A raw, guttural groan escaped Elias. He dragged himself forward, a broken thing of bone and sinew, his right leg a pulped mess. Each heave of his body, propelling him on three good limbs, sent jolts of agony through his shattered foot. Damp, clinging earth coated his scraped elbows and knees, the chill seeping into his very bones. Looking back, a lifetime felt like a dream. Elias, the man who found solace in the simulated struggles of “Echoes of Aethel,” now lived the nightmare. Boredom, that mundane affliction of his past self, now felt like a forgotten luxury. Life, truly, was precious here, measured in heartbeats and the absence of tearing claws. He thought of the other. The original consciousness of this Feral body, the one the simulation would have called 'Kadua's son Oreum.' Did that other soul simply cease? Did it return to some familiar realm, leaving him stranded in this brutal shell? The question gnawed, a persistent ache in his skull, especially when the biting edge of despair threatened to cleave him in two. [Bleeding] continues. Three legs on the ground, his right foot dangled, a useless weight. It hurt less not to use it, and this low crawl, surprisingly, was quicker than limping. No more traps for this broken wolf, not in the dark. A strange kind of savage dignity, traded for raw survival. Elbows screamed. Knees burned. But these were minor pains, acceptable tolls. He could endure. What could a man not endure to simply *be*? He would gnaw raw flesh, if it prolonged his breath. Already, the line between man and beast blurred with every crawl, every drop of blood that painted the ancient stone. [Bleeding] continues. This isolation, this crushing loneliness, made him understand the desperate need for belief. When despair struck, a man needed a place to cast his thoughts, even if it was just the imagined face of a long-lost friend, or the ghost of a virtual companion. He needed something, anything, to hold onto. [Bleeding] continues. Warning: Character health critically low (4%). Rapid intervention required to prevent death. The world swam. Faintly, a shift. The oppressive blackness of the sunken labyrinth gave way to a deeper grey. A sliver of hope, sharper than any blade. It meant direction. It meant his gamble, that the deep maw couldn't be entirely lightless, was correct. Crawl towards the light. People would be there. He would offer the Gnarlfang Heart-shard, beg for aid. Surely, they would help. “A fool’s hope, that,” a voice rasped in his mind, sharp and dismissive. It was the Feral, his primal, cynical other self, honed by generations of brutal survival. “They’ll take your shard, take your crude shield, and leave your carcass for the scavengers. Or worse, finish you for sport.” Is this inner critic truly *him*? He felt the stark intelligence, cold and calculating. “What if it’s not humans? What if a beast, a larger Gnarlfang, waits in that light? You think that cracked skull protects a brain, Feral?” Elias gritted his teeth. “Then what other choice? I must go on. Even a beast in the light is better than a blind fight in the dark.” “True enough.” The primal voice receded, leaving only the sound of his own ragged breath. He continued the agonizing crawl. “Kahahahahaha.” The sound tore from his throat, raw and uncontrolled. It was a laugh, a sob, a primal shriek of a mind unraveling. He was going mad, bleeding out, his consciousness fracturing into desperate fragments. Minutes, hours? Time ceased to hold meaning. The pain was a dull roar now, his thoughts sluggish, thick like cold mud. Any more, and he knew he would not re-open his eyes. “Kahahahahaha!” He laughed again, a sound utterly devoid of mirth, but full of something ancient and wild. He didn't have the strength to spare, but it escaped him nonetheless. Ahead, the light intensified. At the end of the passage, a crystal pulsed, casting an unnatural glow. In its luminescence, he saw figures. Not creatures of the labyrinth, but upright, human forms, one holding a flickering torch. He tried to shout. “Hel… p…” Only a rasp, a choked cough, escaped him. A sound more beast than man. He blinked, hard, his vision blurring. [Bleeding] continues. The figures grew closer, impossibly fast, as if they had warped through the ancient stone. He blinked again, disbelieving. This time, they stood before him. Five, perhaps six, etched against the glowing crystal. Was he hallucinating? He closed his eyes, then forced them open. Achievement Unlocked: Last Breath Endurance Condition: Health drops to 2% or less. Reward: Mind permanently increases by +1. A man knelt before him. Blond hair, pulled back from a weathered face, eyes the color of a storm-tossed sea. Kaelen, the Pathfinder, a hunter of routes and secrets, assessed him with a sharp, curious glance. He didn't speak, didn't question, simply observed, taking in Elias’s shredded form, the crude shield strapped to his arm. Kaelen’s gaze swept the surroundings, then returned to Elias. “An Unblooded, then.” *Unblooded.* Rookie. The term was a cold slap. Help me, you hardened bastard. I am a Feral, barely human, with only this crude shield and a Gnarlfang Heart-shard to offer for aid. Take it all, just save me. “Remarkable. How did an Unblooded Feral find this passage before us?” Kaelen’s voice was a low murmur, edged with genuine surprise. Elias opened his mouth, a desperate attempt to speak. What emerged was a choked gurgle, a wet, rattling cough. “Grrrrr…” It was a sound ripped from the belly of a dying beast. Enough, perhaps, to communicate his inability to respond with words. Kaelen turned to a woman in robes woven with symbols of lore. “Lorekeeper Lyra. Can you offer your aid to this unfortunate?” Lorekeeper? A healer of sorts, then. Elias’s gaze fixed on her, eyes wide with the desperate prayer of a man witnessing a miracle. Lyra, her features serene but firm, met his gaze. Her words, when they came, were crisp, devoid of warmth. “I cannot. My Oath forbids it.” *What?