The letters hung in the air longer than the others had.
[First blood milestone achieved.]
[Reward granted: Weapon]
Hael didn't move.
His leg throbbed with every heartbeat, blood sticky against his skin. The Hexhound lay a few steps away, already beginning to cool, its twisted form half-swallowed by leaves.
A weapon.
The word carried weight.
Hael swallowed and focused on the prompt, the way he had learned to do—steady, deliberate.
Claim.
The air in front of him darkened, shadows folding inward like cloth being drawn tight. A faint metallic scent bled through the forest air—iron and cold stone.
Then something formed.
A dagger dropped from nothingness and struck the ground point-first with a dull, solid thunk.
Hael flinched despite himself.
He stared at it for a long moment before reaching down.
The dagger was short—no longer than his forearm—with a straight, narrow blade designed for thrusting rather than slashing. The metal was dark, not black but close enough that it drank in the light instead of reflecting it. Faint striations ran along the blade, like imperfections left deliberately unpolished.
The hilt was wrapped in worn leather, already molded as if it had been used for years. It fit his grip unsettlingly well.
Balanced.
Too balanced.
When his fingers closed around it, a quiet chill ran up his arm.
The letters surfaced again, aligning neatly beside the weapon.
[Weapon Acquired]
Name: Ashen Fang
Type: Dagger
Tier: Common (Abyss-Touched)
Damage: Low–Moderate
Durability: Average
Enchantment: Shadow Bite
— Attacks from concealment deal slightly increased damage
— Effect strength scales weakly with Abyssal Affinity
Description:
A simple blade reforged in the wake of first blood. It favors silence, proximity, and intent over brute force.
Hael read it twice.
Common.
The word grounded him more than anything else.
He turned the dagger in his hand. The edge was sharp, but not unnaturally so. No glow. No hum of power. If dropped in the dirt, it would look like any other knife a desperate traveler might carry.
Good.
The enchantment settled into his awareness as more of a suggestion than a presence. A pull toward stillness.
It wasn't strength the blade offered.
It was encouragement.
Hael exhaled slowly.
"I won't rely on you," he murmured, unsure why he spoke aloud at all. "But… I'll use you."
The dagger didn't answer.
He pushed himself upright with a hiss of pain, testing his weight carefully. His calf protested immediately, sharp and angry, but it held. Barely.
He crouched beside the Hexhound, forcing himself not to look away from the torn flesh, the broken leg, the dull eyes. His stomach rolled, but he swallowed it down.
Survival wasn't clean.
Hael slid it into his belt, adjusting until it sat snug against his hip. The added weight was small, but noticeable. Reassuring in a quiet, dangerous way.
For the first time since leaving the manor's ashes behind, he was no longer unarmed.
That realization came with an unexpected edge of fear.
Weapons changed things.
They made choices permanent.
The forest remained still, as if listening.
Hael straightened, jaw set, and turned away from the corpse. His leg hurt. His body was exhausted. And somewhere deeper in the Shadowvein, other things like the Hexhound were surely moving.
But now— Now he had an edge.
Not enough to win. But enough to survive the next mistake.
He took a careful step forward.
Then another.
The dagger rested quietly at his side, dark and patient.
***
A boy with black hair and black eyes sat on the fallen trunk of an ancient tree.
His hair had grown uneven, hacked short with a blade weeks ago, strands falling into eyes that no longer looked like a child's. Dried blood stained the collar of his shirt, the fabric torn and patched with rough stitching. His coat—once noble, once clean—was now little more than layered rags held together by thread, sap, and stubbornness. A dark dagger rested at his hip, worn smooth by use.
It had been almost a month.
Hael had not left the forest.
He had moved through it instead—slowly, cautiously—never straying too close to the Shadowvein's core, where the darkness thickened unnaturally and the trees grew warped and silent. He learned the outer paths, the safe streams, the places where fruit grew and predators hunted.
He survived.
Food came the same way it always had since that first day—nuts cracked between stones, berries plucked from thorns with shadow instead of fingers. Sometimes small animals, when he could manage it. Sometimes nothing at all.
And sometimes—
Sometimes Hexhounds.
The two corpses lay a short distance away now, half-hidden among roots and leaves. Their gray hides were split and darkened with blood, limbs twisted where shadows had crushed bone. The fight had been quick. Brutal. Familiar.
Too familiar.
Hael leaned back against the trunk, chest rising and falling steadily. His calf still bore scars from the first encounter—pale and angry—but it no longer slowed him the way it once had. Pain had become background noise.
The Hexhounds no longer frightened him.
That realization unsettled him more than fear ever had.
He raised his hand, palm open.
"System," he said quietly.
The word felt strange in his mouth. But it fit.
The crimson letters answered at once.
[Status Interface]
Name: Hael
Level: 2
Abyssal Affinity: 2
Vitality: 85
Strength: 9
Agility: 8
Endurance: 8
Skills:
• Shadow Step — Proficiency: Intermediate
• Void Grasp — Proficiency: Intermediate
Hael studied the numbers in silence.
