The fractured Abyssal Shard loomed larger with every step, its faint glow casting uneven light across the ravine floor. Eryndor moved carefully, his knife ready and the shard in his hand pulsing with a steady hum. The ember in his chest burned faintly, its warmth a fragile counter to the oppressive energy pressing down on him.
The silence was unnerving. The usual rustle of leaves or distant growls had given way to an eerie stillness, as if the ravine itself were holding its breath. Eryndor paused, scanning his surroundings. The shard pulsed again, and the numbers flickered in his mind: Creatures detected: 1. Threat distance: 15 meters. Weak point: abdomen.
He gritted his teeth, tightening his grip on the knife. Whatever it was, it was closer than he liked.
The creature emerged from a cluster of jagged rocks—a twisted amalgamation of muscle and bone, its body hunched and its movements uneven. Its eyes glowed a sickly green, and its exposed ribs pulsed faintly with Dark Energy.
Target: Ravager Spawn. Speed: 6 meters per second. Armor resistance: 82%.
Eryndor's chest tightened. This was different from the skitterlings and wretches he had faced earlier. The shard revealed its durability, its dense armor a challenge for his blade to pierce.
The Ravager Spawn charged.
Eryndor ducked behind a rock, the creature's claws raking against the stone with a deafening screech. He countered with a quick strike, aiming for the abdomen, but the blade glanced off its armor.
The shard pulsed urgently, feeding him new data: Tactic adjustment: exploit mobility disadvantage. Aim for exposed joints.
Eryndor nodded to himself, rolling to the side as the Ravager Spawn lunged again. He circled it, waiting for an opening. The shard's hum grew louder, guiding his movements as he spotted the weak point: a small gap at the base of its left leg.
The Ravager Spawn roared, its claws slicing through the air as it turned to face him. Eryndor darted forward, his blade flashing as he drove it into the exposed joint.
The creature howled, staggering as its leg buckled. Eryndor didn't hesitate, following up with another strike to the opposite joint. This time, the blade pierced deep, and the Ravager Spawn collapsed, its body writhing before falling still.
Eryndor stepped back, his chest heaving. The shard in his hand dimmed slightly, its hum settling into a steady rhythm.
As he wiped his blade clean, Eryndor's thoughts drifted. Each fight left him more drained, the ember in his chest burning weaker with every encounter. But it wasn't just the physical toll that weighed on him—it was the growing realization of what he was up against.
The creatures were getting stronger, their movements more coordinated. The shard's guidance was invaluable, but even it couldn't account for everything. Eryndor's victories felt fragile, each one a narrow escape rather than a decisive triumph.
He sank to his knees, staring at the fractured Abyssal Shard in the distance. Its glow was brighter now, its energy pulling at him like a tide.
"I'm not ready," he whispered, the words heavy with frustration and doubt.
The ember in his chest flared faintly, and the shard pulsed in response. The hum carried a strange warmth, almost like reassurance. Eryndor closed his eyes, focusing on the connection.
He thought of Calder's words, the lessons his father had drilled into him at the forge. Every failure was a step toward strength. Every scar was a lesson earned.
"This isn't failure," he said softly, his grip tightening on the shard. "It's just the beginning."
Eryndor rose, the ember in his chest burning a little brighter. The fractured shard was close now, its chaotic energy swirling in the air like a storm.
He adjusted the strap of his satchel, his resolve hardening as he took a step forward. Whatever waited ahead—answers, danger, or both—he would face it.
Not just for himself, but for everything and everyone he'd left behind.