The Apples

Eryon placed his hand atop the Warg's head, feeling an unfamiliar sensation snake through his veins.

Strangely, there was no pain—only a sharp jolt of exhilaration that sent a shiver down his spine.

[You have successfully stolen the Warg's power. Congratulations, your strength and agility have increased by +5]

As the hologram faded, a surge of energy coursed through Eryon's body. The exhaustion weighing him down moments ago had vanished, replaced by a lightness that made his limbs feel stronger, sharper—alive.

Closing his eyes, he let the sensation settle in, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.

"A good development," he murmured.

Rustle!

The moment of satisfaction shattered.

His senses sharpened, instinct kicking in as he snapped his head toward the source of the noise. His fingers curled tighter around Durandal's hilt, muscles coiled, ready to strike.

From the dense underbrush, an old man emerged. His tattered robes clung loosely to his thin frame, and a worn straw hat cast a shadow over his lined face.

Eryon's brow arched. It was the same old man he had passed at the entrance of Aden Forest.

A prickle of unease crept up his spine. There was something… off about him.

"You just killed a Warg," the old man said, his voice low, measured.

Eryon met his gaze, unwavering. "And what of it?"

"He was my friend…" The old man exhaled, his breath a quiet weight against the night air. "And a rare species that has been extinct for thousands of years."

Eryon stilled, momentarily caught off guard. Then his lips pressed into a thin line. "What? He was your friend? Look, old man, I didn't know. You can't blame me for that."

The old man sighed, shoulders sagging with the weight of something unspoken. "I know. It wasn't your fault. It was simply his fate." His voice was heavy, laced with resignation.

Before Eryon could respond, the man tilted his head slightly, studying him with an intensity that made the air feel thick.

"Tell me, what is your name?" he asked, curiosity laced in his tone.

Eryon didn't break eye contact. "Eryon Ashbourn."

The old man's expression flickered, intrigue lighting his gaze. "Ashbourn? So you carry the Ashbourn bloodline?"

Eryon frowned. "What do you mean?"

The old man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stroked his beard, eyes tracing every inch of Eryon's form, scrutinizing, measuring.

"You look just like them... I'm not sure if it will work this time," he murmured under his breath. "And more than that... there's an old debt I need to settle, just like in the old days."

Eryon's eyes narrowed. "Are you talking about my family? There's only my brother and me left. My parents died in a car accident."

The old man's gaze sharpened. "Ryan Ashbourn, yes? I've met him,"

Eryon stiffened. A flicker of shock passed through his expression before he masked it. "You know my brother?" His curiosity spiked, a dozen questions forming in his mind. "Who the hell are you, old man?"

"My identity does not matter. What does… is the truth. Tell me—do you have any other family members carrying the Ashbourn name?"

Eryon's jaw clenched. "No."

The old man let out a long breath, as if releasing a burden he had carried for years. "Then it seems I have no choice but to give this to you. It was meant for the eldest… But alas, he does not resemble them." A shadow of regret flickered across his face.

Before Eryon could question him further, the old man reached into his robe and pulled out three apples, each one hovering slightly above his open palm.

"Take one," the old man said, his voice even. "Each carries a gift."

Eryon eyed them warily. "What kind of gift?"

The old man's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "That depends on the apple you choose."

Eryon considered his words carefully. Every instinct told him this was more than just a simple offering. But curiosity gnawed at him.

This felt like something out of a novel—one of those fated encounters that changed the course of the protagonist's journey.

Without hesitation, he reached out and plucked one of the apples from the old man's hand.

The old man gave a slow nod, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. "The wheel of fate turns in ways we cannot predict. May it guide you down the right path," he said.

"And let me give you a piece of advice—be wary of 'God,'" he added.

Before Eryon could respond, the old man's form dissolved into a thick mist, swirling briefly before vanishing completely—leaving behind nothing but silence, and the apple in Eryon's hand.

Eryon let out a slow breath. "I really do seem like a protagonist," he muttered. "And what did he mean by being wary of God? Does he know I'm not a religious person?"

He turned the apple over in his palm, recalling the old man's words. The forest around him felt… different. The trees stretched taller, their leaves almost unnaturally vibrant. Even the air held an unusual charge, an invisible hum of energy.

Ignoring the unease creeping through him, he took a bite.

The taste was rich, sweet yet subtly sharp, almost electrifying on his tongue. But aside from its incredible flavor, he felt… nothing.

"Hmph, a strange old man with strange gifts," he murmured. "Well, at least the apple was worth eating."

Finishing it off, he rolled his shoulders and prepared to hunt for more prey.

But just as he took a step forward, his vision blurred.

A wave of dizziness crashed into him, his limbs suddenly unsteady. His breath hitched.

Then pain.

A searing, splitting agony that shot through his skull, as if something was trying to burrow its way into his mind.

His fingers clenched into fists as he stumbled, teeth gritted. "Damn that old man!" he spat.

The world tilted—then everything went black.

----

Time passed. The golden sunlight had long faded, replaced by the silver glow of the moon piercing through the towering trees.

A low groan escaped Eryon's lips.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, pressing a palm against his pounding head. "What the hell happened to me?" he muttered.

Fragments of memory drifted back—the old man, the apple, the sharp pain before darkness took him. His jaw tightened. "That old man must've done something to me."

His mind felt hazy, his recollections scattered. He could only remember arriving in Aden Forest, defeating a Warg, and meeting the mysterious old man.

"Whatever. It's over now," he muttered.

Rising to his feet, he took in his surroundings. The forest seemed even more alive at night, filled with the rustle of unseen creatures and the distant calls of nocturnal predators.

Eryon ran a quick check on himself. No visible injuries. No lingering pain. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Just as he turned to leave—

A low, guttural growl sliced through the silence.

He froze.

Slowly, he turned, eyes locking onto a reptilian beast crouched in the underbrush. It was massive—almost the size of a crocodile—its obsidian scales reflecting the moonlight in jagged patterns.

The creature bared its fangs, saliva dripping from its maw as it coiled its muscles, ready to strike.

Eryon exhaled, tightening his grip on Durandal.

"You picked the wrong prey, lizard," he said, voice calm, steady.

The beast lunged.

Eryon sidestepped effortlessly, his blade flashing as he struck. The battle was swift, decisive.

The creature collapsed, lifeless.

[You have successfully stolen the lizard's power. Congratulations, your dexterity has increased by +1]

Eryon smirked. "Not bad. A little extra power never hurts."

With Durandal resting lightly in his grasp, he turned toward the depths of the forest.

"Let's see what else this place has to offer."