Frying Pan To Fire

Auren prided himself on certain qualities—skillfulness that revolved mostly around the sword.

To him, wielding a blade was an art. Even as a child, he had mastered the basics to the very letter, perfecting every motion with unwavering dedication. He had done it to impress his father, but the only response he ever received was a cold nod.

Over time, he had learned to do it for himself. And he had come to love it.

Every swing carried a rhythm, a pulse that resonated with him. He relished the way the wind parted before his blade, the way it curled around his body, submitting to the trajectory of his movements.

The sword was not just a weapon. It was an extension of his will, a beautiful form of expression. The ability to wield it freely—no matter the circumstance—was, in his eyes, the true definition of freedom.

But that was the problem.

With several broken bones and a bound hand, that freedom was slipping from his grasp.

Auren entertained the thought of adapting, of finding a way to make use of his shackled hands. But his body, mangled and unresponsive, refused to cooperate.

The only thing he could do now was roll. And even that brought a torrent of pain so excruciating he thought he might die from it.

He couldn't hear the creature move. Only its hissing—low, ominous, and growing closer.

He could sense its position, but vaguely, as if it existed somewhere between the cracks of his perception.

What was he supposed to do?

His body throbbed with agony from the mere act of shifting. His skin, bare against the biting cold, stung as if sliced by a thousand invisible knives. He was vulnerable, half-naked, bleeding, and all that he had a sword clutched in his trembling grip.

He had wrenched it from the knight's grasp as he flew—just before the bastard had activated his blessing ability. Somehow, through the chaos of the fall and the brutal crash that followed, he had refused to let go.

But it was useless still.

Now, he was in the worst possible position to even attempt a swing.

With no other option, Auren made a decision.

The hissing was closing in, wrapping around him like a noose tightening around his throat. The only thing left within his control was the ability to move. Rolling might kill him—but if he had to die, he would rather dictate his own demise than perish helplessly at the mercy of some ravenous creature.

Gritting his teeth, he groaned and shifted.

Pain surged through him, white-hot and relentless. The jagged stone beneath him tore into his flesh, cold and merciless, carving fresh agony into his battered body. Every inch of movement was a fresh assault on his senses.

But there was no time to dwell on the torment.

With a sharp exhale, he turned. And rolled.

Ignoring the pain… No. Pushing through it, despite its horrendous torment, Auren forced himself forward—rolling as fast as he could. A second later, a deafening crash smashed into the spot he had just vacated.

The ground quaked beneath him, the tremor rippling through his broken body like a jolt of pure horror.

There was no time to process the direness of his situation. No time to hesitate.

He rolled. And rolled.

Every turn scraped his flesh against the jagged ground, his body a writhing mass of agony. His groans mixed with the sound of his own ragged breathing, his mind locked in a single, desperate command—keep moving.

If someone had told him that one day rolling would be his only means of survival, he would have glared at them with devilish scorn.

But here he was.

With one final roll, Auren suddenly felt the world tilt beneath him. His body pitched downward, tumbling over the edge of a steep incline. This time, he no longer had to force himself—his battered form simply obeyed gravity.

The pain, however, was more vicious. More merciless.

He groaned, choked back a cry, having no idea where he was rolling to. The world spun in a blur of darkness and cold, his body crashing against unseen edges and sharp protrusions. Then—

Impact.

His head slammed into something solid. A rock.

Before the pain could even register, his vision darkened. His mind spiraled into the abyss. He felt as though he were drowning—then he felt nothing.

***

[Congratulations]

[You have died]

[Due to your unique Curse: Requiem of a Failed Hero, you can grow through failure and death]

[Nascent ability will Devour your failures and deaths, forging you into a stronger being.]

[Nascent Ability: Devourer has devoured your death]

[You have resurrected]

[Your body grows stronger]

***

Auren wasn't sure what had just happened.

His eyes fluttered open. His head rested against the rock he had crashed into, blood crudely splattered across his face and the cold surface behind him.

But he was alive. All his pain was gone.

And floating in his vision—glowing faintly in the darkness—were runes. Words, inscribed in the air before his eyes, clearer than reality itself.

A monotone voice echoed through the haziness of his mind.

***

Name: [Auren Veyne]

Soul Name: [Not Attained]

Curse: [Requiem of a Failed Hero]

Tier: [Divine]

Soul Rank: [Nascent]

Soul Heart: [Unformed]

Curse Abilities: [Devourer]

Auren sat still, his breath shallow, staring at the sword still clenched tightly in his trembling hands. His fingers had locked around the hilt like a lifeline, refusing to let go even in death.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze.

He had fallen into some kind of pit—a colossal one.

The towering walls stretched endlessly above, their jagged surfaces swallowing what little light reached the depth. Shadows clung to the chasm like a second skin, thick and unmoving.

Then he turned. And what he saw made his blood run cold.

Bones.

Skulls.

Piled high—solidified into rock, fused together like a grotesque monument of death. They weren't scattered. They had been dumped here.

Auren's stomach twisted.

'…Wait a minute… Why would they just drop skulls?'

His thoughts raced. Something about this felt off. If people—or things—were thrown down here, it wasn't just their bones that should remain. Flesh should have rotted, bodies should have decayed over time.

Unless… they were dropped down whole.

And then devoured.

Auren's throat dried. His fingers tightened around his sword as his pulse pounded in his ears.

Something was down here. Something that killed. Something that fed.

Then, from the silence—

A shift.

Auren almost choked on his breath.

The pile of skulls began to tremble.

Something was moving beneath them. Unfolding. Rising.

His eyes widened in horror.

'Oh, crap. I'm fucked!'

He surged to his feet, staggering forward just as the sea of bones began to shift violently, a grotesque mass unfurling from below.

The pit had not just been a grave.

It had been a feeding ground.