Luciel didn't immediately leave the alcove when the light returned.
Even after marking "Day 2" into the stone wall with a sharp edge of brittle frost, he sat for a long while—eyes closed, spine straight, mana slowly cycling through him in delicate threads. The Gate's oppressive atmosphere had not lessened. If anything, it had settled more thickly upon the forest, pressing against skin and bone like a silent weight.
But waiting would bring no answers.
He needed water.
The dried blood crusting around his wounds had begun to itch. His throat had long gone past thirst into a raw hollowness, and the stench rising from his sweat-soaked body clawed at his nose. So Luciel stood, still slow and careful in his movements, and stepped beyond the shadowed alcove.
A sharp breath filled his lungs.
The forest was... wrong.
He'd already noted the unnatural feel of the oppressive mana—the way it choked the air, humming faintly through every leaf and root. But now, Luciel's senses extended further. With his eyes half-lidded and his breathing steady, he spread mana outwards in thin, searching tendrils.
Like invisible feelers, the strands slipped into the forest, brushing against bark, stone, and soil.
Movement—small. Insectoid. Harmless. Perhaps a insect or something twisted into a cousin of one.
Flickers of life clustered low to the ground, nestled in tree roots and damp undergrowth. The behavior of these creatures gave him hints. They avoided certain areas—not out of fear, but instinct. Luciel had read about it once. Insects often cluster around moisture-rich zones, but in corrupted ecosystems, the rules shifted.
Still... their movement patterns painted a path.
He moved with precision, silent footsteps threading between trees warped with crystal growths and oozing bark. The light filtered strangely here—dappled and fractured, shifting colors through the tainted air.
Every so often, Luciel paused.
He adjusted the spread of his mana. Not too far. The last time he tried to scan too wide, backlash nearly tore through his core. Now, he shaped the flow like a net, sweeping slowly as he walked.
There. A slight dip in terrain. Softer soil. Denser undergrowth.
He crouched, brushing a finger through the damp earth.
Water runs downhill.
Using both logic and instinct, Luciel began following the signs—a faint coolness in the air, a subtle incline, plants that weren't completely decayed. His body moved on habit, mind sharply attentive to detail.
This wasn't desperation. It was discipline—measured, deliberate, controlled
Each motion calculated.
Each pause deliberate.
And eventually...
He heard it.
Not a stream. Not quite a river.
But something moving—slow, sluggish, but constant. A trickle against stone, the faint slosh of disturbed liquid.
Luciel knelt behind a thick, crystal-veined trunk, eyes narrowing. A clearing opened ahead, and at its center ran a winding body of water—not wide, but enough. Shaded by warped canopies above, it looked dark and murky.
He didn't approach immediately.
Instead, he observed.
Birds didn't come here. No animal tracks near the edge. No insect clusters. Just stillness and the occasional ripple.
He tore a piece of cloth from his ruined undershirt and tied it around a stick, then froze it with the faintest layer of frost mana. With a light toss, he sent the makeshift probe into the stream.
The fabric floated. No visible reaction. The frost didn't hiss or melt unnaturally fast. That was a promising start.
Luciel waited a full five minutes, eyes trained on the water.
Only then did he move.
Kneeling by the stream's edge, he cupped his hands and gathered water—letting it sit, observing again. When nothing reacted, he brought it to his lips and drank slowly.
Cold. Bitter. But clean enough.
The second handful went down faster.
The third, faster.
Still he didn't allow himself to drink too quickly, despite his body's screaming thirst. Dehydration could turn lethal if broken too fast, especially in his injured state.
Once satisfied, he stood and began peeling off the remnants of his outer layers. The water was freezing, but he didn't flinch.
Luciel moved with cold precision, dipping his hands and using the icy stream to wash the dried blood from his skin. He scrubbed without emotion, removing grime, dirt, and the sheen of old sweat. When water turned faintly red around his injuries, he tilted his body forward and let it pass, cleansing each wound with methodical care.
More water.
Across his jaw, his temples, the side of his neck.
Then he pulled off the remains of his shredded outerwear and let the water fall over his shoulders, down his arms. His injuries stung—raw wounds kissed by winter—but it was cleansing. Necessary.
He moved deeper into the stream, kneeling in the shallows.
Let the cold embrace him.
Blood, sweat, and grime peeled away, drifting downstream in faint swirls.
Pain bit at him. Ice against torn flesh. But pain was data.
He endured.
Rivulets of water ran down his chest and back, revealing the stark pallor of his skin. Each movement was slow, controlled, never wasting energy. When he finished, Luciel leaned over and stared at his reflection in the black water.
A pale, slender face stared back.
Luciel narrowed his eyes, studying the face in the water.
Pale skin, cut with faint blue veins near the temples.
Sharp cheekbones, a jawline too defined for someone so young.
His crimson eyes gleamed back—unwavering, emotionless.
Hair the color of moonlit snow clung to his damp forehead, longer than it had been before, reaching his neck in uneven strands. His lips were thin, pressed into a near-permanent line of cold calculation.
There was a strange beauty to it.
Almost inhuman.
Even at twelve, he looked… refined.
As if sculpted for nobility.
He looked like a porcelain doll abandoned in a ruin.
Beautiful. That was the objective word for it. His features were symmetrical, refined, unmarred despite the filth.
But he didn't smile.
He didn't acknowledge the face with admiration.
Luciel blinked.
The reflection did too.
He traced a finger along his cheek, noting the smoothness interrupted only by bruising. This face didn't belong to Daniel Carter. It had never belonged to anyone else.
It was his.
A handsome boy. Twelve years old. Framed by shadows and cold.
He turned away.
The forest remained still.
After dressing again—his layers now damp and clinging—Luciel crouched near the water's edge and studied the direction of its flow. If it ran from higher elevation, there might be other sources upstream. Possibly safer ones. Or perhaps creatures congregated there.
There were no predators nearby, but he noted the patterns in the moss. The direction of the insect migration. The frost-resistant leaves near the water's edge. All signs that this stream remained stable, possibly fed by something larger upstream.
Either way, knowledge was survival.
He didn't follow it today.
He wouldn't risk following it further—not yet.
His body wasn't ready.
But he had found a landmark.
A resource.
Another point of advantage in this distorted realm.
He scanned the area once more with his mana, this time expanding his range to nearly double before. Nothing large approached. A few flickers from burrowing things—small, harmless.
He memorized the position of the trees, the rocks, the slight bend in the stream.
Now with hydration restored and blood washed off, he had marginally better chances if something appeared.
Then he began his return.
This time, his pace was slower. Not from fatigue, but caution.