The first crawler lunged.
Eudora didn't dodge.
The creature's claws tore into his chest, carving through flesh and rib like wet paper.
Blood erupted from his mouth.
And still—he moved.
He ducked under the second attack, jammed his dagger into a neck joint, and felt it snap.
One down.
Pain screamed through him, but it wasn't the same anymore. It wasn't sharp. It was distant, like thunder echoing in someone else's bones.
The third crawler hit him from behind. Jaws locked around his shoulder, tearing through the joint, ripping it off.
He collapsed.
Another crawler pounced.
Claws pierced his stomach.
He screamed.
Not because of death—he knew death.
But because he could feel it rebuilding. Every time. Like being born through fire and thorns.
His flesh twisted, bubbled, cracked.
The torn shoulder reformed.
The chest sealed.
The stomach pulled itself back together.
Regeneration.
Not instant. Not painless.
But relentless.
He roared and drove the dagger into the creature's eye socket.
It shrieked. Fell.
He grabbed the rusted short sword with his newly regrown arm and charged.
---
It was not a fight.
It was a slaughter—of him.
Over and over.
Ripped.
Torn.
Crushed.
Each time, his body reformed slower, more painfully. As if it hated being pulled back from the brink.
And still—he stood.
Eyes wild.
Teeth bloodied.
His body a ruin of half-healed scars and sticky crimson.
When the last crawler fell, he dropped to his knees.
The ground spun.
The world blurred.
And then, black.
---
He awoke at dawn.
Mud had dried in his wounds.
He was whole again.
But his skin... it didn't look the same. Veins shimmered faintly beneath the surface—black, not blue. Faint lines of glyphs curled along his ribs like tattoos, then faded when touched by sunlight.
He vomited again.
His body wasn't just healing.
It was changing.
Becoming.
---
Later That Day – Bound Path Guild
"You're late," the quartermaster spat.
Eudora dropped the crawler heads on the ground. Four. All clean kills.
The man raised an eyebrow.
"You were sent after one."
Eudora didn't answer. Just stared, eyes sunken, hands shaking.
"You're bleeding again," Marx noted behind him.
Eudora glanced down.
Blood dripped from his nose and ears. Again.
Not from wounds. From whatever was inside him now, digging deeper.
"Rest," Marx said, helping him walk. "We don't heal right if we don't rest."
Eudora almost laughed.
He never healed right.
---
That night, the whispers returned.
Not in words—but in memory.
The battlefield of ash again.
The man with no face, holding a blade that screamed when it moved.
Only this time, the faceless man turned toward him.
Reached out.
And spoke one word:
> "Consume."
---
Eudora woke choking.
Something moved beneath his skin—just for a moment. Then vanished.
He bit his lip until it bled, just to remember what pain was supposed to feel like.