The forest was alive with a damp mist, heavy with the scent of earth and moss. Corvin moved through the undergrowth with methodical caution, his senses stretched taut. Every muscle, every breath was controlled. The ingrained instincts of a soldier on hostile ground.
He wasn't simply walking. He was patrolling, clearing, mapping. Old habits from Earth, sharpened through blood and violence, came back like faithful wolves.
First objective: Understand the enemy. Or, in this case, the environment.
Corvin experimented with his ability while mapping his surroundings, Shadow Siphon. Curious, he attempted to latch spores onto the ancient trees towering around him, twisting giants whose roots seemed to drink the mist itself.
Nothing.
No skill. No knowledge. No siphon.
"Not intelligent," Corvin muttered under his breath. Conclusion: Only sentient or at least conscious beings could be harvested.
Next came range testing. He sent out a pulse of spores, pushing outward. The delicate, invisible feelers stretched, ten meters, twent, thirty... and then around fifty meters, they began to wither, dissolve into nothingness.
"Fifty meters," Corvin noted with a grimace. "Not a sniper's reach, but manageable."
A clear limitation, one he would have to solve later.
He turned to magic next, flexing the new alien energies coiled within him. His first attempts were... unfortunate.
Fire, a small spark flickered into existence before coughing itself out like a dying match.
Air, a brief gust blew dust in his face and nearly made him sneeze.
Earth, he managed to create a pathetic bump in the soil that crumbled apart in seconds.
Corvin stood there, "this... is pathetic."
Only Water magic responded with anything resembling cooperation. A faint swirling of mist, a droplet lifted into the air and held steady. It wasn't impressive, but it was control.
Corvin's analytical mind snapped to attention. The pattern was clear: only his Water affinity, currently at E+, was usable.
He needed to raise his elemental mastery levels if he ever wanted functional magic.
And so began his hunter gatherer adventure.
He would hunt, he would steal skills, he would evolve. Slowly, patiently, ruthlessly. Until the world itself would become his prey.
And so, blending into the primordial woods of Thalasien, the first predator of a long forgotten race stirred fully into life.
--
The shimmering towers of Starlight Arcanum rose into the dawn like blades of glass, cutting into the pale sky. Sharian passed through the great gates at a clipped pace, her robes heavy with dust from the excavation. Her mind was a maelstrom, but discipline honed over decades kept her posture proud.
She moved swiftly through the arched corridors, illuminated by floating globes of light, the sigils of ancient enchantments humming faintly at the edge of hearing.
She had a report to make. And more importantly, a request.
Arriving at the Hall of Petition, she waited barely a breath before a robed attendant escorted her into the presence of one of her superior. Magister Veridan Caeleth, a man who had once turned a dragon's breath aside with his mastery over fire element.
Magister. The next step above Arcanist, mages who wielded destructive force as easily as others breathed.
She knelt lightly, pressing a fist to her chest in salute.
"Magister Caeleth," she began, voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. "An anomaly at the excavation site in the southern fringes of Thalasien. I request an official inspection. The magic involved is... foreign."
The Magister, a tall, thin figure whose robes shimmered like woven stars, raised a single silver brow.
"Explain," he said simply.
Sharian recounted what she could, the fossil field, the sudden sense of invasion, the odd sickness among some of her apprentices. She did not mention the chilling feeling that still clung to her bones, as though unseen eyes had brushed her soul.
As she spoke, snippets of other matters floated to her ears from nearby archivists and attending scholars.
The Kingdom of Vael'thyr, crown jewel of the High Elves, had once again demanded tribute from the 'lesser' Light Elven clans in the east. Known politely as the Sunborn, but derided privately as half bloods.
The Dark Elves of the Shattered Vale had struck out against the frontier forts once more, their night blades slipping through defenses as if the wards were child's toys.
