Ezikeil left the ruined village before dawn.
The night had passed in stillness, his borrowed body sitting cross-legged among the ashes while he pulled thin streams of magicules into himself. The seed he had formed in his core glowed a little heavier now, like a coal buried deep in his gut. It was small, weak compared to what his qi had once been, but it responded when he called.
That was enough for now.
When the eastern sky began to pale, he rose.
The village—Havel—was nothing but charred skeletons and cold pits where homes had stood. Black smoke still curled from collapsed roofs. The wind carried the stink of burnt wood and flesh, mingled with damp earth. Cracked clay pots, broken tools, scattered personal belongings lay abandoned in the mud like the shed skin of a dead animal.
Ezikeil walked through the ruins without slowing.
He was barefoot, but broken glass and splintered wood did nothing to his soles. His new body moved with quiet ease, muscles already adjusting to the weight of condensed magicules. He paused briefly at the edge of the village, where the road turned from shattered cobblestone to packed dirt.
Two ruts scored the path, cut by countless wagon wheels. Footprints overlapped in the dried mud—bare, booted, clawed. Evidence of villagers, traders, and monsters all passing the same way over time.
Ezikeil crouched, fingers brushing the earth.
"This world breathes differently," he murmured.
Magicules drifted above the road like thin mist, weaker than in the ritual chamber but constant. They clung more densely near the treeline, in the direction where the forest loomed like a black wall.
He straightened and turned that way.
If he wanted to build a foundation of power, he needed more than ashes and broken stone. He needed monsters. He needed places where magicules collected. Forests, caves, ancient ruins—those would serve.
He walked.
The world woke slowly around him. Birds cried hoarsely in the trees—throaty calls unlike any he remembered, with a faint edge of bestial mana in their throats. Small critters rustled through underbrush, their eyes reflecting light with faint unnatural glows. Even the insects felt slightly wrong, movements too quick, bodies thrumming faint magicule vibrations.
The forest rose up to swallow the road.
Trees here were tall and old, trunks thick, bark veined with faint patterns like frozen lightning. Moss glowed very softly in shadowed places, a ghostly green-blue. Vines hung heavy from branches, some tipped with thorns that glimmered as if they drank the ambient energy.
Ezikeil stepped under the canopy.
Instantly, the density of magicules increased.
He could feel it—a pressure against his skin, like stepping into a hot spring after cold air. The particles moved lazily between roots and leaves, flowing along unseen paths. Some collected in hollows, under boulders, around certain tree trunks that pulsed faintly with power.
"This is better," he said quietly.
He slowed his pace, letting his senses expand. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and his awareness sharpened. Each breath he drew now carried more fuel into him. The seed in his core stirred.
He walked for some time, listening.
The world was not quiet. Branches creaked overhead. Distant roars echoed from deeper within. Now and then he heard the heavy thump of something large moving, snapping branches, breathing like bellows.
The path narrowed, then faded. People rarely came this far. That suited him.
He wasn't alone, though.
The first watchers came a short while later.
Yellow eyes peered at him from the undergrowth. Low growls rumbled just out of sight. The scent of beast-sweat and damp fur thickened the air.
Ezikeil stopped in a small clearing where the path vanished completely, surrounded by twisted roots and looming trunks. The ground here was bare of leaves, as if something regularly crossed it. The atmosphere felt slightly heavier, as if the forest itself were holding its breath.
He did not change his relaxed stance.
"Come," he said calmly. "I will see how this body hunts."
The bushes answered.
Three shapes slunk into view first—wolf-like creatures with dark green fur and eyes that glowed faintly blue. Their bodies were lean and corded, muscles rippling beneath pelt. Sparks crackled faintly around their paws, teeth dripping saliva that sizzled where it fell.
Direwolves, but touched by magic.
They circled, snapping their jaws, testing him. Their movement was coordinated, not entirely mindless. Their hackles rose in unison. A fourth wolf appeared on a rock, higher up, watching with sharper eyes.
The leader.
Ezikeil watched them all without moving. Magicules swirled around them, condensed more thickly within their bodies. Monsters born of this world were more intimately tied to its energy than humans. That made them dangerous—and useful.
The lead wolf snarled, then lunged.
Ezikeil did not retreat.
He stepped forward.
His body blurred slightly, speed far beyond any normal human, though still a shadow of what he had once possessed. He shifted his weight, twisting at the waist, and brought his right fist up in a short, precise arc.
