Zohrab stared at the alien fruit, its purple veins flickering under the mottled skin. His gut twisted with a cocktail of revulsion and a hunger far more primal than any common craving. Consuming raw mutated matter risked corruption, fever, or instant necrosis. He’d seen it happen. He’d inflicted it on others. Yet, the memory of his near-fatal wound, the dull throb of his still-healing torso, overshadowed his caution. Desperation was a potent poison, and he had drunk deep. He reached out, his fingers brushing the cool, firm surface. The fruit vibrated, a low thrumming that seemed to resonate in his bones. It felt… alive, but not in a way that screamed danger. More like a contained power. A gamble. He had no other choice. Zohrab twisted the fruit from its stem. It detached with a wet, tearing sound, leaving a faint, sickly-sweet scent on the air. He weighed it in his palm, a sphere of potential fate. Starving across the grey wastes offered nothing better. He brought the fruit to his mouth. The skin was tough, yielding reluctantly to his teeth with a faint crunch. A viscous, warm pulp filled his mouth, tasting of rich earth and something metallic, like raw blood, but not unpleasant. He chewed methodically, swallowing hard against the rising gorge. Each swallow spread an iron heat through his ribs. He finished it quickly, wiping his lips with a grimy sleeve, watching the empty stem anchored in the dirt. Nothing happened. No convulsions, no immediate agony. Just a lingering warmth that settled deep in his core. He waited, every nerve tense, ready to spring into action or collapse into a heap. Then runes flared across his vision, sharp and unprompted. `[Root-Fruit of the Stone-Hide Boar] consumed. Unique property assimilated.` `Endurance: +1 (Permanent).` Permanent. Standard progression only granted attributes through combat thresholds or decreed assignments, neither of which he could survive right now. He had barely survived a single beast. Yet the cold script proved the anomaly. His F-rank [Suture]—a skill meant only for closing cuts—had grafted corrupted essence into soil and distilled it into living flesh. An exploit existed. Not through citadel decrees, but by feeding the dirt with butchered marrow. He could force the ruined frontier to pay him back in bone and gristle. His gaze swept over the scarred landscape, a vast canvas of potential. He would build his sanctuary, his secret ‘academy’ of flesh and root. He would become a grim horticulturist, coaxing strength from death. He marked the hollow where the boar's heart had dissolved. He spent the next few cycles meticulously clearing a small, hidden depression in the earth, using a shard of rock to loosen the compacted soil, driven by an almost manic energy. He trapped lesser scavengers—a venom-sac from a Slither-Viper, the multifaceted eye of a Skitter-Spider—and threaded their viscera into root systems with [Suture]. The work reopened his scabbed flank, but every taut ligature rooted firmly into the dark loam. He mapped out his nascent garden, a growing grid of grotesque botanical experiments, each plant a whispered promise of strength, agility, or cunning. The waste was becoming his nursery. Within the tiered walls of Vorlag, Irine Khvar stood before Prefect Vorn, hands resting against her ledger belt. Vorn, heavy-set with flint-grey eyes, tapped a stylus against the slate on his desk. “’Pre-Judgment History,’ Irine. Again. Your fascination is… inconvenient.” “Prefect,” Irine said, “the anomalies in the early archival logs show intentional redactions. The kingdom before the fracture had no such records.” Vorn snorted, a wet, guttural sound. ““Doctrinal study belongs to the high ranks who purge the frontier. Your job, Archivist, is to categorize, not to question. Your ‘dangerous curiosity’ is an indulgence we can no longer afford.” He picked up a comm-slate, tapping a few commands. “Effective immediately, you are reassigned. You will log freight manifests and beast tallies at Cinderpoint Keep.” Cinderpoint Keep stood on the wind-scoured perimeter of the waste, where disgraced officers were stationed until forgotten. “That is an exile.” “Consider it a temporary realignment of your talents,” Vorn said, his gaze as cold as the frost-rimed peaks beyond the Citadel walls. “Perhaps cold air will clear your head of ancient histories. Report within three cycles.” He waved her away, already turning to the next task on his slate. She took the writ without another word, her jaw tight as the heavy archive doors sealed shut behind her. Back in the ravine trench, Zohrab packed loam around a cluster of luminescent caps, banking mineral runoff down a shallow ditch. Blood-red text cracked across his vision. `MANDATE ISSUED: Warden Guram Beka has accepted the bounty for the Fugitive Zohrab Varshan. Rank: S. Skill: [Sunstone Lance].`

A Bitter Harvest