On distant winds, grim rumors came from the Human Continent of Aderwyn. Bloody battles between the houses of men, each trying to seize dominion as the throne of the West lay empty. Some said the Humans were even reaching out to mercenary mages, desperate for power at any cost.
The world was seething, shifting as it always has.
And somewhere beneath the ancient ruins, something had stirred.
Sharian finished her report, straightening with restrained urgency.
Magister Caeleth regarded her for a long moment, fingertips steepled before his mouth.
"You did well, Arcanist," he said at last. "I will assemble an inspection party. If the anomaly is hostile... we will act accordingly."
Sharian bowed again, exhaling slowly only once she was dismissed.
She had fulfilled her duty.
But unease still gnawed at her heart. Not because of ambition or politics.
Because deep down, she feared they had awoken something that could not be caged.
--
The night passed like a stretched breath.
Corvin spent it crouched along the thick, bark gnarled arm of a towering tree. A living giant that would've dwarfed any skyscraper back on Earth. High above the ground, cloaked in shadow and mist, he watched the slumbering forest below with predatory calm.
When the first pale rays of morning pierced the dense canopy, he stirred.
It was time to move.
With the silence of a seasoned hunter, Corvin expanded the perimeter of his exploration, keeping to the elevated lattice of interwoven branches. The forest itself was ancient, primeval. Its age must be older than some civilizations.
It had a name, whispered on the stolen lips of memory: The Verdant Shroud.
A fitting name, Corvin thought. A place thick enough to swallow armies.
It wasn't long before movement below caught his attention.
He stilled instantly, melting into the shadows.
A group of four creatures trudged through the undergrowth. Crude, heavy, almost bestial.
Orcs.
They were towering brutes, nearly as tall as he was. Wide shoulders hunched under primitive leather scraps, greenish grey skin scarred and thick as old bark. Their faces were brutal sculptures of sloping brows, flat noses, and jutting tusks.
Each carried weapons that seemed better suited for stone age warfare. Spears, axes, massive hammers. All hewn from sharpened stone and dark, gnarled wood.
Corvin's lips curled faintly. "Perfect test subjects," he murmured.
He waited until the lumbering beasts entered the perimeter. Fifty meters, just within range.
Then, like a whisper, he unleashed his spores.
The etheric threads moved unseen, undetectable. Each orc staggered for a heartbeat as five or six spores latched onto their flesh and minds.
And then the flow began.
Corvin felt it immediately:
Strength surged through his limbs, heavy, rooted, brutal.
Endurance thickened in his core. Breathing easier, muscles hardening.
Agility sharpened. Not in speed, but in resilience, stability.
Even more valuable than raw stats, knowledge flowed in next.
Primitive but useful. A rough mental map of the Verdant Shroud spread in his mind.
The locations of nearby Elven outposts, fortified with magic and steel.
And more crucially: A sprawling orc encampment hidden deep in a valley, ruled by a clutch of tribal leaders.
Five Shamans, wielders of crude but real magic. And above them all: a single Elder Shaman. A figure feared even among the savage tribes.
Corvin's eyes gleamed with predatory interest.
"Siphoning a few drunken grunts is one thing," he mused aloud, voice low and amused. "But taking magic from a High Shaman? Now that's a worthwhile prize."
He flexed his fingers experimentally. Already, his body felt different. Stronger, tougher, more responsive.
Before he made any move toward Elven society, before he considered any infiltration. He would cleanse the orcs.
He would siphon everything they had.
And he would grow.
--
Magister Veridan Caeleth was a man not easily stirred by rumor or panic. He had built his name and his authority through unwavering discipline and an almost clinical disdain for anything less than perfection.
After hearing Arcanist Sharian's report in full, he wasted no time.
By noon, a formal investigation party had been assembled.
Two fellow Magisters accompanied him: Magister Vaelyn and Magister Solmere, both seasoned scholars and veterans of arcane conflict.
Four Arcanists, promising scholars handpicked for their expertise in ancient history, biological taxonomy, and the deciphering of lost magics.
