"Teach me."
The old man smiled. "Ambitious. But we'll start tomorrow. Right now, you need rest." He glanced at the setting sun. "And I need dinner."
As they gathered their equipment, Artham noticed something. His hands weren't shaking from exhaustion. His legs weren't trembling. Despite hours of intense training, he felt... good. Tired, but in a satisfying way. Like his body was eager for more.
[Master, your recovery adaptation is accelerating,] Mire observed. [Comparing vitals from yesterday to today shows marked improvement in stamina, pain tolerance, and cellular repair rates.]
[But I'm also detecting increased efficiency in your Nightcrawler passive effects. Even during daytime, your dhampir physiology appears to be operating at higher baseline capacity than initial readings suggested.]
Artham filed that away for later analysis. Right now, he needed to—
"Arthanis."
He turned to find Vaendalle watching him with an unreadable expression.
"You've improved," the old man said quietly. "More than you should have in two days. Your movements are sharper. Your instincts are better. Your body is recovering faster than any normal human's would."
Artham said nothing.
"I'm not asking for explanations," Vaendalle continued. "I'm just saying... be careful. Power attracts attention. And not all attention is friendly."
He turned to leave, then paused. "Tomorrow, we start essence sensing training. Even without awakening, you should learn to feel the power around you. To know when you're walking into danger."
"I thought you said non-Essentors couldn't sense Essence."
"They can't. Not fully." Vaendalle's smile was enigmatic. "But you're not exactly normal, are you?"
He walked away, leaving Artham standing in the fading sunlight with more questions than answers.
Artham returned to his room as the sun touched the horizon. The village around him was settling into evening routines—cooking fires being lit, children being called home, the peaceful rhythm of daily life.
He began laying out his hunting gear with mechanical precision. Dark leather armor. Steel Sword. Twin daggers. Rope. Supplies.
As his hands worked, Mire spoke up.
[Master, I recommend reviewing your current status. Significant changes have been detected over the past 24 hours.]
"Show me."
A translucent screen materialized:
[Character Analysis]
Name: Artham Lanis
Race: Dhampir
Abilities:
- 「Extraordinary Smell, Sight, and Hearing」 Level 2 (8.7%)
- 「Feed」 Level 1 (34.2%)
- 「Blood Thirsty」 Level 1 (12.1%)
Genetic Traits:
- 「Bloodline Awakening」 Level 1 (3.4%)
- 「Daywalker」 Level 1 (2.8%)
- 「Nightcrawler」 Level 1 (11.6%)
- 「Fortitude Skin」 Level 1 (6.2%) [NEW]
Negative Traits:
- 「Blood Dependency」 Level 1 (8.9%)
- 「Sunlight Sensitivity」 Level 1 (1.2%)
- 「Sacred Ground Weakness」 Level 1 (0%)
Talent:
- Extreme Abnormal Adaptability, Growth, and Mastery of All (Rank: Unique)
- ???
(Rank: ???)
Alignment:
[Status Condition: Life until 51:22:17 remaining]
His eyes fixed on the new trait. "Fortitude Skin. Explain."
[A genetic adaptation triggered by repeated blunt force trauma combined with successful combat against a superior opponent,] Mire said. [Your dermal layer has begun developing enhanced density and impact resistance. At current progression, you experience approximately 6-8% reduction in physical damage from blunt strikes and cutting attacks.]
[Additionally, the trait synergizes with your dhampir regeneration. Minor contusions, abrasions, and surface wounds now heal approximately 12% faster than baseline. The adaptation appears to be ongoing—continued exposure to combat stress should further develop this trait.]
"So I'm literally getting tougher from being beaten up."
[Correct. Your Unique Talent—Extreme Abnormal Adaptability—accelerates genetic trait development in response to sustained stress and survival scenarios. The training sessions with Vaendalle and your combat encounter with Krotak provided sufficient trauma to trigger this adaptation.]
