The walk back to his closet was a journey through hell.
Each step was a fresh wave of agony. The blood he had coughed up was a brutal indicator of the internal damage. His victory over Chris felt empty, overshadowed by the pain in his body.
He didn't remember the looks on their faces. He didn't hear their whispers. His world narrowed to one task—stay on his feet and keep moving.
He made it safely to his closet. He barred the door. And collapsed onto the floor. A shivering, broken heap.
Sleep offered no escape.
His dreams were chaos— a battlefield where his mind clashed with the alien instincts of the souls he had devoured.
He saw through the eyes of the Basilisk Queen. Her cold, reptilian fury. He felt the primal rage of the Dire Wolf alpha. Its howl of vengeance echoing in his mind. He experienced the world-ending power of the Riftfang Behemoth. A storm of pure, destructive force.
And woven through it all was a new, insidious thread. The dark, hungry energy of the Cursed Soulblade. A whisper of corruption. A promise of power at the cost of his own humanity.
He woke up hours later. Drenched in a cold sweat. The shadows of late evening crept into his small room. His body still ached. But the overwhelming weakness had subsided slightly.
He knew he couldn't just rest. The system had crippled him. He refused to stay crippled. He had to get his stats back. He had to get stronger.
With grim determination, he forced himself up.
He had to train.
He made his way to a smaller, auxiliary training ground. It was late. The area was deserted. The only light came from the same sickly green moon that had hung over the Murkwood.
He began with the basics. Simple stretches. Slow combat stances. But his body felt alien. Unresponsive. His balance was off. His movements were clumsy. Strained.
The 3-point loss in Speed was devastating. Like trying to run in chains.
Frustration, hot and bitter, began to build. He pushed himself harder. Moving from stances to strikes. He struck at the air, forcing his heavy muscles to obey while his mind screamed for more speed.To be better.
He was pushing himself too hard. Too fast. His body was not ready. He was running on empty, driven only by a desperate rage at his own weakness.
That was when he felt it.
A strange, twisting feeling in his stomach. Not pain. Not exhaustion. Something else. A familiar, hungry power. But this time, it was not under his control.
The 5% increase in Soul Corruption was not just a statistic. It was a malignant cancer in his soul. In his desperation, he had just given it an opening.
The assimilation power, the core of his monstrous curse, went into overload.
A wave of intense, unnatural heat washed over him. He stumbled back. A choked gasp escaped his lips. He looked down at his hands. What he saw sent a jolt of pure terror through him.
His skin was changing.
Patches of smooth, black scales, like the Basilisk Queen's, sprouted on his hands and forearms. Shimmering faintly in the moonlight. He flexed his fingers. His nails, with an audible, scraping sound, elongated and sharpened. Hardening into vicious, obsidian-like claws.
He brought a trembling hand to his face. His skin felt tight. His teeth ached. He could feel them sharpening. His canines lengthening into fangs.
He caught his reflection in a polished training shield. The face staring back was a monstrous hybrid of man and beast. His human eyes were gone. Replaced by glowing, vertical slits that burned with a cold, feral light.
And then his mind began to splinter.
The whispers of the devoured souls were now a deafening, commanding roar. The cold, logical part of his brain, the part that was still Edward, was being drowned out. A tidal wave of pure, predatory instinct.
Hunt. Kill. Feed.
The thoughts were not his own. But they were overpowering. He was losing control. The walls he had built around the monster inside him were crumbling.
He was no longer a man using a monster's power. He was becoming the monster.
He let out a low, guttural growl. Not a human sound. He dropped into a crouch. His new claws dug into the soft earth. His senses were on fire. He could smell the sweat and steel. Hear the frantic beating of his corrupted heart. See the world in a stark clarity of predator and prey.
And then he scented it. Prey.
A figure was walking along the path at the edge of the training ground. A young, C-Rank knight. Heading back late from the library. Humming a cheerful, off-key tune. Oblivious.
The beast that now wore Edward's skin saw not a student. But a target. A threat. A meal.
Before he could process what was happening, he was moving. A blur of unnatural speed and murderous intent.
The student yelped in terror. A dark, monstrous shape slammed into him. Threw him to the ground. He looked up into a pair of glowing, slitted eyes. At a face that was a horrifying parody of a human one.
"What—what are you?" the student stammered. His blood turned to ice.
Edward didn't answer. He couldn't. The human part of him was screaming. Trapped in the back of his own mind. A horrified passenger. The beast was in control.
He raised a clawed hand. The sharpened nails glinted in the green moonlight. He could feel the raw, destructive power coiling in his muscles. He was going to kill this boy. Tear him apart.
And he couldn't stop himself.
He pinned the terrified student to the wall. His claws were inches from the boy's throat. A deep, menacing snarl, a sound borrowed from the Dire Wolf alpha, ripped from his chest.
This was it. The moment he lost himself completely. The moment he became the mindless demon everyone already thought he was.
His clawed hand tensed. Ready to strike the fatal blow.
"Edward?"
A voice. Soft and gentle. It cut through the red haze of his feral rage.
Not a shout. Not a command. Just his name. Spoken with a quiet, unwavering familiarity.
The beast within him recoiled. The roaring in his head subsided for a single, precious moment. He turned his head. His slitted eyes found the source of the sound.
Standing at the edge of the training ground, silhouetted by the pale moonlight, was Sarah.
She held a small, wrapped parcel in her hands. Her expression was not one of terror. But of a deep, profound worry.