had ended his human life had not left him a choice. If he wanted to see the surface again—if there even was a surface left to return to—then he would have to live through this first.
As a hatchling, a predator, and as something the forest already recognized.
He turned from the pool and slipped into the foliage, moving low beneath the leaves the way the instinct had demanded, his small body learning the rhythm of survival one breath at a time.