The gnawing cold of Veridia’s perpetually shadowed alleys seemed to intensify with the silence that followed the recent storm of battle. Thane, his breath misting faintly in the chill air, felt a familiar, weary current of anticipation. Soon. After another cycle of this grim collection from the city’s recent dead, all his core attributes should surge beyond the threshold of three hundred. And with that, he expected another Arcane Cache, a reward from the strange, cold system that underpinned his very existence, a system he both cursed and relied upon for his continued, burdened life. The immediate periphery outside Veridia’s crumbling outer walls had been purged, swept clean of the Blight-touched Marauders who had breached the ancient defenses. Few remained now, those still breathing dragged back by their own desperate kind, for even among the savage, fractured clans that plagued the Shattered Realm, a crude pact of survival often dictated the retrieval of the grievously wounded. The Sentinels, too, upheld their own grim code: no useful resource left behind, living or dead. “Veridian Supply Cohort, First Marquis Camp, assemble!” Commander Kael’s voice, a gravelly bark honed by countless skirmishes, cut through the quiet. His words carried the weight of authority, a call that pulled Thane from his quiet observations. Like iron filings to a magnet, the logistics-focused Sentinels of Kael’s command began to gather, Thane a somber, unremarkable figure among them. Kael, a formidable man whose scarred face mirrored the brutal landscape of Veridia, scanned the thousand logistics soldiers arrayed before him. “The perimeter outside the walls is cleared,” he announced, his voice devoid of triumph, merely stating a fact. “Next, we purge the city itself. Inside these walls, it’s not the same. Out there, the fallen were largely our own, or at least familiar forms. But within, most are enemy Marauders, or worse—the infected husks of what were once citizens, twisted by the Blight.” He paused, letting the implication settle, the silence punctuated only by the distant, mournful creak of a siege engine cooling. “You must be vigilant, every one of you. Your weapons drawn at all times. Do not die needlessly. Death here serves no purpose but to feed the Blight.” His gaze, sharp and humorless, swept over the cohort. “Our Supply Cohort, First Marquis Camp, will be the vanguard. We will clear the upper garrisons and the perimeter districts first. Remain alert. Trust nothing that appears still.” With a curt wave of his hand, Kael dismissed them. Centurions barked orders, and the soldiers, a ragged river of steel and leather, moved with disciplined efficiency towards the breached inner gates of the city, their boots crunching on the dust and detritus of battle. Kael’s warning, though delivered with typical detachment, resonated deeply among the ranks. Whispers of desperate Marauders feigning death to ambush unwary Sentinels rippled through the formation. Every soldier had heard the grim tales, or worse, witnessed them. Thane remembered the hushed reports from years past, of a Blight-spawned cultist who had risen from a pile of corpses, scythe in hand, to claim a full squad before being put down. The memory felt cold and sharp, a stark reminder of the ever-present treachery of the dead. Sergeant Torvin, a man whose face was a roadmap of old scars and weathered defiance, turned to address the section, his eyes lingering on Thane with a pointed intensity. “You all need to be careful, especially you, Thane. These Marauders have stared into the maw of the Blight; they’re desperate, cornered beasts. If you find a single one alive, call for backup. Surround and eradicate them immediately. Don’t get caught unaware.” Torvin knew Thane’s peculiar habits, his tendency to become utterly consumed by his grim task of processing the fallen. “Don’t worry, Sergeant,” Thane replied, his voice a low, even cadence, his expression as serious as Torvin’s own. He nodded, acknowledging the wisdom of the warning, though a detached part of him already dismissed the personal threat. *Fear is a luxury I cannot afford,* he thought, his internal monologue a quiet counterpoint to the external world. *And it is a luxury I rarely feel for myself anymore.