Ezikeil stood motionless at the forest's edge, the first gray light of dawn barely touching the treetops. Var crouched nearby, its newly named body still trembling slightly from the night's patrol. The goblin's yellow eyes darted between Ezikeil and the empty road leading to Kelder town, its clawed fingers clutching a jagged stone knife it had scavenged during its watch.
The bond between them hummed faintly in Ezikeil's awareness—a thin thread of connection that carried impressions rather than words. Images flickered at the edge of his mind: dust-covered wagons rolling past, six humans on foot with spears, two on horseback carrying crossbows, crates stacked high under canvas. Merchants. Not the first Var had seen, but these moved with purpose, heavier armed than the usual traders.
Ezikeil considered.
He needed more than rumors overheard in taverns. He needed maps. He needed to know the veins of this world—where power flowed, where humans clustered, where monsters gathered in sufficient density to serve as fuel. The goblin's broken reports were useful but incomplete, filtered through a mind that still thought in terms of immediate threats and fresh kills.
"Stay," he commanded Var softly.
The goblin froze, then nodded once, sinking lower into the underbrush.
Ezikeil moved.
His body flowed silently through the trees, paralleling the road at a distance. The magicule core within him pulsed steadily now, stronger than when he had first entered this forest. Days of hunting and forced cultivation had carved the first true pathways into his flesh—rough approximations of meridians, but functional. Magicules moved through them more smoothly, though they still resisted his control compared to the refined qi of his previous life.
He reached a low rise overlooking the road and settled into position.
Below, the caravan crawled forward—three wagons drawn by sturdy oxen, canvas covers hiding whatever cargo they carried. Six guards walked in loose formation: four spearmen in mismatched leather armor, one crossbowman riding point, another bringing up the rear. Two drivers handled the reins. No mages, no knights. Ordinary merchant protection.
Ezikeil watched their pattern for several minutes. The crossbowmen scanned the tree line at regular intervals. The spearmen stayed close to the wagons, eyes on the road. Predictable. Human.
He waited until the lead rider turned to scan the opposite side of the road, then slipped down the embankment like falling shadow.
The point rider never heard him.
Ezikeil's hand clamped over the man's mouth from behind, cutting off his startled grunt. A single twist snapped his neck cleanly. The body slumped sideways, held upright by Ezikeil's grip. He lowered it silently to the dirt and dragged it into the underbrush.
One down.
He stripped the corpse quickly—leather boots, worn cloak, belt pouch, short sword, and a small leather tube containing maps. The crossbow he left; too cumbersome for his needs. He examined the maps by faint morning light.
Serviceable.
The drawings showed Kelder town marked with a crude symbol, roads spidering outward to larger settlements: Marholt (three days north), Baron Veyne's estate (half-day west), Adventurer Guildhall at Stonebridge (five days east). Forest regions shaded in crosshatch patterns indicating "monster territory." Rivers, fords, trade routes highlighted in faded ink. Marginal notes listed tolls, safe camps, known bandit haunts.
Ezikeil memorized the layout, then turned his attention to the rear rider.
The second crossbowman noticed his missing partner moments later.
"Oi, Gav! Keep pace!" he shouted down the line.
No answer.
The man swore, wheeled his horse, and trotted back along the road. Ezikeil waited until the rider passed his position, then rose from concealment. The horse sensed him first, ears flicking back, but the rider was focused forward.
Ezikeil stepped into the path and struck.
His palm met the horse's chest. Magicules flared briefly along his arm—not enough for a formal technique, just reinforcement. The animal staggered, breath exploding from its lungs. The rider had time to widen his eyes before Ezikeil's other hand caught his throat, squeezing until bones crunched.
The man fell limp. The horse recovered enough to bolt riderless down the road, scattering the spearmen.
Ezikeil worked quickly. Another map tube, similar contents. Coin pouch—sixteen silver pieces, three gold. Another sword, ignored. He stripped both bodies of anything useful: waterskins, hard bread, spare cloak. Then he melted back into the trees.
Behind him, the caravan dissolved into chaos—shouts, spears raised toward the forest, drivers whipping their oxen into panicked motion. They would find the bodies eventually. They might even send hunters after him.