His vitality wasn't full. He could feel that much—a little ache that never quite left, a fatigue that clung to him even after rest.
The other stats had risen too. Slowly. Painfully.
Not enough.
He glanced toward the Hexhound bodies.
Killing them barely moved the needle anymore.
The experience he gained from these encounters had dwindled to almost nothing—small increments that felt insulting after the risk involved. No matter how many he hunted, the system remained unmoved.
Level three still hovered just out of reach.
He flexed his fingers, watching shadows curl instinctively around his knuckles before settling back into place. Shadow Step no longer left him gasping or dizzy. He could flicker through space in short bursts without tearing pain through his skull.
Void Grasp obeyed him more often than not now—cleaner, sharper, requiring less strain. He had learned its limits: weight, distance, intent.
They were tools. And he was learning how to use them.
Hael leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes drifting back to the interface.
It didn't speak unless summoned.
It didn't explain itself.
It didn't care whether he approved.
System.
The name felt right because it wasn't kind.
It was patient.
Something in his chest stirred at the thought, a familiar cold presence that had become less volatile over time—no longer flaring wildly, no longer tearing at him.
Hael exhaled. The forest filled his senses again—the smell of sap and blood, the distant cry of a bird, the soft rustle of leaves stirred by something moving far away. Not close enough to matter. Not yet.
He stood slowly, testing his weight. His body answered. That alone felt like progress.
Hael stepped away from the fallen trunk, boots crunching softly against dirt and bone fragments. He didn't look back at the Hexhounds. He had already taken what they could give him.
The path ahead wound deeper between the trees—not toward the core, not away from it.
***
The dagger became part of his routine.
At dawn, when the forest was still gray and cold, Hael practiced Shadow Step between trees—short distances, controlled, never more than a few strides. He learned the difference between wanting to move and deciding to move. When his intent wavered, the shadows resisted. When it sharpened, they parted cleanly.
After that came the blade.
The dagger sat easily in his hand—short, single-edged, dark metal that swallowed light instead of reflecting it. Not heavy. Not light. Balanced in a way that demanded attention. When he moved carelessly, it dragged. When his grip was precise, it felt almost eager.
He tested it on bark first.
Slow thrusts. Controlled cuts. Angled slashes against tree trunks already scarred by his earlier practice. The blade bit cleanly, leaving narrow grooves that darkened with sap. No sparks. No sound beyond soft resistance.
When his strike was deliberate—no wasted motion, no hesitation—the shadow along the blade's edge deepened for a heartbeat. The cut went farther than it should have. Cleaner. When he rushed, the blade behaved like ordinary steel.
By midday, he practiced Void Grasp—not for power, but for precision. Pebbles lifted an inch from the ground. Fallen branches dragged just far enough to reposition. He learned how little force was actually required when his intent was clear.
Too much strain brought headaches. Too little did nothing.
Balance mattered.
Hexhounds came every few days.
Never more than two at a time. Sometimes one.
They weren't challenges anymore—but they weren't easy either.
Hael didn't rush them. He let them circle. Let them commit. Shadow Step to reposition—not escape. The dagger stayed low, close to his body. No wide swings. No wasted effort.
When the blade struck, it was quick and final—throat, spine, the soft places beneath scarred hide.
Afterward, he cleaned the dagger carefully. Water. Leaves. Silence.
The blood never came off completely.
Even when the metal looked clean, it still felt different in his hand afterward—slightly warmer. Slightly heavier.
At night, he rested sparingly.
He ate. Slept lightly. Woke at the smallest sound.
The forest didn't feel hostile—but it never felt safe.
By the end of each day, his body ached in familiar ways. Cuts healed slower than he liked. Bruises lingered. But his movements grew steadier. His breathing calmer.
The dagger no longer felt foreign.
It wasn't a symbol.
It was a tool.
And tools, he was learning, only worked as well as the hand that guided them.
***
Hael didn't realize how far he'd walked until the forest began to change.
At first, it was subtle. The light thinned—not dimmer, exactly, but strained, as if it had farther to travel. Sunbeams that should have broken cleanly through the canopy arrived fractured, bent at strange angles. Dust motes hung too long in the air, unmoving.
Then the sounds faded.
Birdsong dwindled to nothing. Insects fell silent. Even the wind seemed reluctant to move between the trees.
Hael slowed.
His boots pressed into dark soil that felt denser beneath his weight, almost tacky. Each step took a fraction more effort than the last, as if the ground itself resisted him. The bark of the trees here was darker—charcoal streaks running through gray and brown, sap hardened into black veins.
He stopped beside a twisted oak and rested a hand against its trunk.
Cold.
Not the ordinary chill of shade, but something deeper. Old.
The chill inside his chest stirred in response—faster than it ever had before. No hesitation. No coaxing. It surged up eagerly, pressing against his ribs like something waking from a long sleep.
Hael drew his hand back at once.
