One HP extra

The tomb was old—older than it should've been.

Even from the outside, Arman could feel it. Not just age. Something deeper. Rotting silence. A pressure behind the eyes. Like walking into a room where someone had just screamed but left no sound behind.

The stone steps spiraled downward into cold. Moss slicked the edges, glowing faintly green from the damp. At the base of the stairs, they reached a narrow hall lined with crude columns and a cracked floor map that stretched like a web of roots.

"Stay close," Arman said.

Kyra didn't answer. But her tail brushed against his leg briefly.

The hall opened into a circular chamber lit by a single shaft of light from above. Stone statues ringed the walls—warriors with faceless helms, blades drawn. In the center stood a wide stone basin, and beside it…

A guardian.

It was bone and bronze. An armored golem built like a minotaur, its horned helm carved with ritual marks. One eye glowed red.

Kyra stepped back.

"No aura," she whispered. "It's dead?"

"No," Arman said, scanning the room. "Just dormant."

He stepped forward.

The guardian's eye lit fully. It raised a halberd and let out a low groaning hiss, gears clicking to life beneath its rusted armor. Dust poured off its limbs as it moved.

Kyra raised her claws. "We're not ready for this."

Arman didn't draw his sword.

Instead, he looked at the floor.

There were cracks. Thin, precise, crossing in a star pattern around the basin. The same pattern he remembered from the "Villain's Memory" tutorial—the hidden memory that only players who dug through the optional death logs ever found.

Most would try brute force. But the basin wasn't just ornamental. It was the key.

He darted to the right, toward a cracked pillar.

"Distract it!" he shouted.

Kyra blinked. "What?!"

"Just for ten seconds!"

She cursed in beast tongue and lunged in, claws flashing. The guardian swung wide—slow, powerful. Its axe tore into the air beside her, slamming into the wall with a deep metallic clang.

Arman rolled behind the cracked column, drew his dagger, and jammed it into the moss-covered groove running along its base. A soft click echoed.

One of the floor plates shifted.

He ran to the next.

The guardian roared—louder now, faster. Kyra had to duck, vaulting over the basin. Its halberd swung past and clipped her cloak, sending sparks flying.

Arman activated the third plate.

The floor cracked with a low groan.

"I hope this still works," he muttered, stepping back.

The golem turned toward him now, red eye flaring. Its shoulders twisted—halberd drawn high, it charged straight for him.

Kyra cried out. "Arman!"

He didn't move.

Three steps.

Two—

The guardian hit the pressure point in the center of the star-shaped floor.

With a sound like shattering bone, the entire slab beneath it dropped.

Not far. Just enough.

The guardian's foot caught in the trap groove. Its balance faltered.

And the half-cracked pillar—still leaning from Arman's earlier push—gave way.

With a deep, cracking collapse, the stone slammed down onto the guardian's back. Its eye flickered. It let out a final grinding groan and fell forward, pinned beneath rubble.

Silence returned.

Kyra jogged to Arman's side, panting.

"You didn't even draw your sword."

"I didn't have to."

She blinked at the wreckage. "That wasn't strength."

"No."

"Then how did you—"

"I read a lot."

Kyra stared at him, then looked back at the defeated guardian. "…You're terrifying sometimes."

Arman gave a weary smirk. "You're welcome."

The tomb didn't look like much at first.

Half-buried under rock and moss, it resembled a crumbled prayer shrine—forgotten by time and swallowed by roots. But as Arman laid his hand on the central stone, something shifted beneath his skin. A pulse. Like the thrum of blood through ancient veins.

And then the shrine split open with a slow groan.

Inside: stairs. Worn smooth by centuries. Leading down into shadow.

They descended in silence, Kyra just behind him, tail low and cautious. The deeper they went, the cooler the air became—until even her breath began to mist.

At the bottom, they stepped into a vast chamber.

Pillars stretched high into unseen darkness. Moss glowed faint green on the edges of the walls, illuminating symbols carved into the stone—some of them far older than any language either of them knew. And in the center of it all, atop a stone altar choked in roots and rusted iron—

A single black-glass flask.

No trap.

No guardian.

Just stillness.

[MISSION COMPLETE]

"Legacy of the Undying Root"

Status: Success

Reward: [Passive Regeneration Elixir: Sap of the Undying Root]

Synergy Detected. Adjusting…

Trait Enhanced → Moderate Passive Regeneration (Scaling)

Warning: This process will forcibly modify your constitution threshold. Backlash expected.

"…That's not ominous at all," Arman muttered.

Kyra frowned. "So that's it? You drink the cursed-looking potion and walk away healed forever?"

He said nothing. Just approached.

The elixir sat in a carved basin, its glass wrapped in a tangled band of thorned silver wire. He reached down and uncoiled it gently. It was warm to the touch. Alive, somehow.

Then he pulled the cork.

The scent hit him like scorched bark and blood. Thick. Metallic. Rooted in something wrong.

"Arman," Kyra said, voice low. "Maybe we wait. Maybe—"

"No time."

And before she could grab his hand again—

He drank.

The effect was instant.

His back seized. Eyes rolled white. He stumbled backward with a strangled gasp—and then his whole body spasmed violently.

He hit the floor.

Convulsing.

Bones cracking under strain. Muscles tensing to their limits. His throat opened in a hoarse scream that cut off into a rasp. Every vein pulsed dark beneath his skin, bulging like roots twisting under flesh.

Kyra was at his side in seconds, claws out, eyes wide in alarm. "Arman—! Arman, what is this?!"

No answer.

His limbs thrashed against the stone floor as if something were trying to tear its way out from inside. He was bleeding from his nose. His gums. His ears.

Then—

A burst of silver light pulsed from his chest.

The trembling stopped.

He lay still, breath shallow. Steam rose from his skin like mist after rainfall.

[TRAIT OBTAINED: ROOTWRAITH ADAPTATION]

— Passive Regeneration (Moderate)

— 1.2% HP Recovery per 30 seconds

— Healing continues during low-intensity movement

— Pain sensitivity: reduced

— Internal injuries now stabilize over time

— Trait Scaling with Constitution

[System Notice: VITAL THRESHOLD INCREASED]

→ Constitution Rank: Bronze (Low) → Bronze (High)

→ Additional latent trait potential unlocked…

Kyra exhaled slowly, her shoulders shaking. She cradled his head, brushing back strands of sweat-drenched hair, her hand trembling.

"You idiot," she whispered. "You could've died. You should've died."

He stirred faintly, eyelids twitching.

Still breathing.

Still alive.

When he finally opened his eyes, she was still kneeling over him—fur ruffled, expression unreadable.

"…Did it work?" he rasped.

Kyra didn't answer at first. Then: "You screamed like a dying ox."

He grunted.

"Glad I didn't miss the show."

But her arms didn't move from around him.

After a few minutes, he sat up with her help and looked toward the altar.

It was empty now. The roots had turned to ash. The walls began to pulse dimly, a soft heartbeat deep in the stone.

This place was fading.

Like its purpose had been fulfilled.

They walked out in silence—one step at a time. Slowly.

And just before they reached the top of the stairs—

Kyra broke it.

"You always know what to do in these places," she said. "Like you've been here before."

He didn't answer.

She didn't expect him to.

But she watched him all the same, tail swaying behind her, and wondered:

Who exactly are you, Arman?