The blow met the wolf's skull head-on.
There was no sound at first.
Then bone shattered.
The wolf's head snapped sideways, body flipping mid-air before crashing to the ground in a heap. Its neck bent at a wrong angle. Blood sprayed, steaming slightly as it splattered the ground.
The other three wolves froze for a heartbeat.
Ezikeil exhaled slowly, lowering his hand.
His knuckles stung faintly. Not enough to matter. The thin layer of magicules he'd gathered along his arm had reinforced the strike, focusing force onto a single point. It had been crude—no formal technique, just a basic application of strength and timing—but effective.
The wolves reacted with instinctive rage.
They attacked together.
One leaped for his throat from the front. Another darted low, aiming for his leg. The third circled behind, jaws opening wide to clamp down on his shoulder.
Ezikeil moved.
He stepped sideways, footwork tight and controlled. His left leg slid back, weight shifting in a familiar pattern. His right arm swept down, palm slicing upward to meet the low wolf's skull. At the same time, his left elbow snapped backward into the jaws of the one behind.
Bone cracked twice.
The low wolf collapsed, skull dented in. Teeth shattered against his elbow as the rear wolf's jaw broke, fangs spraying through the air. It yelped, choking on blood.
The final wolf's leap carried it past him, jaws snapping through empty space. Ezikeil pivoted on his heel, grabbed its tail with his left hand, and swung it in a brutal arc.
The wolf crashed against a tree trunk with enough force to splinter bark and shake branches. It slid down, whimpering weakly.
Silence fell.
Ezikeil straightened.
Breathing remained steady. Heartbeat calm. His magicule seed had flared during the brief exchange, sending rough streams along his improvised routes. The strain had been uncomfortable, but not overwhelming.
"Physical ability is acceptable," he observed quietly. "Control is rough. But this body can be forged."
He walked toward the stunned wolf that still breathed—the one that had hit the tree.
It tried to stand, legs trembling, but collapsed. Its eyes rolled up, then focused on him with dawning fear. Blue light flickered weakly behind its gaze. It was not fully intelligent, but not mindless either.
Ezikeil crouched beside it.
Up close, he could see threads of magicules running through its flesh—like veins of power woven into muscle. Monsters here were built on energy.
He placed his hand on its head.
It snarled feebly, but could not move.
Ezikeil closed his eyes and felt the beast's life.
It was strong, for something so small in the grand scheme. Its core pulsed with power drawn from the forest. Its instincts told it to obey the pack, to hunt, to kill. It knew nothing of politics, nothing of duty. Only survival.
He pressed down.
His hand glowed faintly red beneath the skin, though no light escaped. Magicules within the wolf boiled, then flowed—leaking out, drawn into his palm, into his own seed. The beast's body shuddered, then sagged.
Its core popped like a bubble.
When Ezikeil released it, the wolf was dead.
He stood, feeling the slight rush of stolen power settle in his center. The seed grew a fraction heavier. Not much, but noticeable.
"So," he said quietly, "devouring monsters strengthens this vessel."
It made sense. This was a world where monsters evolved by consuming magicules, prey, or names. He had no interest in being named by anyone. But he could certainly take what he wanted directly.
He looked around the clearing.
The other wolves lay still, necks broken, skulls crushed. Their magicule cores flickered faintly, still intact.
He walked to each in turn, placing a hand on their bodies, drawing out their energy. It was crude, but effective—nothing like a refined absorption skill, but guided by instinct and the principles of his old cultivation.
By the time he finished, the seed in his core burned a little brighter.
He closed his eyes, drawing a slow breath. The magicules he'd stolen were wild, flavored with bestial instincts. He compressed them, forcing them to settle, to obey. Pain flickered along his makeshift meridians, but he endured until the last surge quieted.
He opened his eyes.
The forest felt slightly different now.
Magicules in the air drifted more readily toward him, as if recognizing him as something close to the monsters they were used to. Not fully, but a step closer.
He stepped out of the clearing and continued deeper.
As he walked, he paid attention—not just to threats, but to the world itself.
The trees changed gradually. Some trunks were marked with claw-gouges taller than he was. Others oozed sap that glowed faintly gold, humming with magicules. In one hollow log, he saw a cluster of glowing mushrooms, their pale caps pulsing gently with stored energy.
He reached out to touch one, then stopped.