* Elias’s mind screamed. *No!* “I understand.” Kaelen nodded, unperturbed. “Roric, a healing draught, if you would.” *You understand?* Elias felt a fresh wave of despair. Why? After all this struggle, this brutal journey, to be refused? As the bitter thought clawed at him, Roric, a man with a broadsword sheathed at his hip, grunted. “These aren’t for simple scrapes, Pathfinder.” “You possess ample supply. I shall compensate you upon our exit.” Roric clicked his tongue, a sound of irritation, but pulled a small vial from his satchel. He tossed it. Elias’s heart lurched, watching his salvation arc through the air. *Clink.* Kaelen caught it with an effortless grace. He pulled the stopper. “This lacks the Lorekeeper’s touch, Feral. It will sting.” Half the crimson liquid Kaelen splashed onto Elias’s mangled foot. The rest, he poured directly into Elias’s gaping mouth. Elias choked, gagged, then swallowed. An instant later, a fire ignited within him. Every nerve ending screamed. Pain, a tidal wave of it, ripped through his body, raw and unbearable. Was this the accumulation of all the silent, ignored pains, now erupting in a single, hellish symphony? His body writhed, regenerated rapidly under the potent effect of the draught. It felt as if his very flesh was melting, reforming, burning from the inside out. In the simulations, using a potion mid-combat was forbidden. Now, he understood. It wasn't a system restriction; it was brutal reality. *Shit…* “Heuk… heuk… heuk… heuk…” Minutes bled into an eternity. The searing agony gradually subsided, leaving a dull ache, a feeling of renewed, albeit tender, vitality. “Now, Feral,” Kaelen spoke, his voice calmer now. “Tell me. How did an Unblooded like yourself arrive here, ahead of our seasoned group? If you know a new path, I would trade for such knowledge.” So that was his purpose. Elias felt no offense. In fact, a mercenary motive was reassuring. There was nothing more dangerous than unearned charity in Aethelgard. He felt a pang of regret. There was no secret passage. “I… was here… when I woke. Fell… into the Maw.” Kaelen tilted his head, then nodded slowly, comprehension dawning. “Dimensional instability. I’ve read of such things, ancient texts speak of rare occurrences.” Elias’s chest tightened. He had to be sure. “You… you’ve never seen this?” It seemed impossible. Kaelen’s group was clearly experienced, well-equipped, with a Lorekeeper and a Pathfinder. They were no greenhorns. “Indeed. The texts describe it as a 'century’s anomaly.' A creature, or a spirit, pulled from beyond the veil and deposited in the deepest reaches of a domain, rather than the outer fringes.” Kaelen’s eyes held a touch of awe, a touch of pity. “To suffer such a rare event, your first step into the Maw… a disaster, truly.” Now Elias understood why most Ferals of this realm didn't carry torches when venturing into known territory. Who would worry about a lightning strike in a clear sky? “Not the information I sought, but fascinating nonetheless. Let us consider the cost of the draught forgotten.” Kaelen’s tone held mild disappointment, but he seemed a pragmatic, fair leader. “And remember your shield, Feral. There.” Kaelen gestured. Elias followed the direction of his hand, seeing his crude, hide-wrapped shield, fallen some twenty paces back. He had thought it securely strapped, but the ordeal had jarred it loose. “Let’s move.” They passed him by. No lingering farewells, no thanks expected. In the labyrinth, time was life. To have spent this much on him was already a miracle. Elias watched them go, then scrambled, painfully, to retrieve his shield. He had survived. A brutal, agonizing survival. But something felt… odd. Elias Vance Level: 1 Body: 25 / Mind: 37 (+1) / Abilities: 1 Item Level: 24 Combat Index: 68 --- “He was fortunate, that Feral,” Roric grumbled, striding alongside Kaelen. “Fortunate?” Elara, the Sky-Eyes, a lithe scout with keen vision, scoffed. “To be ripped from elsewhere, dropped into the deepest dark, then mauled by a Gnarlfang trap? I call that abysmal luck, Bladehand.” “Even without that, he stepped on a trap meant for lesser beasts. He was fortunate to meet *us*.” Roric shrugged. “You didn’t want to waste the draught either, Pathfinder, not truly.” “Lorekeeper Lyra would have aided him, if not for the ancient tenets,” Elara shot back, her voice tight. “Without a draught, she might have broken her Oath. You think everyone is as cold as you, Roric?” Lyra, walking with quiet dignity, offered a small, pained smile but said nothing. Kaelen raised a hand, cutting off the brewing argument. “Lorekeeper Lyra’s wisdom is bound by sacred duty. Roric’s practicality keeps us alive. Both have their place.” Kaelen paused. “Though, Roric, you might learn a thing or two from Elara’s empathy. Or even mine.” “Your consideration before asking about a secret passage?” Roric chuckled. “Yes, very clever. Heard Ferals don’t take kindly to unsolicited aid.” Kaelen scratched his blond head, a hint of awkwardness on his face. “One tries to be… diplomatic.” He didn't deny Roric’s implication. “Ah, the shortcut. We turn here, Pathfinder.” Lyra spoke, pointing to a fissure in the rock face, ignored by many. “Truly, a blessing to have the Lorekeeper’s knowledge of these ancient ways,” Elara observed. Roric shook his head. “Most Lorekeepers only know the path to the Nexus portals. It’s Kaelen who knows every crag and forgotten passage on this entire first tier.” “Still, where does this blood trail end?” Elara frowned, peering into the shadows. “We’ve followed it for a long while now. That Feral endured more than mere luck would dictate.” Kaelen’s gaze drifted back, towards the faint light where Elias lay. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. “Indeed. More than mere luck…”

A Feral's Bargain