Draven pressed himself low against the churned, scarred earth, heart hammering in his chest. Smoke hung thick and heavy, curling around twisted bodies and scorched debris like a living, suffocating shroud. The metallic scent of blood cut through the haze, pungent and bitter, twisting in his stomach with every shallow, ragged breath. Each inhale scraped raw against his throat, each exhale was a labor, but he forced them nonetheless. Survival was all that mattered; everything else—the horror, the nausea, the despair—had to be buried beneath instinct.
He slid forward cautiously, limbs tense, weaving between broken corpses and jagged remnants of the battlefield. Arrows hissed through the air, some embedding themselves in the ground mere inches from his hands, sending sprays of dirt and grime across his face. Sweat mingled with the blood on his skin, streaking in unnatural patterns as he pushed forward. His mind screamed, yet clarity lurked beneath the panic. 'I'm alive,' he thought, teeth clenched, stomach twisting, 'I'm actually alive, and all around me they are dying. How? Why me?'
Every step was deliberate, muscles coiling, nerves straining, instinct blending with the faint residue of knowledge that seemed to pulse through him. The battlefield was littered with bodies, some twitching faintly with the last remnants of life, others frozen cold, their features contorted in final expressions of agony or terror. Smoke shrouded everything, thick and lazy, yet movement and motion revealed dangers he had to anticipate.
A soldier staggered into view, young and panicked, armor battered and streaked with blood. His eyes were wide, unseeing, his movements jerky and frantic. Draven's hand tightened around the dagger he had claimed from his first kill. Hesitation would mean death. He sidestepped the soldier's wild lunge, sliding slightly in the mud, and drove the dagger deep into the man's chest. The body collapsed with a wet, final thud.
'+1 Strength''+1 Agility'
A faint, almost imperceptible pulse coursed through Draven's muscles. He didn't have time to dwell on it. Another soldier appeared, smaller, quicker, trying to flank him. Draven moved instinctively, the dagger meeting the man's chest before he could react. Another body hit the ground with a sickening sound.
'+1 Strength''+1 Agility'
Two kills. That was all. The battlefield demanded attention, not reflection. Yet a subtle awareness lingered—the faint shift in his muscles, the sharper reflexes, the way his senses seemed slightly heightened. He noted it without thinking too much; survival left no space for wonder.
Draven crouched behind a toppled cart, chest heaving, lungs burning. Mud and blood coated his hands. Smoke clung to his hair and stung his eyes. The distant horn sounded again, long, mournful, echoing across the battlefield. Forward motion, survival, observation—these were the only rules that mattered. He forced himself to breathe steadily, though each inhale scraped his throat raw.
The forested ridge came closer, shadows deepening, twisted trunks cutting jagged patterns across the moonlit ground. Arrows still hissed past, yet Draven moved with a new, sharper instinct. Each dodge, each step, each breath calculated. Panic still coiled in his chest, but it was tempered now, filtered through survival and the faint pulse of growth that marked him.
He slid past a tattered, fallen tent, careful not to disturb debris that could betray him. Nearby, a half-buried corpse twitched faintly. Draven's stomach clenched, bile rising, but he forced his gaze forward. In the distance, flickers of fire promised temporary refuge. He pressed onward, silent, low, muscles responding with unnatural precision. The faint pulse from his two kills thrummed in his limbs, teasing him with unfamiliar strength.
Step by careful step, he moved forward. The battlefield's chaos pressed behind him, but he could feel subtle shifts in his reflexes and strength. Muscles tensed, heart raced, yet motions flowed smoother, quicker. Each motion precise, yet instinctive. Step after cautious step, he navigated the twisted, broken terrain.
He paused behind a fallen tree, chest heaving, eyes scanning the smoke-heavy air. The memories teased at the edges of his mind—fragments of a story, a book he had read, events he somehow knew, names slipping away as soon as he grasped them. But reflection was a luxury. Survival was immediate. Each shadow, each glint of metal could mean death.
Night pressed dense, yet faint glimmers of campfires through the forest offered guidance. Small sounds—leaves rustling, fire crackling, distant voices—marked the path forward. Draven cataloged every detail: the curve of a log, the spacing between trees, the low movement of bodies in the dark. Every observation was survival; every motion measured.
A low groan drew his attention. A soldier, alive but wounded, crawled through the mud toward the forest. Draven pressed himself lower, muscles coiled, dagger ready. The faint pulse of strength from his first two kills made him slightly steadier, reflexes sharper, yet he kept them restrained. Awareness and caution dominated his actions.
The forest grew denser, the path obscured by fallen limbs and scorched earth. Every step demanded attention. Draven's breathing came ragged, lungs burning. He noted each sound, each flicker of movement. The battlefield's weight lingered behind him, yet the subtle pulse from his kills provided a strange edge—his body responded slightly faster, hands gripped tighter, muscles tensed with faint, new strength.
