Kazimir would have secured the chamber first, trading one life for the collective survival of the settlement. But Dymian had never mastered that bloodless calculus. His sight snapped to her. The black thorns of Vorlag’s curse pulsed, beckoning him, but his will, forged in fire and grief, pulled away. A single, shimmering strand of aetheric thread shot from his palm, not towards the General, but towards Stasya. It moved with impossible speed, a silver blur against the gloom, wrapping around the gaping wound on her side. He didn’t try to heal it, not fully. He couldn’t. He merely pulled the edges of the flesh together, sealing the rupture, binding her dying essence, a crude temporary patch. [SKILL ACTIVATED: STITCHING] [TARGET: STASYA ROSTOVA (CRITICAL). EFFECT: WOUND CLOSURE (MINOR). LIFE SIGNS STABILIZED (TEMPORARY).] His other hand, the one not dedicated to her fragile survival, reached out, not physically, but with the raw, untamed force of his skill. He felt the coarse, dark tendrils of the curse reaching for him, attempting to ensnare his mind with renewed vigor, visions of Kazimir’s final, choked gasp flashing behind his eyes. He ignored them. He ripped through the illusion, his focus a sharpened spear point. He had seen the threads. The dark, parasitic currents feeding Vorlag flowed straight from the Bastion's core. He didn’t need to sever them. He needed to *redirect* them. His skill pushed past the thorny façade, diving into the heart of the corruption that had burrowed into Vorlag’s very being. It was a dense, snarled knot, gorging on the siphon from below. And within that knot, a central, pulsing node – the true conduit of the curse’s power. He felt the connection, the invisible umbilical cord between the ancient, tainted power of Voryn and Vorlag’s wretched form. It wasn’t a destruction he needed, but a re-alignment. A violent, instantaneous re-routing. He didn't just pull at the threads connecting Vorlag to the core. He *reversed* them. He forced the raw, unrestrained torrent of the Bastion, amplified and tainted by the Heart of Voryn, back into Vorlag himself. It wasn't about cutting off the supply; it was about turning the tap to full blast and aiming it directly at the source. [SKILL ACTIVATED: RE-STITCH (AETHERIC CONDUIT). TARGET: GENERAL VORLAG. EFFECT: REVERSE ENERGY FLOW. CAUTION: UNSTABLE. HOST OVERLOAD IMMINENT.] A guttural, inhuman scream tore from Vorlag’s throat. His body, previously bolstered and augmented by the curse, began to contort. The black thorns that had adorned him like a grotesque crown now pulsed erratically, retracting and expanding with impossible speed. His skin, a moment before taut and unnervingly smooth, began to ripple, then to crack, like sun-baked earth. “You… you fool!” Vorlag shrieked, his voice losing its charismatic resonance, replaced by a wet, gurgling sound. His gaze, once steady and commanding, fractured under sudden panic. “You can’t… stop it! Only… transfer!” Power surged. The air crackled, thick with the smell of ozone and something metallic, like burnt blood. The core chamber shook, dust raining down from the ancient ceiling. Vorlag’s form swelled, a grotesque parody of strength, then began to collapse inward, his limbs twisting at unnatural angles, his face a mask of agony. “It finds… a new vessel!” he gasped, a final, ragged breath. “Always… a new host!” The corruption, now severed from its old conduit, thrashed wildly, a dark, formless entity lashing out in desperate search. Vorlag’s body began to disintegrate, not into dust, but into fine, shimmering motes of black ash that were immediately absorbed by the swirling vortex of the curse. His final words echoed in the trembling chamber, a chilling prophecy. The vortex, freed from its host, seemed to recoil for a fraction of a second. Then, with an unnatural speed that defied physics, it lunged. Not at the Bastion’s core, not at the dying Stasya, but at Dymian. He felt a piercing cold, a sudden, horrifying emptiness fill the space where his skill had just been operating. It wasn’t a physical impact, but an invasion, an instant, total subsuming of his very essence. The sensation was less like being struck and more like being *chosen*. Every nerve ending screamed. He convulsed, his hands tearing at the air, his vision swimming. The residual force of Vorlag’s demise, the very torrent he had redirected, now flooded his veins, alien and vile. It was a hungry, parasitic force, settling deep within his core. [SYSTEM ALERT: NEW INFECTION DETECTED. PARASITIC ENTITY: HEART OF VORYN.] [You are the new host of the Heart of Voryn.]

The Heart of Voryn