Chapter 8 — Venom and Envy
The canyon air stank of rot and dust. Red Scorpions scuttled over the rocks in twitching clusters, their chittering claws echoing like the rattle of dry bones. They were no larger than housecats, but their tails gleamed wickedly with venom, each sting strong enough to stop a man's heart.
Tyler stood on the ledge above them, his hawk-crest armor gleaming faintly in the alien sun. He drew his sword with casual grace. "Marcus," he said coolly, "take the flank. Joren, Lyle, herd them in. Don't let them scatter."
The nobles moved with practiced precision. Rope nets were dropped, stones were hurled, blades gleamed. The first scorpion hissed and lunged—Tyler cut it clean in half, venom spraying into the dirt. Another leapt onto Marcus's shield, tail stabbing wildly, but Marcus crushed it underfoot with a grunt.
Within minutes, the ground was littered with twitching red bodies.
Then the System's cold whisper filled their minds:
[System Notification]
– Beast Consumed: Red Scorpion (Mutated Tier)
– DNA Essence Gained: 8 strands (Maximum extraction reached).
– Special Drop Acquired: Poison Dagger (x1).
Joren's dagger clattered onto the stone, its blade slick with faint green sheen. He picked it up with trembling hands. "By the gods," he whispered, "it feels… alive."
A second notification chimed as Lyle gutted another scorpion.
[System Notification]
– Beast Consumed: Red Scorpion (Mutated Tier)
– DNA Essence Gained: 8 strands (Maximum extraction reached).
– Special Drop Acquired: Poison Dagger (x1).
Two daggers. Black-handled, curved like fangs, dripping with venom that sizzled on the dirt.
Tyler's smile was sharp as glass. "Now this," he said, lifting the first dagger, "is how true hunters are armed. Not with luck. Not with fire or claws. With power that lasts."
Marcus grinned, flipping his own dagger in his hand. "One scratch, and even a lion would choke to death."
The nobles cheered quietly, relief glowing in their eyes. Eight strands each. Two weapons. It was enough to keep them alive, and enough to remind them they were not the same as the orphans.
---
By dusk, they returned to camp.
The moment Tyler stepped through the trees, he knew something was wrong. The firepit blazed brighter than before, surrounded by awed voices. He saw Mara first—flames dancing across her hands like living torches. He saw Kira second—claws glinting under the firelight, her spectral tails flickering faintly in the shadows.
And then he saw the corpses. A Black Flame Lion. A Demon Fox.
Traits. Real Traits.
For the first time, Tyler's perfect noble composure cracked. His jaw tightened, his fist clenched around the dagger. The orphans had gained what he hadn't.
Laura stood nearby, her voice calm but commanding as she praised her squad's own victories—a Dire Wolf, a Swamp Gator. The camp buzzed with energy, half fear, half excitement. Transformation forms. Defensive armor. Flames that burned black-blue.
The Rift was changing them, all of them.
Tyler forced a smile and held the dagger high. "Red Scorpions," he said smoothly, loud enough for the camp to hear. "We harvested their venom and claimed weapons fit for nobles. Two Poison Daggers, sharp enough to pierce anything. Efficient. Profitable. Controlled."
Some tower-born nodded. But their eyes kept sliding back to Mara's flames, to Kira's tails. To power that no weapon could fake.
Tyler felt the heat of envy like a coal in his chest.
---
Later, back in his tent, the map spread before him, he sat with Marcus and the others. The lamplight flickered off the curved venom blade, green sheen casting sickly shadows on the canvas walls.
Marcus tapped the dagger. "We're ahead. With these, we can drop even Mutated elites. But…" His gaze flicked toward the firepit outside. "…those orphans have Traits now. That changes things."
Tyler said nothing, fingers drumming the map.
Another noble shifted uneasily. "If they keep stacking Traits, if more awaken…"
Tyler's eyes snapped up. "Then we take them."
The tent fell silent.
Marcus leaned forward, intrigued. "Take them?"
Tyler's smile was cold. "The Rift is clear. Traits aren't just found. They're taken. Kill someone, and their Trait becomes yours. If the orphans think they've climbed above their station, let them. It will make it sweeter when we cut them down and take what they've earned."
One of the nobles swallowed hard. "But… the rules—"
"There are no rules here," Tyler cut him off. "The overseers said it themselves. Seven days. Survive. Nothing else matters."
He twirled the dagger between his fingers, the venom glistening in the light. "If I cannot claim a Trait from the beasts, then I'll carve one out of Avon Standfeild's chest myself. His flames, his fox, his wolf—it doesn't matter whose. They'll belong to me when this is over."
The others exchanged nervous looks, but Marcus only grinned wider. "Good," he said. "It's time the rat learned what it means to defy a hawk."
Tyler leaned back, the dagger gleaming in his hand. Outside, the Rift's night roared with monsters. But inside the tent, the deadliest predator was already planning his hunt.