Red Moss, Black Stone

'GRRRNNKK!'

The roar vibrated through the rock fissure, through Riven's bones, drowning out even the frantic hammering of his own heart. The hulking silhouette of the Grave-Root Snapper filled the narrow entrance, blocking the faint fungal light, its multiple red eyes burning with territorial fury.

Thick, bony plates rippled beneath its coarse, earth-caked hide, and sharp tusks, stained dark with something Riven didn't want to identify, jutted from its powerful jaws. Saliva dripped onto the stone floor.

SCRAPE... SCRAPE

It lowered its head, pawing the ground impatiently, preparing its devastating charge into his confined space.

Trapped. There was no room to manoeuvre, nowhere to retreat further. Sixteen cycles of enforced calm, of suppressing the storm within, felt utterly useless against this immediate, brutal reality. Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him.

Instinct screamed. He scrambled backwards, pressing himself against the cold, damp stone, simultaneously fumbling inside his tunic for the ironwood charm.

"Be Calm! Focus! Ignite the spark!" his mind shrieked, trying to impose discipline learned in quiet grottos onto a situation demanding raw survival.

CRUNCH-THUMP!

The Snapper lunged. Its massive head and shoulders slammed into the fissure opening, the sheer force jarring Riven's teeth. Tusks gouged stone inches from his leg. The beast's rank breath washed over him – hot, fetid, smelling of rot and blood. It struggled, wedging itself further into the opening, razor-sharp claws scrabbling for purchase.

Riven finally grasped the charm, pressing it desperately against his palm Mark. He tried to find stillness, tried to generate the stable silver flicker of mana, thinking vaguely of shaping it into a blinding light, a concussive pulse, anything.

But there was no calm here, only terror and adrenaline. His internal essence, already depleted and sluggish, responded not with controlled stability, but with a surge of pure, chaotic panic mirroring his own.

His Marks flared – not silver, but a jagged, uncontrolled burst of violet and angry red light erupting across his arm, visible even in the gloom. He felt a tearing sensation within him as a wave of raw, undirected power lashed out. It wasn't mana shaped by will; it was pure, chaotic essence ripping free, uncontrolled, unfiltered.

CRACKLE-SQUELCH

The wave slammed into the Snapper's head at point-blank range. There was no explosion, but a sickening sound, like wet wood splitting under immense pressure. The beast recoiled with a high-pitched squeal of agony, shaking its massive head violently. One of its multi-faceted eyes had burst, leaking thick, dark fluid. The bony plate on its snout was cracked, smoking slightly.

The backlash hit Riven like a physical blow. The uncontrolled surge ripped through his own energy pathways, leaving searing pain in its wake. His vision momentarily went white, and the already low reserves of his core Essence felt utterly drained, leaving behind a chilling emptiness. He collapsed further back against the rock wall, gasping, the charm falling from his numb fingers. His Marks went completely dark again, the brief flare extinguished, leaving only phantom aches.

ROOOOAR!

But the Snapper wasn't dead. Injured, enraged, it bellowed again and surged forward once more, its remaining eyes locked onto Riven with pure murderous intent. It was still partially wedged, but its claws found purchase, pulling its bulk further in.

Desperation clawed at Riven. All he had was no mana left to channel, no time for the charm, no room to dodge. He looked around wildly in the dim light – loose rocks? Yes. Near his foot was a jagged piece of stone, about the size of his head, likely dislodged by the beast's initial charge.

As the Snapper lunged again, jaws snapping, Riven reacted on pure instinct. He grabbed the rock – heavy, rough-edged – and with a desperate surge of adrenaline-fueled strength he didn't know he possessed, he heaved it upwards. He slammed it down with all his might onto the beast's already damaged snout, aiming for the cracked bone plate near the burst-eye socket.

'CRACK!'

The sound was sickeningly final.

The Snapper's charge halted. Its remaining eyes glazed over. A shudder ran through its massive frame, and then it slumped forward, its immense weight completely blocking the fissure entrance, its final exhale a wet, rattling sigh.

