The burning began to fade.
Not all at once—first from his chest, then his neck, then his face—retreating like a tide pulling back from shore. Osric lay still, staring up through the broken canopy as the sensation ebbed away, leaving behind a strange hollowness.
His left arm was still heavy.
His leg barely answered him at all.
Mostly numb.
Osric let out a slow breath through clenched teeth.
'I was stupid.'
The thought came without drama or self-pity—just blunt assessment.
'I should've bought an antidote.'
He'd known the Forest Creepers were venomous. He'd known even weak venom could turn lethal in the wrong moment. Antidotes weren't rare—but they were expensive enough that he'd convinced himself to save the coin.
He paid for it.
As the last traces of pain drained away, Osric focused inward.
'System.'
The response came immediately.
[Challenge Completed]
Reward:
+1 Vitality
New Skill Acquired
Osric blinked.
A moment later, the skill name appeared.
Poison Tolerance (F)
Understanding clicked into place instantly.
"So that's it," he muttered hoarsely.
The burning had vanished not because the venom was gone—but because his body had learned how to endure it. To blunt it. To survive it long enough not to die screaming on the forest floor.
Relief spread through him—real this time.
Not safety.
Capability.
He tested his fingers slowly. His left hand responded sluggishly, sensation dulled but present. His leg followed more slowly still, pins-and-needles crawling up from the bite mark as if reminding him how close he'd come.
'Vitality,' he thought. 'And poison tolerance…'
The System hadn't rewarded him for killing.
It had rewarded him for not dying.
Osric rolled onto his side with a grunt and pushed himself upright inch by inch. His balance wavered immediately, forcing him to brace against a nearby tree.
Walking was going to be ugly.
He scanned the ground until he found a long, sturdy branch—thick enough to bear weight, stripped of rot. He snapped off the smaller offshoots with his boot and tested it like a crutch.
It would do.
The Forest Creeper corpses lay scattered around him, their mottled bodies already blending back into the forest floor. Even dead, they looked like part of the terrain.
Osric dragged himself toward the nearest one and knelt with difficulty.
His bag was still intact.
He worked slowly, methodically—cutting where needed, ignoring the lingering numbness. Sweat ran down his back despite the cold as he hauled the first corpse into the bag.
One.
The second took longer.
By the time he forced it inside, his arms trembled and his breath came shallow. He didn't bother trying for a third. Pride wouldn't carry it. Coin wouldn't justify it.
Two was enough.
Proof.
Payment.
And something to show that he'd walked into the forest and come back out again.
Osric tied the bag shut, slung it over his shoulder with a sharp hiss, and leaned heavily on the stick.
He took one last look at the clearing.
The shed skin.
The blood.
The broken silence.
Then he turned and limped away. He needed to because soon the blood would attract things that Osric didn't want to meet in his condition.
Each step hurt less than it should have.
And that, more than anything else, told him he'd grown.
The forest watched him go—but it didn't follow.
By the time the light began to change and the trees thinned, Osric emerged back onto the path, exhausted, numb, and alive.
And that was enough—for now.
Osric reached the Adventurers' Guild just as the afternoon crowd was thinning.
He drew more looks than usual.
Not because of his face—but because of the bag.
Blood-dark stains had already begun to soak through the rough fabric, and the stiff, uneven weight inside left little doubt about what it carried. A few adventurers shifted aside as he passed. One muttered under his breath.
Osric ignored them.
He approached the counter slowly, leaning on the stick just enough to hide how unreliable his leg still was. Franklin's place behind the desk was empty once again.
Instead, a guild employee he vaguely recognized looked up from a ledger.
"Mission?" the man asked.
Osric placed the parchment down first, then set the bag beside it with a dull thud.
"Forest Creeper Nest," he said. "Completed."
The employee hesitated, then carefully opened the bag.
Scaled flesh.
Clawed limbs.
Venom glands still intact.
His expression shifted immediately.
"…You did this alone?"
Osric didn't answer.
The man cleared his throat, tied the bag shut again, and nodded. "That'll do."
He marked the parchment, reached into a strongbox, and slid the payment across the counter.
"Sixty copper," he said. "E-Rank completion confirmed."
Osric took the coin and secured it without counting. The exact number mattered less than the confirmation.
Another job done.
Another survival margin earned.
He turned away from the counter and started toward the exit.
That was when he saw them.
Three familiar figures stood near the mission board.
George was impossible to miss—broad shoulders, relaxed posture, talking with his hands like the guild was his home. Roman stood beside him, quieter, shield resting against his leg. And slightly apart from them, arms crossed and gaze distant, was Laurent.
Osric slowed.
Erica wasn't there.
Bed rest, then.
What surprised him more was Laurent.
The man had always struck Osric as a lone operator—cold, self-contained, uninterested in attachments. Seeing him standing with George's group told Osric enough without a word being spoken.
Laurent had joined them.
A D-Rank party now.
George hadn't invited William. Osric could guess why. William wasn't ready—and from what Osric knew, he wouldn't have taken offense. Smart enough to wait.
The three of them hadn't noticed Osric yet.
Osric adjusted his grip on the stick and kept walking toward the door.
He didn't know whether he wanted to be seen.
But he knew it wouldn't stay that way for long.