Step after step, he advanced. Every motion deliberate. Every breath counted. He slipped through shadows, past toppled tents, over broken ground. He observed the smallest signs of life, cataloging threats, avoiding dangers instinctively. Two kills had marked him, leaving a faint, humming awareness in his muscles and reflexes. It was subtle but tangible, a reminder that he had survived, that he had changed.
Finally, he neared the forest's edge. Flickers of campfire light danced through the branches. Draven crouched low, muscles coiled. Voices, faint but audible, reached him, along with the smell of smoke and cooked food. Every detail, every noise, every movement cataloged silently. He noted patrol routes, exits, blind spots. Reflexes sharpened by the faint pulse of growth allowed him to move unseen, careful, deliberate.
He edged closer to the central fire area. Soldiers moved casually around the flames, some sharpening weapons, others tending to minor wounds. Draven pressed low, hiding behind logs and brush, observing. Two kills had altered him subtly—muscles tighter, reflexes sharper, awareness heightened—but survival remained the priority. One wrong step and the temporary safety offered by the camp could vanish.
The campfire illuminated the rough outlines of tents, supplies, and equipment scattered across the clearing. Smoke spiraled upward, carrying the scent of burnt wood and faintly of blood. Draven inched forward, careful, measuring every step. Awareness stretched, muscles coiled, senses tuned to subtle movements, sounds, and changes in the air.
Finally, he reached the perimeter of the camp. Behind a dense thicket, he paused. Soldiers clustered near the fire, unaware of the shadow watching them. Draven's heart thumped, but his body was still. Reflexes tightened. The faint growth pulse from his kills thrummed, subtle but undeniable. Survival first. Awareness second. Step by careful step, he moved closer to the fire, muscles tense, senses sharp, panic tempered by instinct.
Draven stayed low, muscles coiled, senses straining as he scanned the camp. Shadows shifted across the firelight, soldiers moving casually, unaware of his presence. The faint pulse of growth from his two kills hummed quietly in his limbs. Strength, agility, awareness—all subtly enhanced, yet survival remained the only priority. One misstep could mean death. He forced himself to focus on movement, observation, and silence.
Step by careful step, he moved along the perimeter, noting paths between tents, supply locations, and blind spots. Each movement deliberate, precise, careful. His heart thumped, but the surge of subtle power from his kills helped steady his hands. Reflexes were quicker, muscles slightly stronger, awareness sharper. But there was no time to explore these changes fully. Immediate survival demanded attention.
A soft crack echoed from the far side of the camp. Draven froze, heart hammering. A soldier had tripped over a loose branch. Eyes wide, Draven pressed himself flat against the ground, letting the shadows hide him. The soldier cursed under his breath, picking himself up, unaware of the shadow crouched mere feet away. Draven exhaled slowly, muscles relaxing fractionally, awareness remaining keen. Movement resumed, careful, deliberate.
He moved through the thicket, each step measured, watching for patrols and hazards. Smoke from the fires rose in thin columns, obscuring movement, providing both danger and cover. Draven noted everything—the slight shift in the wind, the faint creak of canvas, the glint of steel in the firelight. Each observation was survival, each step a decision weighted by potential death or life.
Ahead, a small path between trees led toward the inner camp. Draven pressed forward, body low, eyes scanning. The faint pulse of growth continued, subtle yet perceptible, a reminder that his kills had altered him. His muscles coiled, reflexes sharp, senses keen. He noted every movement, every sound, cataloging threats. Step by careful step, inch by inch, he moved closer.
The camp's center came into view. Firelight flickered over tents, tables, and soldiers performing their duties. Draven crouched low, measuring distances and movements. One patrol passed near the central fire, their armor clinking softly. He held his breath, muscles tense, senses sharp. They moved past, oblivious. Draven exhaled slowly, pressing onward, inching closer to safety.
He paused behind a low mound of dirt, chest heaving, muscles taut. The faint pulse of growth hummed through him, a subtle reminder of his kills. Strength, agility, awareness—all slightly enhanced, though barely perceptible beyond instinct. Step by careful step, he navigated closer to the firelight. Every movement deliberate, every sound accounted for, every breath measured. Survival was the only priority.
A low murmur of voices drew his attention. Soldiers conversed quietly, some laughing softly, others grunting as they performed mundane tasks. Draven observed, noting the positions, the patterns, and blind spots. He moved silently, muscles coiled, senses alert. Reflexes sharpened by the faint growth allowed him to react instantly if detected. Two kills had given him this subtle edge, enough to remain unseen in a dangerous environment.
