The magical drizzle ceased the instant Devon's will receded, leaving the newly planted garden shimmering under the strengthening morning light. Every clump of dark, fertile earth was now soaked, every hidden seed having received its first drink. He stood in the midst of his creation, water dripping from his disheveled black hair, his soaked t-shirt clinging to his skin. Silence descended once more, broken only by the whisper of the wind and the soft trickle of water dripping from the broad leaves around him.
He had cleansed his home. He had cleansed his body. He had planted a promise for the future. But his stomach, an honest and unforgiving tyrant, began to rumble softly, a reminder that the future would never arrive if today could not be survived. He went back into the cabin, the scent of damp earth and the faint ozone of his water magic following him inside. He brought the katana with him, its sharp blade still clean and gleaming, and returned it respectfully to its rack in the cellar. It was a tool for a dance, an expression of newfound control. But now, he didn't need a dancer. He needed a hunter.
"Food," he murmured, the word sounding flat and factual in the cool air. He walked past the tables laden with Corvus's mad experiments, his eyes now scanning with a different purpose. The lantern he had left burning overnight now flickered, its fuel nearly spent, its wavering light casting dancing shadows over the silent rows of weaponry. The armory was a library of death, and Devon was at a loss as to which book to choose.
Should he take a rifle? His eyes fell upon the heavy Magnum where he had left it. The memory of its deafening roar and the brutal kick that had nearly dislocated his shoulder was still fresh. It was a weapon that screamed. In this listening forest, silence was the best armor. He wasn't ready for that kind of power, for that uncontrolled chaos.
A bow? He glanced at the shortbows and longbows hanging on the wall. They required strength, years of practice to master, an elegance he did not possess. He was a novice, a clumsy amateur. Failure meant starvation.
Then he saw it, lying atop a chest as if in wait. It was a crossbow. The thing was a masterpiece of Corvus's cold, efficient engineering. Its stock was made of the same dark wood as his magic pistol, carved to fit the contours of a shoulder and hand. Its limbs were not wood, but a dark grey metal alloy that looked capable of withstanding incredible pressure. But the loading mechanism was the true genius. There was no clumsy crank or strenuous cord to pull. Set into the underside of the stock was a small cylinder with a lever. Nearby blueprints, drawn with the precision of a mad architect, showed that the cylinder contained compressed gas that, with a single flip of the lever, would draw the bowstring back with impossible strength, locking it in place with an almost inaudible click. It was a weapon that blended ancient power with modern efficiency. Silent. Fast. Lethal. Perfect.
He picked it up. It felt balanced, cool, and purposeful in his hands. In the chest beneath it were dozens of bolts. These were not mere sharpened sticks. Their shafts were a lightweight black carbon fiber, and their fletchings were made not of feathers but of a thin, membranous vane from some flying creature he didn't recognize. The tips were a work of brutal art: three razor-sharp obsidian blades set in a spiral pattern, designed to drill through flesh, creating a wound channel that would refuse to close.
He took twenty bolts, placing them carefully into a leather quiver he found hanging nearby. He slung the quiver across his back. Then, he began to gather his supporting gear. He took a bone-handled hunting knife, sliding it into his belt. Next to it, he tucked a small hatchet, its head heavy enough to split firewood or bone. Finally, he found a worn but sturdy leather backpack with plenty of pockets and straps. He knew he wouldn't just be hunting for meat. He would have to learn to forage.
He climbed the stairs back up, his steps steady and deliberate. He grabbed a woven basket he'd found in the kitchen, tying it to the side of his pack. Then, his eyes fell on the bookshelf. Knowledge was the sharpest weapon of all. He couldn't carry the heavy tomes, but he remembered the journal lying on the desk in Corvus's bedroom.
He retrieved it. The journal was bound in the same dark leather as the others, but it felt more used, its corners worn and its pages slightly warped from moisture. This was no sterile laboratory notebook; it was a field guide. Devon opened it to a random page. It was filled with Corvus's neat, slanted script, but also with exquisitely detailed sketches. On the left-hand page was a drawing of two nearly identical mushrooms. One was labeled with a symbol that looked like a rising sun and the notes, "Sunburst Cap. Edible. Earthy taste. Excellent when roasted with pine nuts." The mushroom next to it, differing only in the number of spots on its cap, was labeled with a skull and crossbones. "False Sunburst. Neurotoxin. Paralysis within ten minutes, death within the hour. No known antidote."
A chill went through Devon's stomach. This was the world he now inhabited. A world where lunch and death could be separated by a single, tiny spot. He flipped through the pages. There were diagrams of plants that could be rendered into a salve to repel blood-sucking insects. There were sketches of dark purple berries with notes on how to test them on the skin for an allergic reaction before eating. There was even a rough map of the area around the cabin, marked with the locations of fresh water sources, the lairs of dangerous creatures, and patches where a type of starch-rich root grew in abundance. This journal was more valuable than any weapon in the cellar. It was the key to turning the forest from an enemy into an ally. He tucked it carefully into an inner pocket of his backpack.
Lastly, the magic stones. He already had the red and blue ones in his pocket. He paused before the chest. He was a hunter now, and a hunter needed every advantage he could get. He took one more. It was a pale, almost sulfuric yellow, and when he touched it, he felt a faint, static hum, as if a tiny thunderstorm were trapped within. Electricity? Energy? He didn't know, but Corvus had kept it for a reason. He put it in a separate pocket.
He stood at the open door of the cabin, pack on his back, crossbow in his hand. He stepped outside, and the now-higher sun greeted him, warm on his face. He looked up at the lavender sky, at the pale sun that hung like a giant silver coin. He took a deep breath, the air filled with the scent of pine, wet earth, and the promise of innumerable lives—some of which he could eat, and some of which could eat him.
The black ring on his finger felt cool, an anchor of calm in a sea of uncertain possibility. He did not feel fear. He did not feel excitement. He simply felt... ready.
He was Devon.