Veiled falls

Morning crept over the ruin like a thief, pale light spilling through the caved-in roof. It struck Dion's face—rough, pale, streaked with dust and dried blood—and his eyes snapped open. For a heartbeat, he didn't move, breath shallow, mind blank. Then he lurched upright, and pain roared through his broken arm like a Dread Spawn's claw. He hissed, clutching it with his good hand, fingers trembling over the twisted mess of flesh and bone.

His gaze darted, wild, taking in the hollow. Cracked walls.

Rubble.

And there—the Grimling's corpse, sprawled in a black puddle, red eyes dull and glassy. Memory crashed back: the ambush, the fight, that silent bastard dropping from above. He'd killed it. Barely. His back thudded against the wall behind him, a groan slipping out as he cradled his arm. But atleast he his alive. That's what mattered.

The sun climbed higher, casting jagged shadows. Dion squinted at his arm. The poor thing is swollen and bruised, the bone jutting wrong under the skin. Useless unless he fixed it. He'd done this before—crude patches after scavenges gone bad.

Hollowborn didn't get medics. They got grit and luck. He shifted, good hand fumbling at his shirt. The hem was already torn, ragged from the night.

'Good enough.'

He gripped the fabric with his teeth, tearing a long strip. The sound scratched the silence, sharp and final. Pain flared as he jostled his arm, laying it flat against his thigh. Sweat beaded on his brow, stinging his eyes.

From the rubble, he snatched a stick, splintered but straight, about the length of his forearm. It'd do.

He aligned it along the break, breath hitching as the bones grated. No time for weakness. He wrapped the strip tight, looping it around the stick and his arm, each pull a fresh stab of agony. His teeth sank into his lip, blood welling, but he kept going—over, under, knotting it hard. The stick pressed the bone still, dulling the grind to a bearable ache. Not professional. Not pretty. But it held. He flexed his fingers, wincing. Good enough.

Slumping back, he let the sword clatter beside him. Nothing to do now but think. His mind churned, restless. The mission—Nyxstone from the Grimling nest. The Dreamer Egg, guarded by that damned Harrow. And Selene.

Dion shook it off. Selene was RidgeFort, far off. No point gnawing on that now. A month is still long.

The Dreamer Egg, though—that was close. Three, maybe four days before it matured, if the rumors held. Not much was known—whispers on the outskirts called it a key to power. Valuable enough to kill for. He wanted it. Needed it. But the Harrow wouldn't wait, and his rations wouldn't stretch.

He sighed, eyes drifting to the Grimling corpse. Revolting—limbs too long, teeth jagged, black blood stinking of rot. Then an idea flickered, grim and cold. Dread Spawn flesh wasn't food—it was poison, mostly. But the stronger ones? Higher tiers could sustain you, if you stomached the risk. This silent breed wasn't the swarm's chaff. Tougher. Maybe cleaner. Maybe.

Dion grimaced. Eating it was madness. Toxicity could twist his guts, leave him puking blood. But starvation wasn't a choice—it was a death sentence. His pack was lost, rations with it. It's probably there where he was ambushed. He'd have to find it later though, it's was too important to leave. But that will be later. Now he really don't have any choice than to do the revolting needful

"Better than nothing," he muttered, voice hoarse. He dragged himself up, then move towards the corpse, legs shaky but stubborn.

"Bastard, why can't you cook yourself the right way." He said wistfully looking it.

He hooked his good hand under its arm, the flesh cold and slick. Grimacing, he pulled, boots scraping the stone. It slid, heavy and limp, leaving a smear of blood. He aimed for the chamber's far end—a shadowed nook where the walls tightened, hiding him from the open sky. Safer. Maybe.

Dropping it, he scanned the rubble. Dry sticks, splintered boards—remnants of some old collapse. He gathered them, good arm aching, piling them in a rough heap. His flint was gone with the pack, but the sword's edge could spark. He knelt, angling it against a stone, striking hard. Sparks flew, faint and fleeting. Again. Again. His jaw clenched, frustration boiling. "Come on, damn it."

A flicker caught—a wisp of smoke curling up. He leaned in, blowing gently, coaxing it. The flame licked the wood, tentative, then flared. Heat kissed his face, sharp against the morning chill. He fed it more sticks, building it steady. The Grimling lay beside it, a grotesque roast waiting.

He drew the sword, hacking at its flank. The blade bit shallow, dull as sin, but he sawed through. Flesh parted, black and stringy, a faint steam rising. The stench hit—bitter, metallic, wrong. His stomach lurched, but he cut deeper, cutting a slab free, he set it aside and set to cut another.

After cutting enough to last him for days he leave the rest of the body

He skewered a pile on a stick, holding it over the fire. Fat hissed, dripping into the flames. The meat darkened, curling at the edges. Edible? No clue. Poisonous? Maybe. He stared at it, throat tight. Three days to the egg. The nest after. No good food, no strength. This was it—his gamble.

"Sorry, guts," he muttered, when the meat is done to his satisfaction, he pull it from the fire and blew on it, the heat stinging his fingers, and bit down. It was tough, tinge of bitter mix with sweetness. He gagged, mostly because it was his first time tasting itforcing it down. His stomach clenched, protesting, but it stayed.

He leaned back, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleave. He continue chewing the meat in his mouth. Unexpected he suddenly start hearing the oracle voice, texts crowding his line of sight.

'Craddle beast, evolved grimling consumed, tier system unlocked, integration level increased, unleashing nyxflow gateway.'