The egg of the Clawstrider felt unnervingly warm in Alexander's palm, its leathery shell pulsing with a faint, sickly green light.
The vial of Rock-Tusk blood was heavy and viscous, sloshing like mud as he moved. In his other hand, he gripped the hilt of a simple, unadorned broadsword he'd taken from a forgotten armory rack.
It was a far cry from the ceremonial blades he was used to, but it felt honest.
He moved through the moonlit royal gardens like a ghost, sticking to the shadows of manicured hedges and behind marble statues.
The "Gallows," a forgotten, skeletal structure of a half-collapsed watchtower at the palace's furthest edge, was his destination. It was a place for ghosts and now, creation of an instance.
"The components are crude, but their conflicting elemental natures,wind and earth will rip a suitably unstable tear," Crimson's voice explained, a guide in the darkness."It will be a weak instance. A whelping ground. The perfect place for you to learn."
"And if it's not? Perfect, I mean," Alexander whispered back, his breath misting in the chill air.
"Then you die. And I find a new, less questioning vessel. Focus."
At the base of the crumbling tower, Alexander knelt. Following Crimson's precise, psychic instructions, he used the tip of his sword to scratch a jagged, asymmetrical sigil into the dirt.
It looked less like a magical circle and more like a wound. He placed the pulsating egg in the center and, with a grimace, uncorked the vial and poured the thick, dark blood over it.
The reaction was instantaneous and violent. The egg didn't just break; it dissolved with a hiss, its green energy merging with the brown blood.
The sigil glowed with a malevolent, purple-black light. The air above it twisted, warping like heat haze over a desert, before tearing open with a sound like ripping velvet.
A portal. It was a wavering, silent window into another place. Through it, Alexander saw a dark, cavernous tunnel, illuminated only by the faint glow of fungal growths.
The air that washed out was frigid and carried the scent of damp stone, iron, and something feral.
"The Howling Caves. Enter. The portal is tied to your life force. It will remain open only until the instance is cleared, or until you are dead. There is no retreat."
Alexander tightened his grip on the broadsword, his knuckles white. He took one last look at the sleeping palace, a citadel of golden light that had rejected him. Then, he stepped through.
The change was absolute and terrifying. The way he came in, had disappeared.
The first thing he noticed was the silence. It wasn't quiet; it was a vacuum. The constant, low-level hum of Crimson's presence in his mind, a presence he had already come to rely on... was gone. Snuffed out.
The silence was a physical pressure in his skull. For the first time since the Undercroft, he was utterly alone with his own thoughts, and the sound of his own panic was deafening.
A part of him, the part that had already begun to lean on that dark presence, screamed in terror at the sudden solitude.
"Crimson?" he whispered.
His voice didn't echo. It was swallowed by the oppressive gloom. No answer came. The silence was louder than any scream.
He was in a tunnel. The walls were close, dripping with moisture, and the only light came from the pulsating blue and green fungi. He could see his breath. He was cut off. Truly, utterly on his own.
He didn't have time to panic. A soft scraping sound came from the darkness ahead. Then another. And another.
He stretched his hand out, a desperate, instinctual command for the crimson flame. Nothing answered.
Dozens of pairs of glowing, amber eyes emerged from the shadows, low to the ground.
They resolved into sleek, wiry forms— Clawstrider. Their fur was the color of shadow, and drool dripped from maws lined with needle-sharp teeth that seemed to disrupt the very light around them.
The first one lunged without a sound.
Alexander's body reacted before his mind could. He brought the broadsword up in a clumsy parry. The impact jarred his arms, but he held firm. He shoved the creature back and countered with a sweeping slash that caught it in the flank.
It yelped, a strangely muffled sound, and scrambled away.
He had no enhanced flames. No extraordinary insight into its movements. He had the sword, his own two feet, and the body the demonic pact had passively forged.
He soon realized what that meant. As the pack circled, he found he could move faster than he ever had before he met Crimson.
His reflexes were sharper, his steps lighter. When a Clawstrider leaped for his throat, he wasn't just fast enough to block; he was fast enough to sidestep and drive his blade through its side.
The fight was a brutal, gritty ballet of survival. He was grazed on the arm, a searing pain that felt too real, and he stumbled over loose rocks, but he fought on.
He was a student of strategy, and now he applied those lessons to his own body, learning its new limits in the most visceral way possible.
As he pushed deeper, dispatching Clawstriders with increasing efficiency, a strange sensation bloomed within him. He felt… stronger. Not from an external source, but from within.