* His attributes were formidable now, his body a finely tuned instrument of survival, honed by countless encounters with death. Forget fighting a dozen men, even twenty desperate Marauders would not be enough to genuinely threaten him in open combat. A casual swing of his heavy blade carried the force of a seasoned ogre’s blow, and his speed was a blur, a whisper of wind. Anyone seeking to fell him would need either a concentrated volley of arcane bolts, or to trap him in an inescapable, magically-warded encirclement. Neither seemed likely in the immediate chaos of the city’s ravaged perimeter. Thane understood the ferocity of the Veridian Sentinels, too. Their methods, brutal and unyielding, were a direct reflection of Veridia’s harsh reality. A complex system of “cleansing merits” and “resource recovery quotas” fueled every Sentinel, transforming them into ruthlessly efficient weapons. If an enemy force surrendered in organized, significant numbers, the Sentinels *might* accept, if only for the logistical ease of processing. But once the city’s defenses were breached, once the Blight-wounds gaped open, the very notion of surrender became meaningless. The elite Sentinels would hunt down their enemies with a frenzied zeal, killing even those who dropped their arms before their eyes, for every Marauder slain, every Blight-tainted object recovered, earned them invaluable merits. Knowing that surrender would not spare their lives, the Marauders fought with the desperation of the doomed. To kill one Sentinel was to break even; to kill two, a profit. Such was the savage calculus of survival in the Shattered Realm. Stepping through the breached gates into the inner city was like entering a charnel house carved from stone. The scene was even more brutal than outside. Corpses lay strewn in grotesque profusion, blood—both human and something darker, thicker—stained the ancient stone of the city towers a gruesome crimson. Severed limbs, bone-white fragments, and mangled organs were scattered like discarded refuse. The stench was a thick, cloying blanket of copper, decay, and the metallic tang of fear, enough to make any ordinary person retch. Thane himself had vomited the first time he’d set foot on a battlefield years ago, a lifetime ago. But after so many days, so many hours, of dealing with the dead, of touching and absorbing their fading essence, he had grown accustomed to it. It was simply… the state of things. “Brothers, a slight adjustment to our protocol,” Thane said, his voice quiet but firm, turning to the fifty men assigned to his command. “Ten of you will verify the absolute absence of life—double-checking for hidden blades or lingering breath. Twenty will manage the grave-carts, preparing them for transport. The remaining twenty will follow me directly to move the raw material.” He spoke of the fallen as if they were mere resources, a habit born of his unique burden. “Yes, sir!” the soldiers responded in unison, their voices echoing off the gore-streaked walls. They were used to Thane’s grim efficiency, his detached focus. They followed him, a grim procession, up the winding stairways of the city towers, their boots scraping on shattered stone and dried blood. The air grew thinner, colder, at the higher elevations. Looking at the bodies strewn about haphazardly, their forms twisted in final agonies, Thane merely glanced over them with a practiced, dispassionate eye. Then, he began his work. A faint, cold hum resonated in his bones, a familiar jolt as his hand brushed against the still-warm corpse of a common Marauder, its eyes wide with a terror that would never fade. The connection formed, brief and precise. **[Touching a common Marauder, absorb 1 fragment of Vigor.]** **[Absorb 1 fragment of Agility.]** **[Absorb 1 fragment of Resilience.]** The fragments, cold motes of energy, ghosted into him, strengthening the edifice of his own being. He worked with methodical, almost meditative focus, moving from one fallen form to the next, a grim reaper in the service of Veridia. For the moment, no Marauders feigning death were discovered in this particular city tower, which had been among the first objectives captured by the Sentinels during the initial breach. The more desperate, cunning survivors likely hid deeper within the city’s labyrinthine heart. Time, a cruel and indifferent current in Veridia, continued to flow. Thane’s movements became a rhythm of lifting, dragging, and discarding. He hauled two enemy corpses, their limbs stiffening, onto a waiting grave-cart, the wooden wheels groaning under the morbid weight. As the second body clattered onto the cart, a cold, familiar prompt blossomed in the periphery of his awareness, a subtle validation from the system he carried within him. **[All Core Attributes have surpassed 300. Award: One First-Tier Arcane Cache.]** **[Processed over one thousand fallen. Award: Echo-Perception Artifice.]** A grim satisfaction, cold and weary, settled over Thane. His power, the strange, terrible gift that prolonged his life and kept him standing amidst the omnipresent death, had taken another significant step forward. This grim labor, this constant proximity to oblivion, truly suited him, he reflected, a dark irony twisting in his mind. *Open the First-Tier Arcane Cache,* Thane commanded mentally, his thoughts clear and precise. The pattern was emerging, solidifying. As long as his core attributes reached specific thresholds, these caches were bestowed upon him, a chilling incentive for his morbid work. *Open the First-Tier Arcane Cache.