The world swam back into focus slowly. For a long time, Ren lay on the muddy bank, the rhythmic lapping of the river the only sound. Cold had seeped deep into his bones, a shivering exhaustion that was more than just physical. He was alive, he was free of the gorge, but he was not unharmed.
He finally pushed himself into a sitting position, his movements stiff and agonizingly slow. His gaze fell immediately to the gash on his calf. The sight made his stomach clench. The cut itself was thin, but from it, a dark web of faint, purple lines had spread beneath his skin, pulsing with a slow, sickly rhythm. The area was unnaturally cold, a patch of ice on his own body, and the numbness was beginning to creep further up his leg.
Panic, sharp and acidic, rose in his throat. He crawled to the river's edge and plunged his leg into the water, hoping its natural purity could wash the taint away. The cool water felt good on his bruised skin, but when he pulled his leg out, the purple veins remained, perhaps even a fraction darker than before.
He tried to draw on his magic, to send a current of healing energy through his own body as the spirits had taught him. But as he focused his will, the corrupted wound seemed to fight back. A wave of nausea and dizziness swept over him, and the magic that came to his call felt sluggish and tainted, as if he were trying to drink from a poisoned well. The blight was not just a mark on his skin; it was an anchor in his soul, dragging down his own power.
Shiro, sensing his distress, uncoiled from his neck and slithered down to his injured leg. The snake nudged the corrupted mark with its nose, then recoiled with a sharp hiss, its own life-force seemingly repulsed by the unnatural energy.
Ren knew then that this was a fight he couldn't win with simple water magic. This poison came from the heart of the shadow, and it could only be fought with its direct opposite. He had to call upon the glade's blessing, the memory of his final trial.
He dragged himself away from the river, finding a sheltered spot at the base of a large willow tree. He settled himself, forcing his trembling body into a meditative pose. Shiro, understanding his intent, coiled itself around his calf, just below the spreading poison, its small, warm body a point of focus, a silent offering of support.
Ren closed his eyes and looked inward. He pushed past the pain, the exhaustion, and the cloying cold of the blight. He searched for the core of pure, silver light the spirits had infused him with. It was there, but it was small and beleaguered, a tiny ember surrounded by the encroaching chill of the corruption.
He focused all his will on that ember. He remembered the feeling of standing firm in the face of despair, the choice to protect the small spark of hope. Slowly, painstakingly, he coaxed the silver light to grow. It was agonizing. With every millimeter the light expanded, the purple veins on his leg flared with a cold, burning pain. Whispers of failure and fear, echoes from the gorge, tried to worm their way back into his mind. It's inside you now. You are tainted. You will become one of them.
He grit his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead. "No," he breathed, the word a prayer and a command. He pushed the silver light harder, forcing it down through his body, down his leg, a spear of purity aimed at the heart of the poison.
When the light met the wound, the internal battle began. He felt a silent, violent collision within his own flesh. The silver light burned with a clean, searing heat, while the blight fought back with a soul-deep cold. He convulsed, a cry of pain escaping his lips as the two forces tore at each other. Shiro tightened its grip, lending what little strength it had to the fight.
He could feel he wasn't strong enough to destroy the poison entirely. It was too potent, too deeply rooted. But he could contain it. He changed his tactic, using the silver light not as a sword, but as a cage. He focused on pushing the spreading tendrils of corruption back, forcing them inwards, compressing the blight into one single point.
The process took hours. The sun began to set again before the battle subsided. Finally, drained to the point of collapse, Ren felt the struggle cease. He opened his eyes, gasping. The network of purple lines was gone. In its place, however, the original cut had healed into a puckered, ugly scar, dark as charcoal and shaped like a jagged star. It no longer spread its coldness, but a faint, dormant chill still emanated from it, a permanent nexus of blight magic sealed within his body.
He had won, but the enemy had left its mark. He was a Guardian who now carried the very essence of the darkness he was meant to fight. As he lay back, utterly spent, the face of the robed man—pale, gaunt, and fanatically human—haunted his thoughts. This was not a war against monsters. It was a war for the soul of the world itself, and he had just learned how easily that war could be waged within one's own veins.