The shadows around his fingers lingered, clinging for a breath too long before retreating.
He frowned.
That had never happened before.
Ahead, the forest dipped gently downward. Not a clearing—something more deliberate. The trees leaned away from it, trunks bent as if grown under constant pressure. Their branches reached outward, avoiding the space at the center.
Hael didn't need the System to know what lay that way.
The core of the forest.
His heartbeat quickened. Every instinct he had—human and otherwise—pulled him forward. The shadows between the trees thickened as he faced that direction, deepening, sharpening, responding to his presence with unsettling enthusiasm.
He took a step.
The chill surged in approval.
His vision blurred at the edges. For a heartbeat, the forest seemed to tilt inward, shadows stretching toward him like long fingers brushing just short of contact.
Hael's breath caught.
Another step.
Pressure built behind his eyes, dull but insistent. Not pain. Not yet. More like standing too close to something vast and heavy, aware that one more move would tip the balance.
The System did not speak.
That silence was worse than any warning.
His hand tightened around the dagger at his side. The blade felt heavier here, its surface drinking in the dim light until it seemed almost invisible. A faint darkness traced its edge—thinner than before, but sharper.
Too sharp.
Hael swallowed and forced himself to stop.
The pull didn't fade.
It waited.
Images flickered unbidden through his mind—not visions, not memories. Impressions. Depth. Endless layers folding inward. A place where shadows were not absence, but substance.
He felt very small.
And very noticed.
The chill inside him pulsed once, strong enough to make his teeth ache.
That was enough.
Hael stepped back.
Immediately, the pressure eased—just a fraction. The shadows loosened their hold, reluctant, dragging as they receded. Sound returned in pieces: a distant rustle, the creak of a branch, his own breathing—too loud, too fast.
He retreated another step.
Then another.
Only when the forest fully reclaimed its familiar shape did he stop, back pressed against a tree, chest heaving. Sweat cooled rapidly on his skin despite the muted sunlight.
The chill settled again, quieter now.
But not disappointed.
Hael stared into the darker stretch of forest for a long moment.
Not fear kept him from going farther.
Understanding did.
Whatever waited at the heart of the Shadowvein was not something he could face yet—not with borrowed strength and half-learned control.
He turned away.
The path he chose curved sideways through the trees, leading back toward safer ground.
Behind him, unseen, the forest held its breath.
And waited.
***
Hael didn't stop moving until the forest felt normal again.
Normal, in the Shadowvein sense—light filtered unevenly through the canopy, shadows behaved as shadows should, and the chill inside his chest no longer pressed forward on its own. Only then did he slow, resting his hands on his knees as he drew in long, careful breaths.
That pull lingered in his thoughts.
Not temptation.
Expectation.
He straightened and exhaled slowly.
"System," he thought.
The crimson interface surfaced at once, smooth and precise, hovering just at the edge of his vision.
No greeting.
No acknowledgement.
Only readiness.
Hael focused on the space beneath his status window, where other tabs flickered faintly—half-formed, indistinct. He hadn't tried touching them before. Hadn't wanted to.
Now he did.
He reached out mentally and pressed.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the interface shifted.
[Access denied.]
The words appeared without emphasis. Flat. Absolute.
Hael frowned.
Denied?
He tried another—something deeper, harder to define. A darker panel that pulsed faintly when he looked toward the direction of the core.
The response came faster this time.
[Function locked.]
[Reason: Insufficient compatibility.]
Compatibility with what?
His jaw tightened. He pushed again, forcing intent into the request. Not violently—he remembered what force had felt like near the core—but firmly.
The letters flickered.
Then changed.
[Warning.]
[Premature access may result in structural instability.]
A chill slid down his spine.
Instability.
He pulled back instinctively, the way he had from the forest's edge. The interface remained, unchanged, waiting.
"What am I missing?" he murmured under his breath.
The System did not answer.
Hael stared at the locked panels, frustration simmering low and sharp. It had trained him. Armed him. Pushed him forward—then drawn a line and refused to explain it.
Not guidance.
Control.
He exhaled through his nose and forced his thoughts to steady.
"Show me what I can access."
The interface shifted again, compliant.
His status surfaced—familiar now. Level. Skills. Cooldowns. Nothing new. Nothing hidden.
Except… something else.
At the very bottom, barely visible, a thin line of text pulsed once before dimming.
[Progress acknowledged.]
That was all.
No reward. No explanation.
Just acknowledgement.
Hael's fingers curled slowly into fists.
So it was watching.
Not reacting to danger. Not responding to commands.
Watching his choices.
The realization settled heavy in his chest.
The System wasn't a guide.
It wasn't even a tool.
It was a measure.
And whatever lay ahead—whatever those locked functions belonged to—would only open when it decided he was ready.
Hael dismissed the interface with a thought. The crimson light faded, leaving only the forest and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
He looked once more in the direction he had retreated from.
The core did not call this time.
But he could still feel it—distant, patient.
Like something that knew he would return. Just not yet.