A retinue of Spellwrights for basic fieldwork and a dozen Adept Mages assigned as escorts.
Three carriages, marked with the shimmering sigil of the Starlight Arcanum, rolled out in a swift, orderly procession.
Sharian rode at the lead, acting as guide.
The journey was uneventful but swift, cutting through the winding forest roads of southern Thalasien under an ever darkening sky.
By the time they reached the excavation camp near the edge of the Verdant Shroud, the evening mists had begun to creep among the trees, casting the ruins in a somber twilight.
Veridan did not allow the party a moment's rest.
Without even dismounting fully, he ordered a direct survey of the camp.
His first priority was the afflicted researchers. He had seen it before, many times.
It was always the lower ranks. Apprentices, Novices, and occasionally fragile Adepts. Who first bore the marks of foreign magics. Their cores were still too weak, their minds too malleable.
A condensed will, the lingering echo of a true master of the arcane, could bend them with ease.
The healers brought forth the afflicted.
Their eyes were distant. Their hands trembled. Their skin carried an unnatural pallor.
Seven more had fallen under the unknown influence since Sharian's departure, and troublingly, some of them had never even approached the heart of the excavation site.
Veridan's frown deepened into a cold line. Without speaking, he lifted his hand.
A dozen globes of light flickered into existence at his fingertips. Small suns hovered around his palm. Orbs, casting a sterile radiance across the crumbling stones and moss choked pillars.
No detail would hide from his sight.
"We move now," Veridan commanded, his voice like the tolling of iron bells.
The assembled mages followed him without hesitation, descending toward the dig site proper. Toward the ancient battlefield unearthed from the grave of forgotten ages.
Toward the heart of the anomaly that even now, unseen, was slipping further from their grasp.
--
Corvin crouched in the high boughs of a twisted old tree, peering through the gaps in the foliage.
The orc encampment stretched below him. A sprawling mess of crude wooden palisades, bonfire lit circles, and animal hide tents. He hadn't expected it to be this large.
His original plan. a simple infiltration, a clean siphon of the shamans evaporated the moment his eyes drank in the numbers.
Dozens. Perhaps even over a hundred.
Too many for a frontal assault. Too many for stealth.
He adjusted immediately, his mind cold and detached.
Lure. Siphon. Kill. Repeat.
He scanned the perimeter and quickly chose his targets. Two orc sentries, plodding along the eastern fringe of the camp. Away from the main entrances. Opposite from where he had approached. A calculated misdirection.
Silently, he descended the tree and slipped into the underbrush, moving with predatory grace, each step a measured ghosting between the shadows.
The orcs grunted to each other in their guttural tongue, oblivious.
Within fifty meters, Corvin released his spores.
Invisible tendrils snaked out and latched onto the two sentries, burrowing into flesh and spirit alike.
Instantly, he felt the surge. Muscle. Reflex. Stamina.
He smiled grimly.
Grasping a small stone, he flicked it with a sharp snap of his wrist, the rock clattering noisily to the left of the patrol.
As expected, one of the orcs grunted and lumbered toward the noise, leaving his partner temporarily isolated.
Perfect.
Corvin waited for the right moment. Patience as sharp as a blade, then moved.
He was a shadow across the ground, blindingly fast.
Before the lone orc could even turn fully, Corvin's hand closed around its tusked jaw and the back of its skull. With a sharp rock, he cracked the Orc's skull, a wet, crunching pop splitting the air for only a heartbeat. He hit it's head multiple times to make sure it will not make any sound.
He wasted no time.
Grabbing the corpse by the shoulders, he dragged it into the deeper brush, concealing it under a fallen log.
Then he turned back.
The second orc was already returning, confused.
Corvin met him halfway. a blur of silent violence. Driving an elbow into the creature's throat, crushing its windpipe, before finishing it with a brutal twist of its neck.
The body dropped like a sack of stones.
