A guttural baying tore across the twilight plains. Kaelen, a spectral hum in the dust-laden air, felt the vibrations before he heard them, a low thrumming that grew to a seismic pulse through the very earth beneath him. Elias’s unsettling grin, a stark white slash in the gloom, had been a prelude to this terror. Dust-Hounds. Apex predators of the Sundered Lands. They hunted in vast, merciless packs, their forms spectral blurs against the perpetual twilight. Their howls, a chorus of hunger and primeval fury, echoed from the eastern horizon. Matriarchs led these packs, larger than males, their forms hulking mountains of bone and sinew. They often sported ridges of calcified dust, almost like ancient crowns, around their necks. Standing taller than a man’s reach at the shoulder, their length from snout to whip-like tail stretched to an imposing five meters. Generations of Dust-Hounds, sometimes numbering in the hundreds, served a single dominant Matriarch. An alpha society, brutally efficient. Every hound obeyed her unseen command. Nocturnal by nature, these creatures thrived in the harsh, sun-starved nights of the wastes. Their eyes, glowing embers, sliced through the gloom, seeking out any warmth, any life, that dared to stir. Forward, they charged. An unstoppable tide of snapping jaws and clawed feet. Fear was a foreign concept to them, caution a weakness unknown. Such a large-scale assault, Kaelen knew, would sweep away any isolated survivor, any newly awakened, without a trace. Even as most of the pack surged toward Elias, a significant contingent veered, closing in on Kaelen’s more ethereal form. They sensed something, a flicker of life, perhaps the raw essence he embodied. Kaelen focused. A familiar surge of primal energy, the core of his being, responded. He called forth the pulverized earth, shaping it with silent will. Grit-Lances, sharpened spears of compressed dust, sprang from the ground. A whisper of force, then a sickening crack. A lead Dust-Hound staggered, its skull caved in, collapsing in a heap. Others, undeterred, simply leaped over their fallen comrade, their glowing eyes fixed on Kaelen. His ability, the raw power of the land, was potent, but the sheer numbers were overwhelming. Another Grit-Lance flew, then another. Each found its mark, felling a beast. Yet, for every hound that fell, three more surged forward. Kaelen felt the drain on his essence, a cold ache spreading through his form. ‘Not enough,’ a thought, sharp as flint, formed in his mind. ‘Too slow, too wasteful.’ He needed to adapt. To take down at least five, perhaps more, with each expenditure of his essence. Only then could he hope to stem this tide. His reserves were not infinite. He needed efficiency. Instead of a single, blunt force, Kaelen imagined division. A single Grit-Lance, splintering into multiple, smaller projectiles. Not an explosion of dust, but a series of concentrated impacts. Five strands of hardened grit erupted from the barren earth, whistling through the air. A series of high-pitched yelps, then five Dust-Hounds crumpled to the ground. Each bore a small, coin-sized puncture through its skull, precise and deadly. His essence thrummed, less depleted than before. The method worked. It was difficult, a fine manipulation of the raw earth, but the second volley came easier. A path once walked became a path well-worn. Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Successive waves of Grit-Lances launched. Five Dust-Hounds fell with each pulse of his will. For a moment, the relentless advance seemed to falter, just slightly. Kaelen could endure, for a time. He spared a flicker of his awareness toward Elias. His spectral eyes widened. Elias was a whirlwind of carnage. “Kekeke! More, more…” Elias’s maniacal laugh tore through the din, a sound devoid of humanity. Around him, a landscape of death had formed, over a hundred Dust-Hounds reduced to mangled husks. No grand 'skills' for Elias. Just the relentless, brutal swing of Shard-Edge, his impossibly sharp blade. Each arc cut down several beasts, blood spraying, chunks of flesh flying. The already crimson-tinted sand turned a deeper, horrifying red. Occasionally, a Dust-Hound managed to clamp its jaws onto Elias’s arms or legs. But their teeth, honed for shattering bone, simply shattered against his skin. His body was harder than any steel Kaelen had ever known. “Kekeke! That tickles.” Elias seized the head of a Dust-Hound that clung to his thigh, crushing it with a bare hand. The creature’s sturdy skull crumpled like dry clay. He hurled the mangled corpse toward the pack, a projectile of torn flesh and snapping bones. Dust-Hounds crashed together, rolling, limbs bent at unnatural angles, bellies ripped open, entrails spilling onto the sand. Elias slaughtered them with ruthless abandon. None dared to directly engage him, only to be caught in the sweep of his blade, the sheer force of his blows. Finally, the Matriarch, who had been observing from a slight distance, stepped forward. Her form shimmered, a blue field of raw, fractured energy crackling around her. Static, born of ancient dust storms, sparked from the bone-like ridges of her skull. A bolt of primal lightning, thick as a desert branch, shot from her head-ridge. It split the night, a blinding flash, arriving before Elias in an instant. Elias, as if swatting a fly, merely waved a hand. The bolt of raw energy, enough to incinerate anything Kaelen knew, vanished within his palm. Not absorbed, simply… gone. Only then did a primal sense of danger ripple through the Matriarch. This