[Recommendation: Continue exposure to controlled combat situations to unlock additional genetic potentials. However, avoid catastrophic damage that exceeds your regeneration capacity.]
"So get beat up, but don't die. Got it."
[Precisely, Master.]
Artham dismissed the screen and fastened the last buckle on his armor. The leather moved with him like a second skin, silent and flexible.
He moved to the window. The sun had fully set, and the moon was rising—pale and luminous against the darkening sky.
The moment the first moonbeam touched his skin, everything changed.
[Nightcrawler ability activating.]
The exhaustion from training evaporated like morning mist. Strength flowed through his muscles, doubling—tripling—his normal capacity. His senses sharpened to crystalline clarity: he could hear individual heartbeats from houses three doors down, could smell the spices in a cooking pot across the street, could see the grain in wooden beams through the darkness.
The world became more. More vivid, more alive, more real.
"Interesting," a voice said from behind him. "Your eyes just changed."
Artham spun to find Vaendalle in the doorway, watching him with those knowing eyes.
"Trick of the light," Artham said.
"Sure." Vaendalle's smile was knowing. "A trick of the light that happens every time the moon rises. I've seen it three times now." He leaned against the doorframe. "You know, there are legends about beings who grow stronger under the moon. Old stories from before the Eons, about children of darkness who walked between worlds."
Artham said nothing.
"I'm not asking," Vaendalle said quietly. "Just... be careful out there. The forest feels different lately. Restless. Something's changing, and I don't know what."
He pushed off from the doorframe. "Tomorrow, essence sensing. Be ready to learn."
Then he was gone, footsteps fading down the stairs.
Artham stood at the window, looking toward the dark line of trees in the distance. His lifetime counter showed 51 hours remaining. Enough for now, but he'd need to hunt soon. To Feed. To extend his existence a little longer.
[Master,] Mire said quietly. [Today's training has provided significant tactical intelligence regarding Essence mechanics and Essentor capabilities. This data will prove invaluable for future threat assessment.]
"Yeah. It also showed me how far behind I am."
[Incorrect assessment. You possess advantages that traditional Essentors lack. Your Extreme Abnormal Adaptability, your Nightcrawler enhancement, your Feed ability—these create unique strategic options. Additionally, your analytical mindset and gaming experience provide pattern recognition skills that most Essentors never develop.]
[You may not be an Essentor currently, but you are far from defenseless.]
Artham checked his weapons one final time—daggers sharp, armor secure, movement unrestricted. The night was waiting. The forest was waiting.
He slipped out the window and dropped silently to the street below, landing in a crouch that would have broken his ankles two days ago. Now, with Nightcrawler active and Fortitude Skin adapting his body, it felt natural.
The village at night had its own rhythm. Lamplight glowed warm through windows. Somewhere, a mother sang a lullaby. The smell of evening meals lingered in the air—bread, stew, herbs he was learning to recognize.
"Arthanis!"
The voice from behind made him pause. He looked back to see Miyera and Ciyera hurrying along the street, both wrapped in shawls against the evening chill. They must have been at evening prayers—he could see small prayer books tucked under Miyera's arm.
"We were hoping to catch you before you left!" Miyera called up, slightly out of breath.
"Mother made you something," Ciyera said, holding out a small glass vial filled with amber liquid. "It's a stamina potion. Well, not a real potion like Essentors use. Just Mother's herbal recipe. But it helps with night hunting."
Artham took it carefully, feeling warmth through the glass. "You didn't have to—"
"We wanted to," Miyera interrupted firmly. "You saved us from those goblins. And you've been... different. Kinder." She smiled, something soft and genuine. "The old Arthanis would've complained about helping us at the market."
"Or pretended he had something more important to do," Ciyera added with a small laugh.
Artham tucked the vial into his belt. "Thank you."
They fell into step beside him as he walked toward the village edge—Miyera on his left, Ciyera on his right, their presence warm against the cooling night.
"Are you heading to the forest?" Miyera asked.
"Just hunting. Nothing dangerous."