He crouched over it, catching his breath. No witnesses.
And then.. A window materialized before his vision, pulsing faintly:
[Absorb Target?]
- Yes- No
Corvin's smile was razor thin.
He didn't hesitate. whispered "Yes."
--
Magister Veridan moved with the deliberate precision of a man who saw the world in patterns and flaws. The ancient fossilized bodies, both Elven and unknown lay before him like a battlefield frozen mid breath.
His fingers brushed over the surface of an ancient, petrified blade, its edge dulled by a thousand silent years.
At his side, Magister Solmere, historian and scholar of biological magic, could barely contain his excitement.
"These species... they are not registered not even mentioned," Solmere murmured, voice trembling slightly. "No taxonomy in the archives matches them. Not even in the deepest recesses of the Grand Bestiary."
This was more than a discovery.
It was an opportunity.
A golden chance to elevate himself beyond his peers. To remind all of Thalasien why the High Elves ruled the southern continent with cold, absolute majesty.
Unlike the soft hearted Concordium of the Light Elves, who governed themselves through a mockery of order. Unlike the fanatic Umbral Synod of the Dark Elves, whose theocratic madness rotted them from within.
The High Elves embraced Discipline. Hierarchy. Purity.
They did not mix their blood with the mongrel races from the outer continents, nor did they bow to mysteries they could not decipher.
Magic was life.
It was breath, blood, and destiny. From Apprentices, to Novices, to Adepts, to the proud Spellwrights, and beyond into the vaunted rank of Magister.
Solmere's mind raced.
If he could classify these species under the Starlight Arcanum's name...If he could be the one to define and bind them to elven knowledge...
Ascension would be inevitable.
A promotion to Magus was within reach.
And perhaps, within a decade of labor and patience, he could even rise to Archmagus. And secure a place at the Citadel of Endless Horizons, far across the seas on the continent of Vael'therin, where the great Planar Councils waged their endless invasions upon foreign worlds.
But ambition would have to wait.
First, he needed to understand what they were facing.
A short distance away, Magister Vaelyn knelt by a pit half choked with hastily shoveled dirt and crumbling stone.
His conjured orbs floated around him, following his eyes. Flickering with an inner brilliance as he carefully manipulated the debris away with pure will.
Then he froze, his lips thinning to a line.
"Veridan," he called, voice grim. "Bring the others. Now."
Within minutes, all three Magisters and the Arcanists stood clustered around the pit.
Vaelyn gestured sharply. "Whatever anomaly caused the disturbance... it is no longer here."
The words settled heavily over the group.
Veridan's eyes narrowed.
A long moment passed before he spoke, his voice iron clad.
"Are you sure" he asked. Up receiving a nod he added. "We seal the site immediately. No one enters without permission from the Grand Rector."
"And," Vaelyn added darkly, "we should begin sweeping the Verdant Shroud at once."
A predator had slipped the leash. This was an ancient creature. Still lingering to life after who know how many eons .
And until it was found, none of them would sleep easy again.
--
Corvin frowned slightly as he stared at the dissolving corpse.
The static prompt, that simple, almost crude system message vanished along with the drifting motes of light that streamed toward his chest and disappeared.
He immediately felt it.
A raw surge of power, threading through muscle and bone like liquid fire.
His body tensed and settled, stronger, faster, tougher.
Even his senses sharpened subtly, like a blade honed an edge finer.
There was a minor, but noticeable nudge in his innate luck as well.
A feeling almost like his instincts had been tuned just a fraction tighter.
He gained Orcish language and basic knowledge of cold weapons as well. Not bad.
Corvin allowed himself a small, rare smile.
At least this world hadn't saddled him with one of those insufferable "talking systems" he had read about back on Earth. No whining smart arse AI, no quest pop ups, no endless nagging. Most of these systems were hindrance to the main character of their novels.
He was lucky, just cold, mechanical prompts.
Simple. Direct. Exactly the way he liked it.
