Methodically, he took inventory—mapping wounds by brutal memory, supplies by ingrained muscle habit. The slimes had shredded his bandages to useless rags and carved chunks from his health, but his will stood unbroken, a fortress amid the ruin. He prodded each gash, bite-mark, and acid burn, whispering a low curse for every fresh scar added to his growing ledger: the elbow gouge pulsing with residual heat, the ankle wrap weeping clear fluid, the rib-flayer that made deep breaths a gamble.
A faint chime pierced the haze—the system flickering alive in his mind, its interface blooming like cold light behind his eyes:
[Skill Progression: Adaptive Perception improved (Minor)]
[Trait acquired: Nerve Fortress — moderate resistance to flesh-eating acids, minor resistance to panic-induced debilitation]
[Memory Imprint registered: Viscid Predator — Weak Point Analysis unlocked]
A dark, sour satisfaction coiled in his gut. Even the system, that merciless taskmaster that punished more than it rewarded, had yielded scraps. Every plunge into hell left a souvenir—tools for the next abyss.
Noctis let himself slump fully against the tree, tilting his head back to stare upward. Through the swaying chains, dawn crept in, painting the floating mountains in strokes of gold and crimson as the sky bled from fiery red to cool violet-blue. A shock rippled through him: he was shaking, not from lingering fear, but from the savage drain of adrenaline crashing out of his veins. He didn't fight it—allowed the tremors to wrack his frame, embracing the animal release of someone who'd walked through fire and emerged, impossibly, intact.
You're ugly as sin, battered to hell, reeking of acid, blood, and the shame of running scared. But you're alive, Noctis. That's your currency. That's all you ever get.
A ragged, hoarse laugh bubbled up from his chest. He choked it down quick—noise was a beacon for predators, weakness an open invitation to death. But inside, hidden from the world's claws, he nursed that smallest spark of pride.
You survived the goblins' ambush. Wolves that tore through steel. Wyverns that poisoned the air. Slimes that ate the flesh from your bones. Nothing's simple anymore... and that jagged edge might just be your salvation.
Shakily, he hauled himself to his feet, every ligament screaming protest, every wound leaking fresh heat and ache. But his mind raced ahead already—tuning into the hush of the new morning, the fragile promise that danger lurked just beyond the light. Thoughts shifted from immediate hurts to essentials: fresh water to flush the poisons, scraps of food to stave off collapse, shelter from whatever nightmare dawned next.
Before vanishing into the trees, he scoured the site with predatory focus, harvesting the strange, inert slime cores—fist-sized orbs pulsing faintly with trapped ether, trophies and potential alchemy fodder. Every monster, every horror carried a price. Sometimes it was victory's rush; other times, hard-won knowledge.
This is the lesson, Noctis. Crystal clear now. You aren't some shining hero or rabid monster. You're rarer: the one the world keeps trying—and failing—to erase.
He slid his sword into its battered scabbard with a soft shink, the weight a grim comfort at his hip. Limping through the shadowed trees, he left memories soaked in agony behind, pressing onward. Each step wobbled uncertainly, but it was his—defiant forward motion. For now, the story didn't end. He'd hunt the next challenge, crack the next puzzle, spit in fate's blind eye one more time.
With pain singing through every nerve and a grim smile cracking his bloodied lips, Noctis melted into the dawn, burdened only by scars, stolen skills, and the iron certainty that a survivor's tale always clawed toward another chapter.
Noctis limped into the rising sun, skin tight and itchy under layers of dried blood, every joint weeping its private complaints. The slime's memory clung like a curse, but so did that stubborn pride—a low ember refusing to gutter. If goblins or worse found him again, he'd strike back smarter, sharper.
His first day blurred into survival calculus: a grim accounting of body and world. He checked wounds obsessively—peeling back crusts to probe for infection, treating burns with handfuls of damp moss and bitter sap scraped from roots, its numbing sting a small mercy. From scavenged goblin-string—tough, sinewy cords looted in past scraps—he fashioned a makeshift tourniquet for his thigh, cinching it tight until the bleeding slowed to a seep.
Every few hours, he migrated hiding spots, never bedding down twice in the same shadow. Complacency was a grave; motion was life.
The goblins proved relentless hunters. By noon, their guttural cries echoed through the mist-shrouded trees, a guttural chorus of rage and bloodlust. He glimpsed them too—search parties prowling in ragged packs, snouts lifted high, nostrils flaring for the scent of warm meat. His trich trick held strong: the herbal mask dulled his blood's siren call, blurred his trail into the landscape's camouflage, twisted his silhouette into just another twisted branch.
Each green-skinned flash tightened his jaw, memories flooding back. He'd died by their hands once—a humiliating blur of blades and laughter, a twisted rebirth in the system's cruel loop. He swore on his scars: no repeat performance.