Aeron woke to a sharp, jarring ache that seemed to ripple through every bone in his body. The pain was so sudden and so complete that his hands shot out, gripping the rough edge of the wooden slab beneath him until his knuckles whitened. His breath hissed between clenched teeth as he rode out the wave, refusing to give the groan that clawed at his throat.
When it finally ebbed, he sagged back, sweat beading along his brow. His muscles throbbed like bruised cords, his ribs still stabbing with every inhale.
"This…" he muttered, voice raw. "This'll take months."
He forced himself upright, inch by inch, each movement a betrayal of his body's weakness. But even before the soreness had time to settle, another demand tore through him—his stomach let out a guttural snarl, hunger gnawing at him with merciless teeth.
Aeron pressed his tongue against his cheek, swallowing the taste of bile. Hunger wasn't new. Hunger he knew well. It had been his shadow long before this cursed arena or the book. He ignored it, forcing his focus elsewhere.
Breathing deeply, he summoned the presence.
The book appeared before him with its usual disturbing grace, pages flickering open with a sound not unlike whispers shared in a graveyard.
---
"Congratulations on surviving your first trial, Aeron," it said, tone calm but threaded with something sly, something too measured to be entirely sincere.
"Let's skip the formalities." Aeron rubbed his temples with the heel of his palm. "What do I get?"
"Impatient, are we?" the book mused, its voice like parchment sliding over stone. "Very well. You have earned three original rewards, one reward tied to your current state, and one tailored to your personality."
Aeron's brow furrowed. "Original rewards? What does that mean?"
The pages stilled. When the book spoke again, its tone deepened.
"Original rewards are not trinkets or baubles. They are fundamental truths, unique to you alone. Gifts woven into the essence of existence. But understand this, Aeron—every gift carries a cost. Mastery will require suffering. And failure to master them may result in death."
Cold prickled along his skin, but Aeron forced his expression into neutrality. "Go on."
---
"Your personality reward is…" The pages shivered, and the book's voice dropped to a hush. "Poison."
Aeron raised an eyebrow. "Poison?"
"Correct. Your nature—calculating, adaptive, relentless—makes it fitting. With this gift, your body will slowly develop immunity to toxins. More importantly, you will gain the ability to craft and manipulate poison as both a weapon and a shield. But mastery requires exposure. You must taste what you create, feel it claw through your veins, choke your breath, and tear your body apart. Only then will you truly understand its secrets."
The voice lingered, darker now.
"Survive your own poisons, and they will serve you. Succumb, and you will perish. That is the nature of your gift."
Aeron's lips curved into a faint, grim smile. "Sounds like a gamble."
"Life itself is a gamble, Aeron. Shall I continue?"
---
The pages turned again, this time landing on parchment that seemed to pulse faintly with light.
"Your current state reward is meant to aid your survival in the short term. You will receive Daily Restoration. Once each day, your body will return to its peak physical condition, all injuries healed, all fatigue erased."
Aeron blinked. "Wait—you mean no matter how bad I'm hurt, I'll be fine the next day?"
"To an extent," the book said. "This restoration cannot undo injuries sustained before this gift was given, nor can it save you from death itself. But while you breathe, each dawn will bring renewal. Treat it wisely, Aeron. It is a crutch, not a cure."
Aeron leaned back against the wall, conflicted. The thought of waking whole each morning was both a balm and a curse. Comforting. Dangerous.
---
The pages shuddered, turning rapidly until they stopped on parchment so black it seemed to drink the light around it.
"Now," the book whispered, "we come to the three original rewards. These are not conveniences. These are burdens. They will define your journey, should you endure the torment they demand."
Aeron's chest tightened. His hands curled into fists on his lap.
"Your first original reward: Immortality, Phase One. The seed of eternity. It grants you an extended lifespan and resistance to the decay of time. But to progress further, you must endure death—again and again. Each death reshapes your soul, until it learns to anchor itself beyond flesh."
Aeron's breath hitched. "Endure… death?"
The book's laughter was like dry bones rattling. "Do I sound like I jest?"
---
"Your second original reward: Death Law. A fragment of the universal truth. To wield it, you must embrace death, not just your own but that of others. Every life you take, every death you witness, will carve despair into you. Only when you stand unflinching before mortality will its secrets yield to you."
The words pressed against Aeron's chest like a vice.
"Your third original reward: Vitality. The essence of life itself, flowing through every creature. With it, you may command your own life force, strengthen it, or even shape it. But beware—every use drains you. Overreach, and you will bleed yourself dry. To master it, you must walk the edge between living and dying."
Aeron swallowed, his throat tight. "So you're asking me to gamble my life—over and over again."
"Indeed," the book said, with almost gleeful certainty.
---
Aeron glared at the floating pages, bitterness boiling beneath his exhaustion. "Why do I feel like you enjoy this?"
"Because suffering is the crucible of greatness," the book replied smoothly. "And you, Aeron, stepped into the fire willingly. Did you think eternity came cheap?"
He crossed his arms, his jaw tight. "You seem invested in me. But I still don't know what you gain."
The book's pages rustled in amusement. "Your suspicion is charming. Let us say only this: your success benefits us both. Fail, and neither of us has use for the other."
---
Silence settled, broken only by the slow growl of Aeron's stomach. His hunger was now a raging demand, eclipsing even the fear that had burrowed into his bones. With a sharp wave of his hand, he dismissed the book, its form dissipating into the air like ash on the wind.
He pushed himself upright, wincing as his body protested. At the corner of the room, a small pouch of coins gleamed faintly in the low light. It wasn't much, but it would buy food.
Stepping outside, the streets swallowed him once more—chaotic, grim, alive with danger and opportunity alike. Yet his thoughts clung to the words he had just heard.
Suffering. Death. Sacrifice.
These were the prices demanded of him.
And though dread twisted in his gut, another sensation burned brighter still.
Anticipation.