adversary was unlike any she had ever commanded her pack against. A guttural roar, a command of retreat, tore from her throat. It was foolish to fight an overwhelming force. Half the pack was already dead. The survival of the group, her genetic legacy, was at stake. Her judgment was sharp, yet Elias had no intention of allowing their escape. Elias hurled Shard-Edge. It spun with terrifying speed, a blur of polished obsidian, cutting through everything in its path. Mournful cries of the fleeing Dust-Hounds filled the night as they were cleaved in half. The carnage froze Kaelen’s thoughts. Elias’s actions, however, were not finished. Driving his feet into the desert floor, Elias launched himself into the air. He soared, a dark silhouette against the fading twilight. Shard-Edge, having completed its murderous circuit, returned to his hand. Falling like a meteor, Elias pounced straight toward the Matriarch. His impact was tremendous, the desert sands erupting in all directions, a geyser of pulverized earth. A desperate shriek, then silence. The sands settled, revealing the aftermath. The Matriarch lay utterly defeated, mangled beyond recognition. Only the calcified ridges on her skull remained somewhat intact. Elias stood over her corpse, not a hint of fatigue marring his face. He seemed invigorated, a faint, almost content smile playing on his lips. He was not human in the way Kaelen understood. Kaelen dared not even breathe, though he had no need for breath. He was simply overwhelmed by Elias’s raw, untamed power. ‘Is he truly of this world?’ Kaelen wondered. Elias used no special skills, no intricate manipulation of the land like Kaelen. Just sheer, brute strength, amplified to an impossible degree. Dyoden had turned his head. His eyes, predatory and knowing, settled on Kaelen. “Kekeke! You managed to survive.” Kaelen’s form flickered, a silent nod. He had no voice, no words to offer. A wry chuckle escaped Elias. He collected one of the Matriarch’s calcified ridges, a jagged, dark piece that still faintly pulsed with stored energy. “These ridges are useful. They hold a static charge, remnants of the land’s fury. Refine them, and they become potent tools.” He held the ridge for a moment, then stretched out his hand into the empty air. The ridge vanished, as if it had never been there. Kaelen’s internal world reeled. A spatial ability? Elias wasn’t just a warrior of impossible strength; he wielded a power of essence manipulation, a rare gift even among the ancients Kaelen remembered. Elias sheathed Shard-Edge. He drew a small, crude dagger from a hidden sheath. He tossed it, handle-first, into the sand near Kaelen. “From now on, find your own food.” “Most of a Dust-Hound’s flesh is toxic, save for the meat on their side, near the ribs. Dry it, and it’s safe to consume.” Elias deftly cut out a portion of the Matriarch’s side flesh, a piece no larger than an adult’s palm. He didn’t elaborate further. Kaelen’s spectral fingers, usually mere whispers of light, solidified with an unfamiliar weight. He gripped the crude dust-knife, observing where Elias had cut. A new, stark lesson in survival. That jerky he had consumed, the one that rekindled his essence, had been monster meat. He felt no revulsion. Only a deep, primal understanding. If it meant survival, if it meant enduring, he would consume it. The instinct was ancient, ingrained deeper than any memory. Kaelen mimicked Elias, carefully slicing away the edible portions. Elias only took what he needed for a few days; he could always hunt again. Kaelen, however, was not Elias. He had to be thorough. Securing as much meat as possible was prudent. He carved nearly thirty pieces, a small pile of crimson flesh against the grey dust. He had no more space to carry it. He wrapped the pieces in the tattered remains of his outerwear, fashioning a bundle. He imbues it with a whisper of dust-essence, making it float lightly beside him. “Keke! Resourceful enough.” Elias’s approval was a harsh, dry sound. Two days with Elias had pushed Kaelen further than years of wandering. Yet, he knew he was still far from truly useful. He needed more toil, more brutal lessons. “If you’ve got everything, let’s go. Before others catch the scent of blood…” Elias gestured with his head toward the rising sun. Not out of fear, but simple inconvenience. Kaelen gave a silent nod. He didn’t wish to linger either. The air grew thick with the metallic tang of blood, a beacon for scavengers of the wastes. Sunrise painted the carnage in stark, gruesome detail. Already, winged horrors, dust-carrion beasts, circled overhead. More would come. This was the law of the desert. The strong preyed, the weak died, and the dead became food for all. No being escaped this cycle. Trailing after Elias, Kaelen was gradually grasping these laws of the Sundered Lands. Elias paid him no heed, striding ahead. Kaelen pushed himself to keep up, initiating his Dust-Drift. Given the extensive manipulation of essence during the battle, he expected difficulty. Yet, a surprising ease flowed through him. His reserves felt more robust, his control over the shifting sands smoother. The battle, the life-and-death decisions, the pushing of his limits—it had forged him. He had become stronger. He would only grow stronger, he knew. Kaelen looked at Elias’s retreating back. He still didn’t understand why Elias tolerated his presence. But one thing was clear: as long as he survived, following Elias would inevitably strengthen him. He diligently trailed behind, a whisper in the dust, enduring.

Grit and Ruin