Finally, he reached a cluster of tents near the center. Behind a bush, he crouched low, observing. Smoke and firelight painted rough shadows across canvas walls. Soldiers moved between tents, some sharpening weapons, others tending minor wounds. Draven cataloged each movement, noting potential exits and hazards. Awareness hummed, reflexes coiled, muscles ready. Survival remained paramount.
He shifted slightly, moving into a shadowed gap between tents. The faint pulse of growth coursed through him. Strength felt subtly enhanced, agility sharper, awareness heightened. His hands gripped the dagger tightly, ready for any sudden threat. The battlefield behind him, the kills, the subtle changes—they all merged into a single, focused purpose: survive until nightfall, then find the path to safety, to his own side.
Through the smoke and firelight, he spotted a narrow path leading out of the camp toward a forested area. Quietly, he moved, muscles coiled, senses alert. Every step precise, every motion deliberate. He avoided loose debris, watched shadows, calculated distances. The two kills had given him subtle strength, agility, and awareness, but the forest and night would demand all of it.
Finally, Draven reached the tree line. Darkness enveloped him, providing cover. He paused, listening. Voices and movement from the camp were now distant, fading. Smoke lingered in the air, but the forest offered protection. Reflexes and awareness hummed faintly, muscles coiled and ready. The faint growth from his kills reminded him subtly of what had changed, though there was no time to consider it fully. Survival demanded forward motion.
He pressed deeper into the trees, moving quietly, low, careful. The faint rustle of leaves, the snap of a twig underfoot—each sound cataloged, processed, evaluated. Draven's body responded instinctively to the environment, a combination of fear, training, and the subtle growth triggered by his first two kills. Reflexes sharper, awareness heightened, muscles slightly more capable—he noted it, but pushed it aside. Survival remained the only priority.
Through the dense forest, Draven navigated a path that seemed faintly familiar. Memory teased at the edges—fragments of a story, a place he had read about, names and events slipping in and out—but they remained beyond reach. Step by careful step, he followed the winding path, moving quietly, muscles coiled, senses alert. Night pressed around him, heavy and oppressive, yet the forest provided cover. Reflexes sharpened, muscles subtly enhanced, awareness keen.
Finally, he reached a small clearing, hidden from immediate view of the camp. Fallen logs and thick underbrush offered shelter. Draven crouched low, muscles tense, breathing steady. The faint pulse of growth lingered, reminding him of his two kills, but the forest around him demanded caution. He paused, listening to the distant crackle of the campfire, voices, the rustle of leaves.
Step by step, inch by inch, he moved to the edge of the clearing. Safety was near, but vigilance remained critical. Reflexes coiled, muscles ready, awareness sharp. The faint surge from the kills hummed subtly, a reminder that he had survived, adapted, and changed. Survival remained the purpose. Step forward, observe, remain unseen, survive.
Draven pressed himself against a fallen tree, scanning the area. Firelight flickered in the distance, shadows danced across the forest floor. Muscles tensed, awareness peaked, reflexes coiled. The faint pulse of growth reminded him of subtle strength, agility, and awareness gained from the two kills. Survival demanded every ounce of attention. Step by careful step, he moved deeper into the forest, away from the battlefield, toward temporary safety and the faint promise of refuge.
At last, he settled behind a mound of earth and brush. Night wrapped him in shadows, the distant camp now faint and quiet. Draven exhaled slowly, muscles relaxing fractionally, yet senses remained sharp. The faint hum of growth lingered in his limbs, subtle but tangible. He allowed himself a moment to process—two kills, survival, the faint shift in strength and agility—but reflection was fleeting. Safety was temporary. Survival, awareness, motion—that was the command.
Step by step, inch by inch, Draven pressed deeper into the forest. The battlefield, the smoke, the chaos, and the faint pulse of his own growth merged into a singular focus. He moved cautiously, muscles taut, reflexes coiled, senses alert. The night was dark, oppressive, yet the forest offered protection. Every sound, every movement, every shadow cataloged. Survival was paramount. Step forward, unseen, unbroken, alive.
The faint glow of a distant fire promised his temporary refuge. Draven pressed onward, muscles coiled, reflexes sharp, awareness heightened. Step by step, cautious, deliberate. Night and forest pressed in around him, yet the faint pulse of growth, subtle but undeniable, hummed through him. Survival demanded vigilance, patience, and precise movement. Step forward, survive, live to fight another day.
Finally, hidden among the trees, Draven reached a small stream, faintly illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the canopy. The faint pulse from his kills whispered through him, subtle strength, agility, awareness. The battlefield and camp were behind, the forest before, the path forward toward temporary safety clear. Muscles coiled, senses sharp, reflexes ready, he pressed onward.