The Veil Shard's buzz still hummed in my veins, like I'd chugged a star. In the cave, I'd found a crystal tree, its violet shard glowing like heaven's candy. Biting it was pure bliss—sweetness exploding, my body sharpening. My stats hit E+, but the real prize, the Shard's core, a dull stone, broke my rank cap with pain that felt like my bones shattering. I'd blacked out, waking three hours later, barely able to move. Now, fresh off that torture, I needed [Ashen Flow] to survive Emberhold's first year.
Five hours down Dusk Ridge's cliffs left my legs screaming. Ten more trudging to a forest's edge didn't help. Crystal-laced trees loomed, branches glinting like knives in moonlight. Veilspawn could be anywhere, but I plunged in. Call me reckless, but Vaeloria ate the weak. My novel's death flags—Chapter 23, me gutted by a Veilspawn—weren't metaphors. Every second not stronger was a second closer to dead.
~~
The forest was a maze, roots snagging my boots, ash drifting like snow. My Shard-sharpened vision cut the dark, but the canopy made navigation hell. I needed a river from Dusk Ridge's highest peak. In Veil, Sira found a rune: "Seek the weave's path where the peak's tears flow." Her buddy decoded it as a river to [Ashen Flow]. She picked [Starveil Dance] instead. My gain.
An hour in, my legs gave out. Eighteen hours of hiking, climbing, no sleep—E+ stats or not, my brain was taco-bloat mush. I collapsed by a gurgling stream, the river I needed. First: water. My Crystal Flask (E+, 40 liters, 4 kg) was low. I'd snagged it for 25 Crests at the tram station, Vaeloria's currency under the High Council. The Council, with five S-rank Weavers and two SS-rank "Twin Sparks," ruled humanity's cities, keeping guilds like my dad's Vyrnhold in line. I had parents and a four-year-old sister here—Vyrnhold wasn't in my novel, either too small or a butterfly effect. I prayed for the former.
I filled the flask, the river shimmering. Villains—Weavers pacting with Veilspawn for shadow power—were rising. The Council's bounties ranked them by crimes, rewarding heroes for kills. My 300 Crests wouldn't last, but Vyrnhold's funds could help.
~~
I set up camp, pulling a crystal cube from my pack. One press, and it unfolded into a shimmering tent, two meters square, woven from Ashveil Spider silk—E-rank, tough as steel.
Title: Crystalweave Tent
Rank: E+
Description: Deploys instantly, durable as forged crystal, fits five.
"Sci-fi camping porn," I muttered, awestruck. I laid out a sleeping roll, but a rustle froze me. Glowing eyes—E-rank Veilspawn, a shadow-wolf—lurked beyond the trees. My repellent held; it snarled and fled. Heart pounding, I scarfed an energy bar and passed out, too beat to care.
~~
Dawn broke, crystal flecks glowing in the forest. I packed up, munching another bar, and followed the river. I knew [Ashen Flow] was near, but my lazy writing screwed me—no clue how far. I'd skipped travel scenes for pacing, leaving me blind. Veilspawn could be anywhere, and I hadn't written traps. Past Me was an idiot.
I froze, spotting a moss-cloaked statue—a robed figure, rune-carved staff raised. Master Voryn. Time had wrecked it, blending it into the forest. I sat on a cloth, waiting for sunset. In Veil, Voryn's statue pointed to his tomb at dusk, a crystal beam marking the spot. Sira never came, so I was first.
~~
As the sun dipped, a violet ray shot from the staff, slicing northwest to a gnarled tree. "Jackpot!" I sprinted, boots pounding. Sunset lasted 150-200 seconds—I had to reach that tree or lose it in the dark. A kilometer in under three minutes, E+ agility screaming.
I collapsed at its base, lungs on fire. The sun was gone, but I'd made it. Now what? I hadn't written this part—Sira never chased [Ashen Flow]. Traps? Trials? No clue. I circled the tree, finding a loose root. I yanked.
Crack!
A hole opened, wide enough for me. A crystal-threaded rope dangled into a pitch-black pit. Cold sweat dripped. It looked bottomless, a one-way ticket to nowhere.
~~
I grabbed the rope and descended. One hour, two, three—my arms burned, core screaming. Five hours in, my hands were numb, mind fraying. Was this a tomb or a trap? I hadn't written this far, and the uncertainty gnawed. But stopping wasn't an option—not with Emberhold looming and death flags waiting. I kept going, one aching pull at a time.