It didn't matter. He had what he came for.
Var met him back at their original position, sniffing curiously at the stolen goods. Ezikeil spread the maps on the ground, tracing lines with his finger.
"Here," he said, tapping a spot east of Stonebridge. "Thicker forest. Deeper magicules. You will scout."
The goblin whined softly, remembering its last venture eastward.
Ezikeil's gaze flattened. "Go. Return before nightfall."
Var snatched up a spear from the stolen gear and vanished into the underbrush without further protest.
Ezikeil folded the maps and tucked them into his new cloak. The merchant intel confirmed what he had pieced together from tavern talk: human settlements clustered along rivers and trade roads, avoiding deep forests and mountains. Adventurer Guilds served as power brokers between nobles and monster hunters. Barons ruled frontier territories, paying lip service to distant kings.
The east road interested him most. Stonebridge lay at a river crossing, major guildhall, crossroads to wilder territories. Beyond it, the maps marked "High Magicule Zones," "Ogre Country," "Unmapped Ruins." Perfect for cultivation. Perfect for testing limits.
He spent the morning cultivating where he sat, drawing magicules from the surrounding forest. The stolen coin pouch lay beside him, silver glinting dully. Currency. Another tool. Humans traded it for information, weapons, access. He would use it.
By midday, Var returned—limping slightly, spear broken, but carrying a rough stick marked with notches.
Ezikeil opened his eyes. "Report."
The goblin squatted, breathing heavily. It tapped the stick: five notches. Then pointed east, made circling motions with its claws, growled low. Larger shapes. More dangerous.
Ezikeil nodded once. "Show me."
Var led him eastward through thickening forest. The trees grew ancient here, trunks wide enough to hide entire parties of men. Moss glowed faintly blue on northern sides. Vines pulsed with trapped magicules. The air thickened, pressing against Ezikeil's skin like warm oil.
They reached the edge of a ravine after two hours. Var pointed downward.
Ezikeil crouched beside him, peering into shadow.
A natural spring bubbled at the ravine's bottom, water shimmering with unnatural clarity. Blue-white crystals studded the rocks around it, each pulsing gently like breathing hearts. Magicules hung in the air visibly, rippling currents drawn toward the spring like iron filings to lodestone. Twisted trees leaned inward from the ravine walls, roots drinking greedily from the saturated soil.
Ezikeil felt his core stir instinctively. This place rivaled the ritual chamber where he had forged his body. Denser. Richer. Untouched.
Movement flickered near the spring.
Two ogres squatted by the water, brutish figures eight feet tall, gray-green skin scarred white. Clubs fashioned from entire tree trunks lay beside them. Smaller shapes moved in the undergrowth—goblins, perhaps a dozen, tending crude cookfires. The ogres' bodies radiated magicules thickly, cores like clenched fists pulsing in their chests.
Var whimpered softly.
Ezikeil ignored it.
"Numbers?" he asked.
Var held up twelve claws, then eight fingers. Twenty total. Acceptable.
"You will circle east," Ezikeil instructed. "Drive the small ones toward me. Do not engage the large ones."
The goblin nodded eagerly and slipped away.
Ezikeil descended the ravine silently, bare feet finding purchase on mossy stone. The magicule density increased with every step, soaking into his skin unbidden. His core drank greedily, pathways widening slightly under the ambient pressure.
He reached a ledge overlooking the camp just as Var began its work.
The goblin's spear-throw shattered a cookpot. Shouts erupted. Goblins scattered, some grabbing weapons, others fleeing blindly. The ogres lumbered to their feet, bellowing, clubs raised.
Ezikeil dropped among the first wave of panicked goblins.
His body moved like water through stone.
First goblin took a palm strike to the temple—skull caved instantly. Second lost its head to a spinning backfist. Third impaled itself on his outstretched arm. Magicules flared along his strikes, each impact drawing faint screams of condensing power.
The goblins swarmed clumsily, stone knives and spears bouncing harmlessly off reinforced skin. Ezikeil waded through them methodically, every third step ending a life. Bodies piled at his feet. Cores popped like overripe fruit, magicules flooding into him.
One ogre reached the fight.