"Liar," Ciyera said, but fondly. "Everyone knows the forest is dangerous. But you're good at it now, right? Vaendalle says you've improved."
"He talks about you sometimes," Miyera added. "Says maybe you could become a real adventurer. Travel to different cities. See the world."
Something in her voice made Artham glance at her—a wistfulness, carefully hidden but audible to his enhanced hearing.
"Would you want that?" he asked. "To travel?"
And then their faces lit up.
"Oh, yes!" Miyera's words tumbled out faster, excitement breaking through her usual reserve. "I have this drawing—I copied it from a merchant's travel journal. The Imperial Capital. They say the buildings are so tall they touch the clouds!"
"And there are libraries," she continued, breathless, "with ten thousand books! Can you imagine? Every story ever written. Every history. Every recipe and map and song—"
"And the harbor!" Ciyera jumped in, her eyes shining. "Where ships come from all over the world. The merchant said you can see flags from kingdoms I've never even heard of. Red and gold and silver, all flapping in the wind—"
"The ocean," Miyera whispered, like the word itself was magic. "You can stand on the shore and not see the other side. Just water going on forever. And the air smells like salt—"
"And there are foods!" Ciyera was practically bouncing now. "Oysters from the deep waters. They're gray and slimy but apparently taste like the sea itself. And spiced wine from the southern kingdoms that makes your tongue tingle. And these sugar-glazed fruits that cost more than a week's vegetables but are supposed to be like eating sunshine—"
They were both talking now, words overlapping, painting pictures with their voices. Dreams built from merchant stories and stolen glimpses of travel journals. Entire worlds constructed from secondhand descriptions.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Artham listened. And with each word, something inside him grew colder.
Heavier.
Darker.
"—and the Cathedral of Seven Lights," Miyera continued, "where they say the stained glass windows make rainbows dance on the floor, and the choir can be heard from a mile away—"
"—and the Night Market," Ciyera added, "where they sell things you can't find anywhere else. Silks that change color in moonlight. Music boxes that play by themselves. Inks that write in invisible letters until you heat them—"
Artham's hands clenched.
[Master,] Mire's voice cut in, concerned. [Your stress markers are spiking. Heart rate elevated. Adrenaline—]
Quiet.
"—and I read about this thing called theater," Miyera said, her voice full of wonder. "Where actors perform stories on a stage. They dress up as different people and pretend to be heroes and villains. Can you imagine watching a story happen right in front of you?"
"I'd want to see a comedy," Ciyera declared. "Something funny. Where everyone laughs together. I've never been in a room where everyone's laughing at the same time. It must feel like... like being part of something bigger—"
“And the gardens,” Miyera continued, her eyes sparkling as they reflected the evening sky. “The Imperial Gardens. They say there are roses that bloom all year round. Can you imagine it, Arthanis? The three of us, standing there...”
Artham smiled, about to nod.
But suddenly, the world tilted.
Not because of physical dizziness, but because of a deja vu that hit him with the force of a locomotive. Ciyera's laughter turned into static glitches in his ears. The colors of dusk in the village faded, replaced by a cold and painful gray filter.
[WARNING: Memory Fragment Resurfacing...]
Without permission, Artham was forcibly pulled into a memory that wasn't his own.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Vision I: The Garden of Bleeding Flowers]
The sky was not the orange of Terabis. It was a pale, blinding blue—the sky of the Capital they had dreamed of.
They had made it. They were finally there.
Around them, roses bloomed with impossible vibrancy, just as Miyera had imagined. Red and gold petals drifted on the wind, brushing against their skin like silk.
But there was no laughter.
Arthanis (First Person Perspective) was kneeling on a path of pristine white stone. In his lap, Miyera lay motionless. She was wearing a dress of fine blue silk—a dress she had bought specifically for this day, for this moment.
But her skin... it was wrong. It had turned the color of ash. It was cracking, fracturing like dry porcelain forced to hold boiling water.