Silence.

Profound, ringing silence, broken only by Riven's own ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of his heart. He stared at the massive, still form wedged before him, at the dark blood beginning to pool on the stone floor, mixing with the ichor from the burst eye.

He had killed it.

Not with controlled mana weaving like an Enclave Weaver, not with the brute force of a Locus Heart Warden, but with panicked, chaotic energy and a desperate, crude blow with a rock. The reality washed over him – cold, stark, and strangely numbing. This wasn't training. This wasn't a theory. This was survival in the wild Umbralwood.

Ruthless. Brutal. Final.

The adrenaline crashed, leaving him weak, trembling, his body screaming from the exertion and the earlier essence backlash. Pain flared along his arm where his Marks had erupted. He cautiously touched the area; the skin felt burnt, overly sensitive. His head swam from essence depletion.

He needed to rest, needed to recover. But a new fear quickly replaced the immediate terror. The noise. The roar, the crash of rock, the squeal of pain, the energy surge – however contained within the fissure, sounds traveled in the deep woods. And energy signatures… that uncontrolled burst of chaotic mana would have been like a flare in the darkness to any sensitive creature, or worse, any Enclave tracker using specialized Resonance detectors.

He couldn't stay here. This fissure was now marked by violence, blood, and a massive energy signature pointing directly at him. The Snapper's carcass blocked the entrance, but also trapped him inside with the smell of blood, which would draw scavengers – or worse.

With immense effort, Riven pushed himself away from the wall. Every muscle protested. He located the fallen ironwood charm, pocketing it with trembling fingers. He looked at the dead beast blocking the entrance. Could he even move it? No. He scanned the fissure walls again in the dim fungal light. Was there another way out? Deeper in?

Yes. Near the back, partially hidden by roots, was a smaller crack, barely wide enough for him to squeeze through. Where it led, he had no idea – deeper into the rock? Another tunnel system? It didn't matter. It was away from here.

Just as he was about to move, he remembered basic Enclave lore, often dismissed as relevant only to Wardens or foragers – that powerful dimspawn held concentrated energy within them.

An Essence Core. Potentially unstable, potentially tainted, but raw power. Something he desperately needed, cut off from the Enclave's resources.

Ignoring his exhaustion and the risk of lingering, he moved back towards the dead Snapper's head. Where was the core usually located in these types? Chest cavity? Skull? He vaguely recalled diagrams showing a nexus point near the heart or primary nerve cluster. Using the same sharp rock he'd used as a weapon, he began hacking crudely at the thick hide and bony plates on the creature's upper chest, just behind the forelegs. It was tough work, his muscles screaming, his hands slick with blood and ichor.

Finally, the rock broke through into a small cavity. Nestled within pulsing, dark tissue was a fist-sized object – a crystalline structure, deep red and black, emitting a faint, residual warmth and a low, discordant hum. The Essence Core. It felt potent but also carried the Snapper's savage, earthy energy and a faint trace of the chaotic backlash from Riven's own power that had helped kill it.

No time for refinement, barely time to think. He prized the core. It was surprisingly heavy, and warm in his trembling hand. He quickly wiped it partially clean on his tunic and secured it deep within an inner pocket, the faint thrum against his skin a disturbing reminder of its power and origin.

Gathering the last of his strength, ignoring the screaming protests of his body and the alarming emptiness where his Essence should be, Riven forced himself towards the narrow crack. He glanced back one last time at the slain beast, at the dark stains spreading on the stone.

The first kill. The first step on a path he didn't choose but now had to walk. He squeezed into the tight opening, the rough rock scraping against his cloak, and pushed himself forward into the unknown darkness beyond, leaving the echoes of the fight—and perhaps the last vestiges of his Enclave-sheltered innocence—behind in the blood-soaked fissure.

The hunt, both by the forest's dangers and the Enclave's Wardens, was truly on.