Slowly recovering from my wounds, I continued to drink Lysara's blood.
A thick, warm liquid, almost alive. It screamed through my veins like an echo of its own will.
After the battle, she had evolved.
Her initial class of average warrior had given way to something more unstable... more organic.
Mutant warrior.
It made sense. Her body, malleable, ever-changing, constantly reacted to its environment. It adapted, densified, reshaped itself.
At first glance, this change offered no immediate advantage. But I had the dull sensation that this mutation was directional, as if her body was already rewriting its foundations in preparation for a greater evolution.
Probably at level 100.
That was my goal too.
Weeks passed.
We remained in this volcanic hellscape, cut off from the world.
No other major creature disturbed our isolation. So I focused on her.
On her training.
Her hammer shattered rocks like glass.
