A dull ache gnawed at the edges of Luciel's awareness as consciousness dragged him from the dark. The scent of wet earth, rotting leaves, and distant petrichor clung to his senses. His body felt heavier than stone, every nerve still pulsing with lingering pain, though dulled now to a persistent throb.
The forest canopy above swayed with the restless wind, blotting out the pale light of a fractured sky. Cold drops fell against his face, tracing paths over blood-caked skin.
He drew a shallow breath.
Luciel's eyes — crimson irises dull and unfocused at first — then slowly clearing. His thoughts arranged themselves with quiet, ruthless precision. There was no room for panic. No room for hope.
He needed information.
He needed to move.
Slowly, one finger twitched. Then another. His hand, smeared with drying blood and mud, clenched weakly. Pain shot up his arm, but it was manageable now — distant.
Carefully, Luciel shifted his gaze, noting the sluggish movement of his limbs, the splintered aches in his bones, and the raw, shallow rise and fall of his chest. Each motion dragged resistance from the wreck of his body.
"Fractures… deep lacerations… blood loss… likely internal damage… Mana exhaustion" His thoughts were dry, detached, like cataloging someone else's wounds.
He pressed his palm against the cold, rain-soaked earth and dragged himself into a sitting position, muscles trembling with strain. Sharp, stuttering breaths left his lips. His vision blurred for a moment before steadying.
And this gate… a prison without pattern. The brief glimpse of the system window's warnings lingered in his mind. He didn't know when it would open again — hours, days, years. It didn't matter.
Survival came first.
He shifted again, this time on his knees, wincing as pain flared through his chest. Fractured ribs, maybe worse. Move. Learn. Adapt.
The forest around him was silent, save for the steady drip of rain from the branches and the occasional groan of ancient trees. But beneath that — something else.
Distant.
Low.
A guttural, half-formed sound, like the wet dragging of flesh across earth.
Monsters.
He couldn't fight. Not now. But he needed to understand the threat.
Luciel scanned his surroundings. Towering trees, gnarled roots twisting into the earth like grasping fingers. Strange, pale fungi clung to bark and stone. The ground was uneven, scattered with broken rocks and slick moss.
He cataloged the terrain instinctively — limited visibility, dense undergrowth, likely unstable footing. Advantageous for ambush predators. Dangerous for the wounded.
I need shelter. I can't stay exposed. Not like this.
Luciel's mind whirred, the world narrowing to a singular, calculated goal.
Dragging one arm beneath him, Luciel pulled himself along the ground. Every movement was agony, his shattered ribs grinding with sickening pressure, but he kept going, teeth bared in silent defiance.
As he inched forward, the distant howls came again — nearer now. The soft snap of branches made his skin crawl.
He spotted a cluster of jagged rocks jutting from a nearby slope — an alcove barely large enough to serve as a temporary refuge. It lay perhaps thirty meters ahead, but in his current state, it felt like an insurmountable distance.
He paused beneath a low-hanging branch, his gaze catching on a small pool of water reflecting the moonlight. His distorted reflection stared back — pale skin smeared with blood and mud, silvery-white hair plastered to his forehead, and crimson eyes burning like dying coals in the gloom.
Luciel. Daniel. The blurred fusion of two souls, two shattered lives. He wasn't sure which one he resembled anymore.
His hand clenched into the dirt.
This is reality now.
He could afford no sentiment. No grief. Only survival.
For a moment, the pain inside wasn't physical — it was the cold hollowness of absolute solitude.
No voices. No allies. No one to rely on but himself.
But in that emptiness, he found clarity.
Luciel raised his trembling hand, focusing mana to his hand from his core.
He could feel it, faint and flickering like a dying ember deep within his core. Unstable. Cold.
He closed his eyes, gathering what little strength he could. A pale mist escaped from his palm — translucent, tinged with blue-white frost.
It was weak. Erratic. The mist scattered before solidifying, dissipating into nothing.
His jaw tightened.
It would have to do.
For now.
At least his core was intact — depleted, but functional.
Luciel let the mist fade, conserving what little mana remained. Using it now would be foolish, wasteful.
"Recovery first. Shelter, concealment. Food. Water. Patterned movement routes. Minimal energy expenditure."
He needed somewhere defensible, somewhere to assess his situation and tend to his injuries.
It took time.
Luciel dragged himself forward, leaning on nearby roots and stones for support. Each step sent jarring aches through his bones, but he moved with mechanical determination.
The forest thickened in places, opening into narrow glades choked with mist. Strange shapes lingered in the distance — pale eyes reflecting in the dark, hulking figures just out of reach.
None approached.
Not yet.
The sound of distant howls echoed through the trees, far but not far enough.
Eventually, his searching gaze landed on a rocky alcove at the base of a moss-covered slope. A hollow formed beneath a jutting stone, partially sheltered by drooping branches and tangled undergrowth.
It wasn't ideal. It was damp, cold, and narrow. But it was cover.
Luciel approached with caution, scanning for signs of habitation — claw marks, scat, disturbed earth. Nothing fresh.
Good enough.
He collapsed against the cold stone, his breath coming in ragged bursts. The pain settled into a steady pulse, manageable only because he refused to let it rule him.
Around him, the forest shifted. The wind carried with it scents he did not yet recognize — damp fur, blood, decay.
The howls came again, closer now, interwoven with wet, heavy footsteps somewhere in the distance.
Luciel's eyes narrowed.
He wasn't ready.
Not yet.
But he would be.
"Survive."
The word echoed in the hollow spaces of his fractured mind. Not hope. Not rage. Survival. As calculated and relentless as the cycle of predator and prey.
He lay there, listening to the storm-thick air and the hungry voices beyond the treeline. His crimson eyes stared unblinking into the dark.
The monsters would come.
And when they did — when the body recovered, when his mana stabilized — he would answer.
Not with anger.
Not with fear.
But with precision.
A predator not of impulse, but of cold calculation.
For now, he waited.
The gate would not open.
Not yet.
He would survive its crucible.