"Arthanis..." she whispered. The sound was wet, thick with fluid.
Dark, viscous blood leaked from her nose. It pooled in the corners of her eyes, weeping down her pale cheeks like black tears. It wasn't from a wound. It was coming from inside.
Her beautiful eyes, which had sparkled only seconds ago at the thought of seeing this place, were now blind, swimming in internal hemorrhage. She was lying in the middle of her paradise, but she couldn't see the roses.
"It hurts..." she hissed, her fingers clawing weakly at his arm. "Why does the air... burn?"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Vision II: The Taste of Ash]
The scene shifted violently. The smell of flowers was replaced by the scent of caramelized sugar and old stone.
In the background, thunderous applause and laughter erupted. A Comedy was being performed in the open-air theater nearby. Thousands of people were laughing, their joy echoing off the walls.
But here, separated from that happy world by invisible walls, Ciyera was crawling in the dirt.
In her trembling hand, she still clutched a sugar-glazed fruit. It glistened red under the sun, looking delicious, exactly like the "edible sunshine" she had described.
She tried to take a bite. She just wanted to taste it.
But her throat clamped shut. Her body violently rejected the food of the outside world.
She gagged, retching. A spray of black blood burst from her mouth, coating the red sugar glaze. The fruit rolled from her hand, landing in the dust, a sweet treat now covered in rot.
"Bitter..." Ciyera cried silently, scratching at her own throat as if trying to tear out her lungs. "It tastes... like ash..."
The laughter from the theater grew louder, a horrific backing track to the sight of a little girl rotting from the inside out.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Vision III: The Ocean]
The wind roared. The smell of salt was heavy and sharp.
They were so close. The Ocean was right there, just a few streets away. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore sounded like freedom.
Arthanis gripped Miyera’s hand. He poured mana into her. He forced high-grade healing potions between her lips. He tried everything.
But it was like trying to hold water in a net. Their bodies were unraveling at the cellular level. Invisible chains were tightening around their organs, crushing them simply because they dared to exist outside their cage.
"We shouldn't have come," Miyera choked out, the black blood now staining the collar of her beautiful blue dress. Her grip on his hand was ice-cold. "This place... the air is poison... Arthanis... take us home..."
And then, amidst the scent of salt and the roar of the waves they would never see, her hand went limp.
They stopped moving.
They didn't look peaceful in death. They looked like fruit that had rotted in seconds, punished by the world itself for the crime of dreaming.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Present Time]
"Arthanis?"
Ciyera’s voice snapped him back to the present like a physical slap.
Artham staggered back, his hand clutching his chest, gasping for air as if he had just surfaced from deep water. Cold sweat drenched his back. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs—a rhythm of terror that wasn't his own.
The village was normal. Miyera was still smiling, her cheeks flushed with health and life. Ciyera was still holding her honey cake, her eyes bright and clear.
But Artham could still feel the phantom weight of Miyera’s corpse in his arms. He could still taste the metallic tang of the black blood that had ruined the sugar fruit.
"Are you okay?" Miyera asked, her smile fading into concern. "You look pale. Like you've seen a ghost."
Artham stared at them. He understood now. The dreams they spoke of with such beautiful hope—the ocean, the capital, the theater—they weren't dreams. They were a suicide note.
The original Arthanis had already tried to give them what they wanted in a past life, and the result was a slow, agonizing liquefaction of their bodies.
"I..." Artham swallowed, his throat dry and tasting of bile. "I just... got dizzy. Training effect."
Liar.
He wanted to scream at them. He wanted to grab them by the shoulders and shake them. Stop dreaming! Don't you get it? The world out there will melt you from the inside! That fruit tastes like blood!
But he couldn't. To tell them now would shatter their hearts before the curse even touched them.
"We should let you rest," Miyera said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. Her hand was warm. Alive. A terrifying contrast to the cold, dead grip he had just felt.
"Yeah," Artham rasped, stepping back, putting distance between himself and that warmth. He felt sick.