A faint instinct warned him—poison.
Useful later, perhaps.
He moved on.
Small streams cut through the forest floor here and there, their waters shimmering faintly where magicules clung to the current. At one, he knelt and dipped his hand in. The water was cold, clean, but carried a faint electric sensation across his skin.
"Even the rivers carry power," he noted.
He drank a small amount. It slid down his throat, cooling his parched mouth, then joined the rest of the energy in his core. Minimal effect, but everything added up.
He encountered other monsters along the way.
A cluster of small, goblin-like creatures watched him from a ridge—green-skinned, yellow-eyed, clutching crude stone knives. They bared teeth, cackled, then vanished into the undergrowth when his gaze swept over them. Not worth the effort now. Their magicule cores would be weak.
A boar the size of a wagon charged him once, tusks glowing faintly as it tried to gore him.
He sidestepped, placed a palm on its snout, and pushed. The force snapped its neck. He absorbed its core and moved on.
Occasionally, he found signs of human passage—old campfire rings, broken arrows, a rusted trap. Hunters, perhaps. Adventurers. Their trails were old. None were near now.
Magicules thickened as he advanced.
The forest floor grew softer, the air more humid. Vines throbbed faintly underfoot, roots twisted in unnatural patterns. Insects with shimmering wings traced odd spirals in the air, leaving trails that hung for seconds before fading.
Eventually, he felt it—a place where the world itself seemed to breathe deeper.
He stepped into a small valley tucked between low hills. The trees here bowed inward, leaves darker, bark marked with spiral patterns of pale light. The air shimmered faintly blue. Magicules here were dense, moving slowly, pooling like fog in still air.
This was a magicule-rich zone, the kind adventurers would classify as dangerous. The kind monsters would use as a nest. The kind cultivators would use as a training ground.
His kind.
Ezikeil stopped at the center of the hollow and closed his eyes.
Everything felt louder here, even in silence. His skin tingled. The seed in his core pulsed.
He sank to the ground again, cross-legged, spine straight. Hands rested on his knees. Breath slowed.
This time, drawing magicules in was easier.
They were already gathered. They only needed guidance.
As he inhaled, the energy flowed into him like water filling a container. It abused him no less, scraping along veins and muscles, but there was more to work with. His improvised meridians strained, then stretched. The seed deep inside him swelled.
He remembered the early days in the cult, when his meridians had been too narrow for the power he sought. The pain. The tearing. The half-conscious nights spent forcing qi through pathways that screamed with every pulse.
This was simpler.
He was starting again with knowledge fully formed. The body complained, but it did not guide him. He guided it.
Time lost meaning.
He inhaled energy, exhaled impurities. Sweat ran down his back, soaked his clothes. His muscles trembled, then steadied. At one point, he coughed a thin thread of dark blood—tiny ruptures in vessels overloaded by magicule flow. He wiped it away and adjusted the pressure, easing circulation until the damage repaired itself.
Hours passed.
By the time he opened his eyes, the valley felt slightly thinner. The magicules here had diminished a fraction. Not gone, but less dense.
Within him, the seed had grown into a small core—still less than what any respectable cultivator would accept, but solid enough to hold its shape without constant attention.
He raised his hand once more.
Red-black energy shimmered faintly along his forearm, gathering around his knuckles. Still unstable, still shallow—but stronger than in the ritual chamber.
He punched lightly.
The air rippled.
A nearby tree trunk, as thick as his torso, shuddered. A thin crack ran up its bark, then widened. The tree groaned, then toppled sideways with a crash, roots tearing free of soil.
Ezikeil lowered his hand.
"Acceptable for a day's work," he said calmly.
This was only the beginning.
He stood, stretching slightly. His body no longer felt completely unfamiliar. The weight of it, the way it moved, the way it responded to energy—he was starting to learn its language.
More hunts would follow. Stronger monsters. Deeper forests. Denser magicule zones.
He would seek out caves where ancient beasts slept, ruins where forgotten spells still hung in the air, places humans labeled "forbidden" or "cursed."
The labels didn't matter.
Only the density of power did.
This world had given him a new stage.
He intended to claim it at his own pace.
Ezikeil took one last look at the valley, then began walking again, deeper into the forest.
Behind him, the fallen tree lay split at its core, and the air slowly began to thicken once more with drifting magicules, drawn back by the world's quiet, endless breathing.
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Happy New Year's
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