It was as if a latent potential in his muscles, his sinews, his very nerves, was being awakened by the relentless, life-or-death exertion.
The sword felt less heavy. His movements became more fluid, a natural extension of his will. This was his Resonance Affinity growing, not by actively channeling power, but by forcing his vessel to its absolute limit, tempering it in blood and silence.
The tunnels opened into a vast cavern. In the center, stirring from its slumber, was the source of the instance's corruption. A Corrupted Rock-Tusk.
It was a mountain of mottled grey flesh, its hide lumpy and studded with crystalline growths. One arm was grotesquely oversized, ending in a fist like a boulder. Its eyes were vacant, glowing pits of the same malevolent purple as the portal sigil.
Alexander's heart sank. His sword, which had felt so capable against the Clawstrider, now seemed like a child's toy. It was his first time seeing one, alive.
The beast didn't roar. It let out a low, guttural hum that vibrated through the stone beneath Alexander's feet and made his teeth ache. It charged, surprisingly fast for its size.
This was not a fight he could win with force. He had to be clever. He remembered the beast's description from bestiaries he'd studied—strong, nearly impervious, but slow to turn and vulnerable in its eyes and mouth.
He ran, not away, but around it, leading it on a frantic chase through the cavern. He ducked under a swing of its massive arm that shattered a stalagmite to dust.
He baited it into charging a narrow passage, where it bellowed in frustration as its bulk got temporarily stuck. He was a gnat, buzzing and stinging, but he couldn't find a killing blow.
His sword scraped harmlessly off its hide.
"This isn't working!"
Exhaustion began to set in. His arms burned, his breath came in ragged gasps.
The Rock-Tusk, enraged, cornered him against a wall of glowing fungi. It raised its colossal fist for a final, crushing blow.
In that moment, trapped and alone, something snapped into place. The world narrowed. The beast's movements seemed to slow. He could see the minute twitch of its shoulder muscle, the shift of its weight.
It was the same hyper-awareness he'd felt in the spar against Nikolai, but this was born entirely from his own desperation, his own will to survive. It wasn't as powerful as the one he sold his soul for, but this was his.
As the fist descended, he didn't try to block. He dropped into a crouch and lunged forward, *under* the blow. The wind of its passage whipped past his head. He came up inside its guard, directly before its glowing, vacant eyes.
With a raw shout that tore from his throat, he drove the point of his broadsword with all his enhanced strength into the beast's left eye.
The blade sank deep. The Rock-Tusk froze. A shudder ran through its massive frame. Then, with a final, silent tremor, it collapsed, the ground shaking with its fall.
As it hit the stone, the silence broke. Not with sound, but with presence. Crimson's voice flooded back into his mind, sharp and immediate, like a radio tuning back to a familiar station.
"Interesting. The dimensional harmonics of this pocket reality created a psychic dampening field. A flaw in my calculations. We will account for it."
There was a pause, then a thread of what might have been approval. "Your performance was... acceptable. You relied on the foundation we have built. You're getting sturdier. The Affinity has risen."
A shimmering portal swirled into existence behind him. Alexander stood panting, his body aching in a dozen places, his clothes torn, but he felt a fierce, primal triumph. He had done this. Not Crimson. Him.
He walked back through the portal, emerging into the cool night air at the base of the Gallows. The portal snapped shut behind him with a soft pop leaving no trace. He slumped against the cold stone of the tower, his legs finally giving way
He focused inward. The Soul's Ledger materialized in his mind's eye.
[Soul Integrity: 99%]
[Resonance Affinity: 3%]
A slow, weary smile spread across his face. He had wasted no Soul Integrity. He had lost nothing. And he had gained so much. He felt the new strength in his limbs, the hard-won confidence in his heart.
He was no longer just a prince with a demon; he was a warrior who had faced the abyss alone and walked away stronger.
The sound of hurried footsteps on gravel shattered his moment of peace. He looked up, his body tensing.
Two palace guards, their armor gleaming in the moonlight, rounded the corner of a hedge, their lanterns cutting through the dark. They stopped short, their eyes widening at the sight of the disheveled, blood-spattered prince leaning against the ruins.
"Prince Alexander?" one of them stammered. "By the Goddess, are you alright? We heard... noises."
Alexander pushed himself to his feet, sheathing his cracked sword. He stood taller than he had in days. "I'm fine," he said, his voice steady and clear. "I couldn't sleep. So I did some... training."