"Be careful, Arthanis," Ciyera said brightly.
You're the ones walking on a knife's edge, Artham thought, his fists clenching until his knuckles turned white. You're living in a blender, just waiting for someone to hit the 'on' button.
"Wait," Artham said, his voice rough.
They turned back, uncertain.
He wanted to tell them. Wanted to scream at them to stop dreaming, stop hoping, stop building monuments to futures that would literally kill them to pursue.
But he couldn't.
Because what would he say? I'm sorry, but your dreams are a death sentence? Everything you want will murder you if you try to have it?
So instead, he said: "Your dreams. Don't stop having them."
Because I'm going to burn the world down to make it happen.
It came out wrong. Sounded wrong. Like he was mourning something instead of encouraging something.
Miyera's eyes widened slightly. Ciyera looked confused.
"We... won't?" Miyera said, uncertain. "Is that—"
"Just don't stop," Artham repeated. Then, before they could ask more questions, he turned and walked away.
Toward the forest. Toward the darkness. Away from two girls who deserved better and a world that had decided centuries ago that they would never have it.
[Master, your psychological state is deteriorating,] Mire warned. [Recommend—]
“Not now.”
[Understood.]
He walked faster. His enhanced hearing caught their confused whispers behind him:
"...what was that about?"
"I don't know. He seemed almost... sad?"
"But why? We were just talking about—"
"Maybe he's homesick? For wherever he came from before?"
"Yeah. Maybe..."
As the silhouettes of Miyera and Ciyera faded around the corner of the cobblestone street, the mask didn’t just slip from Artham’s face—it shattered.
The gentle, brotherly smile he had worn like a second skin dissolved, leaving behind an expression of hollowed-out horror. The air in his lungs felt suddenly too thick, too hot, tasting of the honey cake he had just eaten—a sweetness that now felt like poison.
He couldn't stay here. The village, with its warm lamplight and peaceful chimneys, felt suffocating. It was a graveyard where the ghosts didn't even know they were dead yet.
Artham turned and ran.
He didn't pace himself. He bolted, his enhanced Nightcrawler agility kicking in not for combat, but for escape. He blurred past the baker’s stall, past the closed shops, his boots striking the earth with frantic, heavy thuds.
He reached the village gates, his breath hitching in ragged gasps.
"Yo! Arthanis!"
The voice came from the guard post. Elean stepped out, leaning casually against his spear, his golden hair catching the torchlight. He wore that familiar, eager grin.
"Heading out again? You're working hard lately! Save some goblins for m—"
Artham didn't slow down. He didn't wave. He didn't even turn his head.
He blew past Elean like a gust of cold wind, his eyes fixed on the black void of the tree line.
"Arthanis?" Elean’s voice trailed off behind him, confused and small in the night air. "Hey... are you okay?"
Artham didn't answer. He crossed the boundary line, his boots hitting the soft, damp earth of the forest. The shadows reached out to welcome him, wrapping around his shoulders like a shroud.
He ran until his lungs burned, until the lights of the village were swallowed by the density of the trees. He ran until he reached the first gnarled roots of the ancient oaks.
And then, his body rebelled.
Artham slammed into the rough bark of a tree, bracing himself with one hand as his knees buckled.
"Ugh—"
He retched, the violence of it tearing through his throat.
He vomited onto the forest floor. The honey cake, the bile, the water—everything came up in a convulsive heave. He gagged, spitting out the taste of sugar that had turned to ash in his mouth.
He coughed, wiping a string of saliva from his lip, his chest heaving as he stared down at the mess. It wasn't the food. It was the lie. It was the physical rejection of the smile he had forced onto his face while listening to two girls plan a future they would never have.
[Master,] Mire’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears, cool and detached. [Analysis indicates no toxic ingestions. However, your cortisol levels have spiked by 300%. Heart rate is erratic. Diagnosing: Acute Psychosomatic Stress Reaction.]
