Dane woke up lying in a cot that was more comfortable than his bed back home. Every fiber of the sheets felt soft, and the feathers for the pillow cradled his head as if that was the only suitable purpose for them. He heard the soft inhale and exhale from the corner of the room. The room was dim, a single lantern guttering low, and shadows pooled in the corners. Draka sat slumped in a wooden chair beside her cot, her head tilted forward, her arms folded tightly against her chest. Even in sleep, she looked dangerous, her scales caught faint light like shards of amber glass, her tail curled possessively around one leg of the chair as if she'd refuse to be moved.

  For a moment, Dane just stared. He had never seen her sleep. Somehow, he could almost mistake her for a person, rather than a battle queen who treated him like a child.

  He was finished inspecting the room and looked down at his arms; the familiar green of his veins was now pitch black like obsidian. He had seen this once before, and that was when the emperor flooded him with cosmic energy to try to kill him. But back then his veins turned purple.

  He traced the line with the palm of his hand, and it felt corrupt. His instincts told him that he should find a healer to purify him. A chill rippled through him.

  He pulled up his character sheet with a thought.

  Race: Fractured Chronite (Modified)

  Status: Powers sealed

  Well, he had seen the modified status before, so he knew that he had started to undergo another change in race before he would be offered it at B rank.

  'Fuck I still need to get back to C rank.' He thought.

  He sat up in his bed. The cot creaked when he shifted, and Draka stirred, eyes opening. Amber slits fixed on him with sharp awareness, as if she hadn't truly been asleep at all.

  "You're awake," she said, her voice quiet and softer than honey.

  Dane nodded, his throat dry. "Barely."

  "Where do you think you are going?"

  "I have to go kill some monster to get my rank back up to C."

  "There will be no killing as long as you are a guest of the Beast Tide. Those monsters, as you call them, are just mindless children. What you suggest doing is no better than slaughtering babies. If you do kill them, it is because you had no other choice, and they are mourned. Their remains become part of you, carrying them on your journey. This is not something done lightly."

  "How am I supposed to level up?"

  " You will see in time. You are not ready. I suggest you begin to pack, you look strong enough to move, and if you dawdle, we will leave you."

  Dane didn't have much to pack up. He still only had his Fang of the Megalodon and his tattered pants. He was in desperate need of gear and wouldn't mind "having no other choice" to get a pelt so that he could have some more modesty. He knew that all of the Beastmen around him felt different, and now he was beginning to suspect that he had inadvertently joined a cult of monster worshipers.

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  The next few days blurred with motion. The tribe was on the move again. They were nomadic by nature, but Dane got the feeling that they had a destination in mind.

  Wagons rattled over uneven stone hidden by the sand, beasts of burden grunted beneath loads, and the air was taut with the silent efficiency of people used to uprooting their lives at a moment's notice.

  They observed him with caution, but some of the beast folk watched with recognition, not revulsion. A horned woman carrying baskets gave him a nod that felt like respect. A child with tufted ears stared openly at his blackened veins and then grinned before running back to his parents.

  It was only when one of the older beastmen barked orders to shift a wagon that Dane realized he understood the words. Perfectly. No translation, no delay. The realization left him unsteady; he was grateful that he would now be able to communicate, yet he felt unsettled, and the corrupt feeling he got was linked to the tribe. He took a deep breath and followed his instincts.

  In his earlier days, he spent each moment carefully considering every move he was going to make; now, he knew that when the time came, he would conquer any challenge that came his way.

  He met the eagle beastman Zephyros on the third day. The man was tall, with broad shoulders, his feathers layering into wings that were folded at his back. His face was hawkish, sharp-eyed, and when he spoke, his voice carried like a gust. The Beastmen around them watched the conversation with a quiet interest that felt like fear hidden beneath respect.

  "You," the eagle said, striding up beside him. His eyes narrowed, then softened into something like approval. "You smell of the wind."

  Dane blinked. "The wind?"

  The birdman nodded once, decisive. "When you are ready to fly, I will teach you."

  He managed a faint smile. "I'll hold you to that."

  The look of shock on the other beastmen's faces told Dane that this person was likely someone of importance. He only hoped that he wouldn't regret his casual response to the birdman.

  By the time they halted to make camp, hunger gnawed at him. The smells of roasting meat clung to the air, smoke trailing into the dusk. He was reaching for a plate when a clawed hand clamped on his shoulder. It was Draka.

  "You can't eat yet." Her tone left no room for debate. "Not until training is done."

  Dane let out a low, tired laugh. He took a defiant bite of the bread on his plate. She stared at him like he would pay for that. Dane didn't care. He stood up and followed her to a secluded section of the camp. He sat on the ground cross-legged and let Draka do her thing.

  She pulled him back into the soul realm with the ease of someone opening a door.

  The void was no longer a pit; it shimmered with fragments. His shards floated in loose patterns, like constellations in a dark sky. He felt them before he saw them, tugging at the threads of his body.

  Draka stood at his side, her gaze sweeping across the fragments. "These are conduits now. They will purify the mana that passes through you. Impurities will be drawn away, filtered, instead of festering and rotting your mind. You'll weave your channels through them, one by one."

  Her claws traced a path through the air, showing him how to thread power in loops and spirals, pulling it through the shards until it came back to him clean.

  "Monsters," she continued, "do not rely on what's within. They feed from without, drawing mana from the world around them. That is how they grow without limits."

  Dane frowned, focusing on the motion of her claw. "You're saying I should… become more like them."

  "You already are." Her amber eyes cut to him. "You have Mana Syphon. It's malformed. But it can be remade into something greater. A cultivation method. Power drawn from treasures, from the air itself, from the marrow of the world."

  Her voice dropped lower. "That is how you level without killing."

  "Sit." Her command was simple.

  Dane lowered himself to the ground and let out a little chuckle at the idea of him sitting cross-legged in the real world and in his soul realm. It was a real inception moment.

  "Dane, focus, clear your mind," Draka said, almost as if she could read his thoughts. "Feel the rage buried deep down. Tap into your strength. And when you are steady, envision your beast form."

  He tried. He breathed. He let the shards' hum vibrate through him. The rage was there, smoldering, but so was something deeper, sharper. He reached for it, and the world tore open.

  Wings spread in the darkness of his mind. Not feathers. Not scaled. Black-glass wings, vast and jagged, glinting in firelight. A figure stepped forward, horns curling back from its head, eyes a mirror of his own. It was a devil, this thing, that made terror rise from Dane's heart.

  Dane's chest seized. He ripped himself out of the trance with a gasp, hands trembling, sweat chilling his skin.

  He met Draka's gaze. She hadn't moved, hadn't flinched.

  "Again," she said calmly.

  His heart was still pounding; the demon's image burned behind his eyelids. He closed them once more.