Chapter 3: The First Feast
Zephyr knelt over the corpse, his breath slow, controlled. The air was thick with the stench of blood and decay, the ground beneath him slick with black ichor. His hands, already stained from the brutal fight, reached forward, digging into the mangled remains of the Abyssal.
He felt it before he saw it.
A pulse.
Faint, weak, but unmistakably alive in some twisted sense.
His fingers curled around something hard and smooth, lodged deep within the Abyssal's chest. With a sharp tug, he wrenched it free—a core, dark as the void itself, swirling with shifting patterns of abyssal energy.
For a moment, he simply stared at it.
He had seen cores like this before, back when he was something greater. Back when he didn't have to fight for scraps like a starving wretch.
Disgust churned in his gut, but so did something else. Something primal.
The hunger.
He crushed the core in his palm and devoured it.
---
The Paths Awaken
The moment the core's essence entered his body, everything changed.
A cold shock ran through him, sharp as a blade, sinking into his very bones. His vision blurred, his body fading from reality, as if he had been ripped from existence and thrown into something beyond.
And then—he saw them.
Fourteen paths.
Each a door, each leading to something different. Some pulsed with raw, destructive force, others twisted and whispered, promising secrets no man should ever know.
A choice.
His eyes moved over them, dismissing the weaker ones. He already knew what he wanted.
The first: Urhazar, The Devourer's Throne.
Power through consumption. Anything and everything could be taken in—flesh, energy, even abstract concepts. But the hunger never stopped. If he didn't keep consuming, his own body would turn against him, devouring itself from the inside out.
The second: Itarim, The Devouring Maw.
A path of absolute annihilation. It didn't just consume—it erased. Souls, power, entire beings. But the more he took in, the more he lost himself. If he wasn't careful, he wouldn't just become a monster—he'd become nothing.
Perfect.
The instant he stepped forward, pain tore through him.
His body ignited with searing heat, his muscles locking, his skin splitting open as something burned itself into him.
A curse.
Deep, ancient, irreversible.
His mind screamed, his nerves flared, but he gritted his teeth and endured. He had felt worse. He had survived worse.
When the pain faded, he was still standing.
And the power was his.
---
The First Meal
Zephyr's eyes snapped open.
His breathing was slow, steady. The world around him felt sharper, clearer. His body was still weak, still pitiful compared to what he once was. But he could feel it now—the Abyss inside him, coiling, waiting.
The hunger gnawed at his insides, more unbearable than before. The Paths demanded to be fed.
His gaze fell upon the Abyssal's corpse.
Without hesitation, he tore into it.
Flesh, bone, even the remnants of the core—it didn't matter. He devoured it all, his body greedily absorbing every scrap of abyssal essence left behind. The taste was vile, a mixture of rot and something unnatural, but he didn't care.
Strength returned in small increments. His muscles felt denser, his senses sharper. The hollow pit inside him grew deeper, but at least now, he could walk without stumbling.
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. But it was a start.
---
Survival in the Abyss
Zephyr wiped the blood from his mouth and exhaled. His white hair, still matted with filth and dried blood, clung to his face. His light blue eyes flickered as he stared into the distance.
The land stretched before him, endless and broken.
He was alone. Weak. But not for long.
He had reclaimed something today. A sliver of what he once was.
Now, he needed more.
He turned and began walking.
The hunt had begun.