It swung its club in a wide arc. Ezikeil dropped low, feeling air displacement pass overhead. He surged upward, driving his stiffened fingers into the ogre's throat. Cartilage collapsed. The beast gagged, staggering.
Ezikeil did not let it recover.
His right leg swept low, cracking knee joints. As the ogre fell forward, he caught its descending club mid-swing, reversed momentum, and drove the trunk back into its skull. Bone pulped. The massive body crashed down, crushing two goblins beneath it.
Magicules flooded him—richer, denser than wolves or boars. His core swelled visibly beneath his skin for a moment before compressing.
The second ogre charged, roaring. Var darted in from the side, slashing its calf. The beast swatted casually; the goblin flew into a tree with a wet crunch.
Ezikeil felt the bond snap.
Var's death registered as a faint hollow ache in his core, like losing a fingernail. Annoying, but not crippling. The goblin had served its purpose.
The ogre reached him.
Ezikeil met the charge head-on.
He caught the club between crossed forearms. Magicules screamed along his arms, bones creaking under inhuman force. The ogre pushed, bellowing. Ezikeil pushed back.
Stalemate lasted two heartbeats.
Ezikeil exhaled sharply. Magicules condensed into his spine, legs, core. His body dropped an inch into stone, then erupted upward. The ogre staggered back. Ezikeil flowed with the momentum, leaping to drive both heels into its chest.
Ribs shattered like dry wood. The ogre flew backward ten paces, slamming into the spring rocks. Crystals cracked under its weight. It tried to rise, gasped blood, collapsed.
Ezikeil landed lightly, breathing controlled.
Silence fell over the ravine.
He walked among the dead, placing hands on each corpse in turn. Cores yielded their magicules willingly now, flowing into him like tributaries joining a river. Goblins gave thin streams. Ogres gave floods. By the time he finished, his core thrummed with fullness, pathways straining to contain the influx.
He knelt by the spring.
The water glowed brighter up close, magicules dancing across the surface. He cupped his hands and drank deeply. Power raced through him, pure and unbound. No impurities. No resistance.
Perfect.
Ezikeil sat cross-legged on the wet stone, spine straight, palms upturned. He began circulating.
Hours passed.
Magicules poured into him from every direction—spring, crystals, earth, air. His core rotated faster, compressing gathered power into denser rings. Pathways widened, solidified. Pain flared as flesh adapted, then faded into strength.
By nightfall, he opened his eyes.
Red-black aura clung to his skin briefly before sinking inward. He raised one hand. Shadows around him thickened, stretching longer than moonlight allowed, curling like smoke.
Progress.
He stood, testing his body. Muscles felt denser. Reflexes sharper. Strikes carried weight even without conscious magicule reinforcement.
The ravine was his now.
Ezikeil walked the perimeter, gathering goblin bodies that still held faint magicule traces. He piled them near the spring, then extended his shadow. Darkness swallowed the corpses whole, storing them in the void between worlds. Fuel for later refinement.
He paused at Var's crumpled form against the tree.
The goblin's neck bent at wrong angles. Its chest no longer rose. Ezikeil felt no sentiment—only calculation. The first tool had broken, but it had located this place. Acceptable return.
He would need replacements.
Tomorrow, he would hunt the forest borders for more goblins. Name two or three. Stronger ones this time. Ones that could scout without dying to ogre backhands.
For now, the spring called.
Ezikeil returned to his cultivation spot. Moonlight filtered through ravine walls, bathing crystals in silver. His shadow pooled unnaturally around him, alive with stolen magicules.
The maps from the merchants lay beside him, memorized but untouched. Stonebridge. Marholt. Baron Veyne. Human power structures could wait.
This spring represented immediate strength. Every hour spent here advanced him further than weeks among weaklings.
He closed his eyes.
Breath slowed. Circulation resumed. The night deepened around him, magicules flowing inward like rivers to sea.
The goblin named Var rotted against its tree, already forgotten.
Ezikeil cultivated alone, the first true master of his new territory.
And in the world beyond the ravine, caravans continued their panicked journey, whispers of dead scouts spreading to ears that would never find him.
Not yet.
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(Sorry for the late upload was busy for a while)
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