* **[You have acquired one First-Tier, Superior-Grade Profound-Iron Longbow.]** the prompt informed him. Thane felt a pragmatic approval. Not bad. It didn’t disappoint. A First-Tier, Superior-Grade bow was a formidable weapon, capable of piercing through armored flesh and even some lesser Blight-spawned hides. A tool for survival. *Echo-Perception Artifice?* Next, Thane turned his attention to the second reward, the boon for processing a thousand fallen. *Extract. Learn,* he commanded, a quiet flicker of curiosity stirring beneath his usual detachment. He braced himself for a jolt, a surge. Instead of a dramatic flash of light, a cold, swift current of insight coursed through him. In an instant, a complete, intricate understanding of the Artifice unfolded in his mind, as if the knowledge had been directly implanted, every facet laid bare. *So that’s how it works.* He realized. What the old scrolls referred to as Spirit, a form of inner vitality, was now being channeled. This Echo-Perception Artifice allowed him to project his spiritual essence outwards, to perceive the outside world through a sense beyond sight and sound. It was akin to the 'Soul Sight' legends whispered in the taverns of Veridia, a way to map the immediate environment through pure, unfiltered awareness. He felt no excitement, only the cool assessment of a potent, new advantage. He attempted to use this nascent Artifice immediately. He closed his eyes, focusing inwards, and then, with a subtle exertion of will, pushed his awareness outwards. Indeed. He sensed it: his perception was no longer confined to the boundaries of his skin. Even with his eyelids shut tight, he could perceive his immediate surroundings with chilling clarity—the crumbling stone, the still, cold bodies, the faint, residual heat of a distant Sentinel. After a few moments of mental exploration, he concluded, *The effective range of my Echo-Perception is thirty paces, precisely. It must be directly proportional to my spiritual potency.* This was an invaluable asset, an undeniable ace up his sleeve. With his Aetheric Perception spread out, he was aware of everything within that thirty-pace radius, with no blind spots, no hidden corners for treachery. It would be impossible for anyone to sneak up on him now. And he could tell instantly who was genuinely dead, and who merely feigned it, their vital echoes still faintly registering. However, even though this spiritual power could be projected outward, it seemed it hadn’t yet transformed into true Aetheric Sight. He still couldn't perceive the raw Blight energies that permeated Veridia, or the faint currents of ancient magic. *Or perhaps… this world doesn’t contain those specific energies in a form my Artifice can detect?* Thane pondered, a deep, unsettling thought. He opened his internal Attribute Panel, a silent, flickering interface that only he could see. **Strength:** 512 (The higher the value, the greater the physical force that can be unleashed.) **Agility:** 365 (The higher the number, the faster the speed of movement and reaction.) **Constitution:** 321 (The stronger the constitution, the faster injuries heal and the more inexhaustible the stamina.) **Spirit:** 321 (The stronger the spirit, the clearer the mind and thoughts. Spiritual power can be projected outward, and once it grows to a certain level, it can perceive ambient Aetheric currents.) **Lifespan:** 86 years and 118 days **Portable Space:** 3 cubic meters **Martial Technique:** Crushing Blow (Initial Mastery: A strike imbued with primal force, capable of unleashing twice the user’s inherent physical strength.) *One step at a time,* Thane resolved, the weariness settling back over him. He dismissed the deeper mysteries, the questions about Aetheric energies. The only thing that truly mattered was to keep collecting attributes, to keep growing stronger, to endure. With that thought, Thane ceased his speculation. He returned to the task at hand, his movements methodical and precise, continuing to move the corpses of the fallen Marauders, collecting their fading vitality, preparing for the next, inevitable step. Time slipped away in this manner, marked only by the rising stacks of bodies and the subtle hum of vitality absorbing into Thane. *** Meanwhile, on the other side of Veridia’s scarred inner walls, the elite Obsidian Wardens of the Ironclad Cohort were mercilessly hunting down the remaining Blight-touched Marauders, flushing them from the deepest, shadowed districts of the city. The purge was far from over.

A Harvest of Vigor