The forest did not forgive indecision.
After the spirit beast recoiled, retreating into the shadowed underbrush with a low, angry howl, the world seemed to exhale around me. Leaves whispered; a bird landed on a branch and cocked its head as if to measure whether the moment was truly over. My barrier hummed faintly at my skin, then dissolved into nothing—no fanfare, no warning, only a soft, evaporating warmth.
For a long time I simply stood, breath coming ragged and shallow, fingers still curled as if expecting claws. The system's reminder blinked at the edge of my vision, a cold counter to my frantic pulse.
[Protection Status: Active — 6 days, 23 hours, 44 minutes remaining.]
I laughed once, sharp and raw. "Wonderful," I muttered. "A ticking clock and a predatory wolf."
The laugh felt absurdly human. My reflection in the stream had gone soft and wavering now—no longer the sharp idol of possibility—but the elven face still stared back, young, unscarred, ridiculous with potential. I crouched and plunged my fingers into the water. Cold. Real. Grounding.
The Codex, sealed but whispering, impressed itself into my mind like a half-remembered song.
[Hint: To awaken meridians, begin with breath — feel the world's pulse, not just your own.]
"Fine," I told the forest. "Teach me then."
I sat cross-legged on the damp earth, feet numb, and closed my eyes. The world around me arranged itself into rhythm. Leaves tapped a slow percussion; a distant brook made a soft wash. I breathed in, slow and measured, feeling the air move through my chest and down into my belly. The System's screen was invisible now, but its guidance had teeth.
At first nothing happened. My mind flitted, snagging on memories — Sylas's final laugh, the steel sliding in, a life of hollow victories. Then, faintly, beneath the thud of my pulse, I felt something else: a thin thread of warmth, like the sun teasing a frost. It rose through me, clumsy and unsure.
[Meridian Feedback: Primary Channels Detected — Sensation: Tingling.]
"Okay," I breathed. The tingling crawled at the base of my spine, then bloomed outward, slow as dawn. It wasn't Qi like the novels promised — not yet. It was a prompt: move your hands, gather the air, shape intention.
A line from the Primordial Elf Codex whispered in my memory: Meridians are rivers; breath is the wind that turns their mills. My hands moved without thought, palms cupped, fingers splayed. I imagined the breath as a current, and for the first time since the transfer, something obeyed me.
It was weak, a suggestion rather than a force. There was no visible light, no crack of thunder. But my muscles hummed, and a warmth coalesced in my chest that felt, impossibly, like a very small sun.
The System rewarded the attempt with a small, clean ping.
[Quest Update: Survive — Subtask Completed: Meridian Initiation. Reward: Codex — Foundation Insight (Unlocked).]
The words made my heart stutter. A codex layer, unlocked at the cost of facing a spirit beast and sitting still to breathe. The irony tasted like iron.
The new text in my vision was concise, practical:
[Codex — Foundation Insight:]
Quiet Breathing: Inhale for four counts, hold for two, exhale for six. Focus on the base of the spine.
Sense Flow: Let attention ride the current of the body; do not force.
Gather Ambient Spirit: Extend perception outward; note the difference between mortal qi and wild spirit.
I read, memorized, and tried again. This time the warmth spread further—down my arms, into my fingertips. The air itself seemed to slacken, receptive, as if the world had been waiting for someone to notice.
A note flickered, near casual in its severity.
[System Notice:]
Your Root: Heavenly Root — responds more readily to ambient spirit. Efficiency +12%.
Eleven percent. Twelve percent. Numbers in a world of myth. I smiled despite the adrenaline and the danger, the smile a thin thread of something like hope.
But survival was not an abstract exercise of callused philosophy. It was tangible. Hunger gnawed at me, low and insistent. My stomach reminded me that a body, however new, still required food.
I pushed myself up and moved through the trees, following a deer path that wound deeper into the valley. The Codex cautioned against human settlements—too many eyes, too many hungry hands—but it also promised opportunity in ruins. Elven ruins, most likely. I had dreamed of such things in the old world: sunken groves, carved pillars half-swallowed by moss. If even one relic remained, it might shelter me, or house scrap paper with ancient diagrams, or at least a patch of herbs.
The herb idea won. Practical needs always win.
The undergrowth gave way to a clearing where an old stone arch leaned like a tooth snagged in soil. Carvings ran along it, weathered but legible: vines and starlight, a phrase in a tongue I recognized somewhere under the memory of Sylas. My chest tugged at me—archives connected to my old world might be dangerous, but they felt like a thread back to who I had been.
Something moved in the arch: a figure, small and bent, humming to itself as it kneaded roots in a woven basket. A human, by the look of the weathered hands and layered robes. No sect insignia—just the practical, patched garb of a forest herbalist.
My first thought, stupid and unschooled: hide.
But the Codex reminded me under its breath: Humans are tools or threats. Read them first.
I stepped into the clearing.
The herbalist looked up, and his eyes widened as if he'd seen a spirit rather than a person. There was no alarm in them, only a long, appraising curiosity. "By the heavens," he murmured. "An elf."
His voice wasn't the sharp bite of a city official; it was soft and careful, like a man who had spoken to many strange things and yet was still surprised by beauty.
I had a dozen responses rehearsed that night—retreat, lie, or engage. I chose something safer: the simplest truth without admitting the old name. "I am… lost," I said. My voice felt foreign, the vowel shapes intimate and new.
The herbalist's hands paused. He set the roots down and rose with a sound like wood shifting. "Lost is a dangerous state in these parts. Sit. Eat." He indicated a stump with a large, open palm. "You are young, but your eyes are old. Where do you come from, child?"
Old, young—the paradox slid across my face and he read it like a plain book. For a heartbeat I almost told him everything—Sylas, betrayal, the blade—but something in me closed. A life survived by silence needed to measure words more carefully.
Instead I nodded and accepted the bowl he handed me: steaming broth flecked with herbs that sang with warmth. The taste filled my belly and steadied my pulse like an anchor.
"Tell me your name," the herbalist said, not as an order but as a request.
"Caelum," I answered.
He repeated it slowly, rolling the syllable like a stone. "Caelum. A good name." He looked me over again, then smiled thinly. "There are talkers in town. Travelers. If you're found by the wrong ears, a lost elf might fetch the wrong attention. You should not wander uncovered."
His words were not a threat exactly. They were a map. Caution inked in polite voice.
I listened, drinking broth and learning without exposing hope. As the sun nosed lower, he gave me a small bundle—dried roots, a strip of cured meat, and a scrap of cloth to keep my ears warm. "For now," he said. "For the road."
The System pinged just then, cheerful and unrelenting.
[Quest Updated: Survive — New Objective: Find Shelter & Basic Provisions. Reward: +Experience (Meridian)].
I tucked the bundle into my satchel and stood, weight popped from my knees with a new steadiness. The herbalist watched me go with the kind of sober concern that masked deeper knowledge.
As I threaded back into the trees, my mind hummed. The Codex had given me instructions; the world had given me a meal and a warning. The System had given me a timer and a path.
And somewhere beyond the treeline—whether hunter, hopeful ally, or sect-scout—someone else had seen or smelled the signs of an elf.
My seven days began in earnest.