Sol stood in the silence, processing the horrifying description. Translucent, veined wings. Stone armor. Bone-melting venom. Faceted gem eyes. Pack-hunting essence-drainers.
He uncrossed his arms. A slow, terrifying, and completely inappropriate grin spread across his face, his crimson eyes burning with absolute, unrestrained excitement.
But a second later, the sharp instincts hammered into his newly forged cells kicked in, dumping a bucket of cold water over his rising adrenaline.
Damn, Sol thought, violently reeling in his runaway imagination. He quickly composed his features, wiping the feral grin from his face. I need to get a grip. My "seeking death" brain is taking over. Yes, a Lord-rank beast spirit is the ultimate loot drop, but my actual life is infinitely more important. Plot armor doesn't exist in reality, and I am only a weak kid in this brutal world. If I die, there are no respawns. No checkpoints.
