The ashlands were restless still. The storm had scoured the surface, the serpent and the hounds had fallen, yet the land itself did not return to calm. Instead it shifted, cracked, and bled heat in heavier breaths. Fissures widened in the stone, some splitting open before his very filaments, their edges glowing with molten light from deep below. The air itself grew thicker, heavy with soot and fumes, each inhalation burning through his essence as though the land rejected him. Zeke sank low to the ground, threads stretched thin, listening to the restless land.
Prey remained absent. No skitter of rodents, no faint tremor of burrowers, no whisper of insect wings. The storm had driven them too deep, or perhaps the predators themselves had devoured them. Hunger gnawed sharp inside him, urging him to gorge at the first chance. Yet each time he remembered the near-collapse of the hounds' battle, the threads nearly snapping from excess mass, he suppressed the urge. To feed without restraint was to die.
The fissure nearest him exhaled again, a wave of molten heat that rippled through his filaments. And with it came movement.
Shapes crawled from the cracks. Their bodies gleamed with faint orange light beneath blackened shells, like molten rivers trapped inside chitin. Each step left a smear of glowing ichor, sizzling where it struck stone. Mandibles clicked as they spread outward, heat pulsing with each sound. Insectoid, but larger than any surface burrower, these creatures belonged to the fire. They had adapted to survive within the molten vents themselves. Magma skitterers.
There were three at first, but as they pulled free, more emerged, bodies dripping molten essence as if the fissure birthed them unending. Zeke dimmed further, waiting for the strike.
The first three lunged as one.
He Split instantly, fragments scattering into a loose arc. Pseudopods lashed outward, cloaked in Darkness, tipped with Fire. The first skitterer hissed as flame seared across its shell, yet instead of burning away it cracked and spat molten ichor that burned hotter than his own strike. The second was bound in shadow threads, legs thrashing as they held. The third slammed directly into a fragment, mandibles crunching deep, molten ichor spraying across his body. Pain ripped through him. His threads screamed as sparks bled uncontrolled.
Instability spiked. Mana bled too fast. He forced restraint, tightening fragments, refusing collapse. He coiled pseudopods tighter, lashing in repeated arcs. The bound skitterer was crushed, shell cracking, molten ichor flooding the ash. The heat burned him again as he pulled it in. The others circled, fast and unbroken.
The fissure hissed louder. Four more crawled free, their bodies glowing brighter, heat saturating the air. Zeke's fragments wavered. He was being surrounded. Hunger pressed at him, demanding he feed and grow to meet them. He resisted, focusing on control. To gorge now would mean instability greater than claws or fire could cause.
The skitterers surged forward. Their legs clattered against stone, claws leaving molten streaks. Pseudopods cracked through the air, striking shells, wrapping limbs, pulling bodies apart. Each strike cost him, each corpse spilling heat so intense that Assimilate burned painfully as he dragged it in. His form quivered under the intake, his threads sizzling as molten essence fought to unravel him. He slowed the process deliberately, weaving each thread carefully, containing the heat instead of letting it burst through.
Instability worsened. Fragments quaked, each one bleeding sparks of mana. The skitterers pressed harder, some crawling onto his fragments, mandibles slashing, dripping molten ichor across his body. A fragment nearly tore free, threads snapping at its edges, before he forced it back into line. Sparks showered the ash. His glow dimmed. He knew he could not hold much longer this way.
He risked resonance.
Darkness pooled in one fragment, Light in another, Fire threading through both. The vibration was violent, his body shuddering under the clash of opposing forces. Instability shrieked through his core, but he forced the resonance together. The world bent for a heartbeat. Shadows deepened, light blazed, heat warped. The skitterers faltered, their coordination lost, their bodies reeling in disarray.
He struck at once. Pseudopods lashed in unison, fire-tipped whips cracking through their shells, shadows binding legs, light searing sightless eyes. Molten ichor spilled in great gouts as the resonance broke their bodies apart. The fissure floor hissed, glowing brighter where their blood fell. Three collapsed instantly, twitching as their cores boiled away. The survivors screeched, their rhythm broken.
One darted through regardless, its mandibles tearing deep into a fragment. Pain burst sharp as the heat ripped through him, sparks spraying uncontrolled. He lashed back with fire, driving flame down its open maw. It convulsed, molten blood spilling, then stilled. The last skitterers fled back toward the fissure, but pseudopods caught them before they escaped, crushing shells until nothing remained but molten stains.
Silence returned.
Zeke sagged, fragments collapsing back into one trembling form. His glow was faint, sparks still dripping from burned threads. The corpses steamed around him, molten ichor still sizzling against the ash. Hunger demanded them, pulling at him with sharp insistence. This time, he gave in, but slowly.
Assimilate surged. The molten bodies dissolved thread by thread, their essence pulled into him. Each intake burned. Each thread quivered with strain. He forced himself to hold the heat in place, weaving it slowly, spreading it evenly, refusing to allow collapse. His form swelled, mass pressing outward, but Split bled the pressure into fragments. It was agony. It was also training.
He felt the difference. The molten essence did not merely expand him—it altered him. Threads that once buckled under fire now wove it into their fabric, layering resistance atop fragility. The more he fed, the more the heat seeped into him, not as damage but as strength. Yet it was fragile strength, one misstep away from collapse. He bled mass into fragments constantly, using Split as a failing dam against the flood.
When it was done, the skitterers were gone. Only scorched stone and molten stains remained. Zeke trembled, but his threads held tighter than before. The hunger dulled, not silenced but subdued under control. The ashlands had offered another trial, and he had endured.
He lingered there in the glow of the fissure, reflecting. The molten blood had not only burned him—it had sharpened him. He had forced the heat into his body thread by thread, refusing collapse, and in doing so he had taken the element of fire deeper into himself. Yet this victory carried warning. Every corpse consumed, every battle survived left him heavier, more unstable. He could not ignore the truth: Split was relief, not solution. A vessel stretched this far would tear eventually.
He pulsed faintly, dim but steady. The ashlands had no mercy. They would not slow their trials for him. If he wished to endure, he could not cling to what he had. He would need more. Control sharper than threads, balance stronger than fragments. Something beyond Split.
The System stirred.
System Update
Status
Name: Ezekiel AshbourneRace: Prime Slime (Unevolved)Level: 14 → 15
Affinity: Fire (Basic), Light (Basic), Darkness (Basic)
StatsSTR: 8 → 9AGI: 8 → 9VIT: 11 → 12WIL: 10RES: 11MNA: 45 → 48CTL: 15 → 16
Skills
Active Skills:
Split (Lv.4 → Lv.5): Divide body into fragments. Fragments sustain longer, coordinate better, and bleed less mana. Overflow dispersal more efficient.
Assimilate (Lv.6 → Lv.7): Absorb matter or energy to recover essence; smoother, more efficient absorption. Can now pull minor elemental traces.
Pseudopod (Lv.7): Tentacle-like appendages with whip precision and crushing power. Limited to two, but refined.
Passive Skills:
Amorphous Body (Lv.6): Immune to blunt trauma, flexible morphology. Reshapes seamlessly under combat pressure.