The experiments continued. Garfield dragged in more creatures—desert wolves, bats, even captured tribesmen who dared wander the dunes.
Most failed. Some combusted in flame, mana rejecting the fusion violently. Others withered into husks, corpses so drained that even carrion beetles refused them.
But one night, he attempted something bolder. He carved glyphs not on flesh, but directly into his own skin.
The pain was excruciating—mana tearing through muscle, veins burning as though he were dipped in molten iron. He fell to the floor, body convulsing.
The Being screamed into his mind.
"You will destroy yourself!"
But Garfield grit his teeth, enduring. His vision blurred, and for hours he trembled, his body threatening to give way.
And then—calm. His mana surged, more stable than before, as if the glyphs had restructured its flow.
He rose slowly, his body scarred but alive. The hybrid scorpion-creature knelt before him, trembling. Garfield's eyes glowed faintly now, the glyphs shimmering beneath his skin like brands of fate.
"Better," he whispered coldly. "Closer."
The tomb's whispers grew louder, almost approving. The murals shifted again. He was not just an intruder anymore. He was being acknowledged.
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