He had followed orders for too much in his old life already. From the deserts of Somalia to the frozen ridges of Afghanistan.
He wasn't about to let another invisible master dictate his second life.
His gaze flicked back to the first orc's corpse.
No prompt.
No absorption. No stat increase.
Was it because the first orc's skull had been a bit pulverized?
Did the system require relatively intact bodies to trigger the absorption?
It was only a theory, but it made sense. Grim practicality settled over him.
If true, it would be an annoying limitation. Still, better to test and confirm rather than guess. Corvin rose, moving through the underbrush like a shadow.
He needed more subjects.
The patrols would start noticing the missing sentries soon. if they hadn't already and would likely send out more small teams to investigate.
He had no intention of waiting for them to find him.
He shifted position, weaving through the towering roots and gnarled vines, heading deeper into the eastern fringes of the camp.
The night was still young.
And prey... Prey was plentiful.
The night bled on, and Corvin hunted like a ghost between the trees.
He broke the necks of two more orcs without fanfare, dragging their collapsing bodies into the underbrush.
As he crouched over the second corpse, the prompt flickered again:
[Absorb Target?]
- Yes- No
Corvin didn't hesitate.
The bodies dissolved into shimmering motes, and power surged into him once more. Thicker now, heavier, almost addictive in its flow.
He nodded to himself, cold satisfaction gleaming behind steel gray eyes.
Theory confirmed.
A body had to be intact for absorption. Pulverized skulls, shredded torsos, they yielded nothing.
Efficiency of the kill mattered here.
From then on, the hunt became methodical.
Corvin prowled the perimeter of the orc camp, striking without mercy.
By the time the first threads of predawn light filtered through the colossal trees, thirty seven orcs had fallen to him.
Each death fed his body like tinder feeding a growing fire.
His Status Screen, once pitiful, now gleamed with the steady ascent of power:
STR: C-
END: C-
AGI: C-
LCK: C
And it felt real.
His muscles coiled and surged under his skin like woven steel. His endurance let him move tirelessly through the night, not a single breath ragged. His reflexes sharpened into a fine, merciless edge.
He shattered stones beneath his fingertips without trying. Tore apart ancient roots thicker than his torso.
A titan compared to the creatures he had first faced.
Still, it wasn't enough. Raw physicality was only one piece of survival.
He hungered for more.
Magic.
True, refined control over the elements that pulsed faintly in his veins.
And for that, he needed more. Smarter, stronger prey.
His level, some faint, internal counter had also risen steadily, now resting at 17.He could feel his spores throbbing with new vitality in his marrow, their range further, their tenacity keener.
But he had also stumbled onto another hard truth.
The last four orc sentries he killed yielded nothing. No surge of stats. No prompt to absorb.
Because they were weaker.
Somewhere in the hidden depths of the system now bound to him, a ruthless equation governed his growth: Only those stronger, or at least equal, could fuel his rise further.
Weaker beings were worthless.
A liability, even.
He gritted his teeth and crouched in the tangled roots of a massive ironwood tree, surveying the orc camp through narrowed eyes.
The chieftains and the shamans they still hadn't surfaced.
Instead, the orcs had begun sending larger patrols, six, eight warriors in a group, scouring the woods for their missing comrades.
Corvin had no illusions about what would happen if they caught him. He might feel like a titan now. But he was not yet invincible.
Not by a long shot.
Patience. Precision. Planning.
He would not play the fool and charge in like some half witted "hero" from the novels he despised.
Instead, he set to work.
Simple snares. Deadfall traps rigged from spears of the dead orcs. Tripwires woven from vine and sinew.
Nothing elegant. Nothing magical.
But enough.
Enough to bleed them.
Enough to cripple the herd.
Enough to buy him the kills he needed to rise higher still.
The Verdant Shroud held its breath as Corvin, last of the Dark Parasytes, prepared to turn the orc camp into a slaughterhouse.