Artham spat again, tasting acid. "Shut up, Mire."
[Clarification: You are physically rejecting the dissonance between your knowledge and your actions. The deception is causing physiological rejection.]
"I said shut the fuck up!" Artham hissed, slamming his fist against the tree bark. The impact didn't hurt; his Fortitude Skin absorbed it, making him feel even more monstrous.
He slid down to the ground, sitting in the dirt, breathing hard. The darkness of the forest pressed in, silent and judging.
"They want to see the ocean," Artham whispered to the empty air, his voice cracking. "They want to eat fruit in the capital. And I just... I just smiled and told them to keep dreaming."
[You maintained your cover,] Mire stated logically. [It was the optimal tactical decision. Revealing the curse now would yield no benefit and potentially destabilize your position in the village.]
"It wasn't tactics!" Artham snapped, clutching his chest where the hollow ache lived. "It was cruelty. Giving a prisoner hope is torture."
[Correction: Giving a prisoner hope is often the only way to keep them alive.]
Artham fell silent. He looked at his hands—hands that had killed goblins and kobolds, hands that had patted Ciyera’s head, hands that would soon be covered in blood again to extend the timer in his vision.
[Status Condition: Life until 50:55:10 remaining]
The numbers ticked down. Cold. Uncaring.
Artham staggered away from his own vomit, the back of his hand wiping a string of bile from his lip. His breathing was shallow and ragged, as if the air in his lungs had been replaced by broken glass. The guilt wasn’t a metaphor; it was a physical weight pressing him into the dirt, making him want to crawl into a hole and disappear.
He felt weak. Human. Broken.
But then, he stepped past the shadow of the ancient oak.
Above, the heavy clouds shifted, and the full moon unveiled itself. Its pale light didn't just fall; it struck Artham’s skin like a spotlight.
[PASSIVE ACTIVATED: NIGHTCRAWLER]
The world didn't just get brighter; it exploded into high definition.
Instantly, the nausea in his gut vanished, incinerated by a cold, sharp hunger. The fatigue in his legs didn't fade slowly—it was burned away, replaced by a surge of power that felt like liquid static electricity flooding his veins. Artham could feel his muscle fibers tightening, condensing, pumping with a strength that mocked the limits of humanity.
His pupils dilated, seizing the light. The forest, once a wall of terrifying darkness, was now a vivid landscape of silver and blue. He could hear the heartbeat of a field mouse shivering behind a root five meters away. He could smell the pheromones of fear from a deer hiding in the brush.
It felt good. It felt intoxicating. His body screamed in the ecstasy of pure power. He felt like a god who had just woken up.
But it was that very euphoria that made the pain in his heart unbearable.
The contrast was agonizing. His body felt like an apex predator ready to devour the world, but his soul felt like a child who had just watched his family die.
Artham clawed at his chest, his fingers digging into the leather of his armor, trying to rip out the ache.
"It hurts," he whispered. But his voice was no longer raspy or weak. It was clear, deep, and resonant.
His body wanted to run, to hunt, to tear out a throat to celebrate this strength. But his mind was still trapped in the village market, seeing Miyera’s innocent smile, imagining black blood weeping from her eyes.
He felt disgusted with himself. How could he feel so physically alive when he felt so dead inside?
Artham slowly pushed himself to his feet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his leather gauntlet. The weakness in his legs was fading, replaced by the rising hum of the Nightcrawler ability. The moon was high now. The sickness was gone, shoved down into that dark box where he kept his trauma.
His eyes, no longer tearing up from the vomiting, began to glow with a faint, crimson light.
"You're right, Mire," Artham said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming flat and hard. The trembling in his hands stopped. "Hope keeps them alive. But hope won't break the cage."
He turned his gaze deeper into the forest.
"I will."
He drew his daggers, and for a moment, his hands shook — not from weakness, but from the effort of holding back the scream. Then the shaking stopped. The scream didn't. It just went somewhere deeper.
"Let's hunt."