The night was unusually quiet.
Even the Blighted Mire, which always seemed to churn and shift with unseen motion, had fallen into an eerie stillness. The scent of damp earth and faint rot clung to the air like a second skin, but it no longer repelled Ren. It was becoming familiar—comforting, even.
Perched atop a moss-covered boulder, Ren sat in silent meditation, letting the strange new energies within him circulate through his veins. His breathing was steady, his muscles tense but still. The moonlight broke through the twisted canopy above, catching on his sweat-slicked brow and the faint green glow pulsing from the brand on his wrist.
He opened his eyes.
Poison. That was what it was—what he was. A flower blooming in rot, beautiful and deadly. His Dormant Ability, Venomous Infusion, now responded with only a thought. He had practiced it in secret every night since surviving the Nightmare, using branches, stones, and, in one case, a small, already-dying beast that had stumbled from the swamp.
The toxin he created wasn't like any normal poison. It shimmered faintly when it bled from his skin—thicker than oil and tinted the same ghostly green as his mark. It corroded what it touched, spreading pain slowly rather than all at once. Controlled, elegant, patient.
Much like the boy it now belonged to.
Tonight, however, Ren wasn't training. He was waiting.
The hooded figure had not returned since that night in the Mire. But Ren remembered its words clearly.
"Embrace the Blooming Blight, and it will lead you to your destiny."
Destiny. The idea of it itched in his thoughts. He had spent so much of his life avoiding attention, buried in his mother's shadow and the wary gazes of the villagers. Now, the Spell had chosen him—and he could feel it, even now, something moving within him, some greater current beginning to pull.
The moment came suddenly.
From the corner of his vision, a flicker of movement. Then another. The forest around him seemed to come alive with the faintest tremor of unease. He stood up, slowly retrieving the curved knife he had fashioned from bone and stone—crude, but effective enough for training.
The air grew colder.
Then came the rustle.
A shape darted between the trees—quadrupedal, low to the ground, and utterly silent. Not a beast of the Mire, Ren knew that much immediately. It was too fast. Too precise.
Then it lunged.
He had only a split-second warning—a flicker of silver eyes—and he threw himself to the side as claws slashed through the spot where his chest had been.
The creature landed and turned in one fluid motion. It was lean, panther-like, but not entirely solid—its edges shimmered like smoke, as if it were half-formed. Its head was hairless and angular, with no visible mouth. Just the eyes, burning white like twin moons.
An Awakened Beast, low rank.
Ren's heart raced. He wasn't ready for a real fight. Not yet. Not alone.
But the choice had already been made.
The beast pounced again. This time, Ren didn't dodge. He stepped in, twisting his body just enough to avoid the brunt of the impact, and plunged his knife into the creature's shoulder. A splash of black ichor hissed as it touched his blade, reacting with the toxin now coating it.
The creature shrieked—a sound like metal grinding against stone—and leapt back. Ren didn't hesitate. He followed, pressing the attack. His movements were clumsy compared to a true fighter, but he had practiced the poison strike enough to know that even a scratch might tip the balance.
Two cuts.
Three.
On the fourth, the beast twisted its torso unnaturally and caught Ren across the chest with a raking claw.
Pain exploded in his ribs. He fell, the breath knocked from his lungs.
The world narrowed to a haze of stars and cold earth.
It was over.
No. It wasn't.
Somewhere deeper inside—beneath the fear, beneath the exhaustion—his power stirred. The Blooming Blight pulsed. Ren felt it responding to his pain, almost... feeding from it. The wound in his chest burned, but not from the claws. The green glow surged along his arm and into the ground beneath him.
Roots cracked through the earth—blackened and sharp—and lashed outward, catching the beast's front legs. It shrieked again, writhing as the toxic vines twisted around it like living chains.
Ren pushed himself to his knees, blood in his mouth.
"You're not... going to kill me," he gasped.
Not here.
Not yet.
He rose, blade in hand, and approached the immobilized creature. It fought, viciously, until his blade opened its throat. It slumped without a sound.
The vines retracted, dissolving into dust.
Ren collapsed next to the body, panting. His ribs throbbed, but the bleeding had stopped. Whether it was luck or something more, he didn't know.
As the beast's life faded, Ren felt the Spell's response ripple through his soul core. It pulsed, nourished by the kill.
With the death of the awakened creature, he gained poison affinity, the amount determined by the rank of the slain foe. This affinity saturated his soul core further, empowering it.
The Spell Interface flickered in front of him:
Poison Essence: 1 / 1000
Ren stared at the numbers, unsure what they fully meant but knowing it was important.
He had not yet received anything else—no strange weapons, no ghostly allies. He only knew that killing awakened creatures was connected to this number's growth, and that this "poison essence" was the source of his strength.
Whether the hooded figure's words were true, that the Blooming Blight would lead him to his destiny, Ren did not yet understand.
Another line glowed softly in the interface:
Trait Unlocked: Divine Lineage – The first seed of your bloodline's power begins to stir. Requires gradual unlocking through experience and growth.
Ren blinked.
The attack, the vines—this was part of his Aspect, evolving. Responding. The Blooming Blight wasn't static. It grew.
He lay on the ground for a long time, watching the moon drift across the sky through the tangled canopy. Sleep tempted him, but adrenaline kept him tethered to wakefulness. His whole body ached, but his spirit—his core—felt strangely... centered.
Not long ago, he'd been nothing. Unremarkable. A quiet village boy with no future.
Now?
Now, he was a Sleeper. A survivor. A blight that blooms in the dark.