Cold Calculation

Luciel's crimson eyes, sharp and cold, stared unblinking at the jagged ceiling of the rocky alcove. The air inside was damp, heavy with the scent of earth and wet stone. Faint echoes of distant howls filtered through the dense forest outside, a constant reminder of the world's hostility. But here, within this shallow pocket of shelter, Luciel lay still, cataloging every sensation with clinical detachment.

A dull, bone-deep ache spread through his torso, radiating from the sharp sting of fractured ribs. His muscles screamed with every subtle movement, tendons stretched and torn in ways they shouldn't have been. The coppery taste of dried blood lingered in his mouth, mixing with the metallic scent of old wounds. His breathing remained shallow — not out of fear, but necessity. Every deep breath was punished by a sharp jab beneath his ribs.

His gaze dropped to his hands. Pale, slender fingers trembled slightly, a mixture of exhaustion and damage. He could feel it — ligaments strained, bones bruised. Nothing life-threatening, but debilitating enough.

He ran a cold, calculating assessment through his mind.

Dislocated shoulder… three fractured ribs… a partially torn muscle in his left thigh… scattered bruising and surface wounds. His survival so far was nothing short of improbable.

He flexed his fingers slowly, ignoring the flare of pain.

What are the limits?

He shifted carefully, forcing himself into a seated position against the alcove's uneven wall. Every motion sent sharp, pulsing aches through his frame, but Luciel endured them in silence, lips pressed into a thin line. He had no illusions about his condition. In this state, facing even a minor creature would be suicidal. His body was fragile — his strength, agility, and stamina pitiful.

But mana — that was another matter.

Closing his eyes, Luciel drew in a steady, shallow breath. The process came instinctively, though the technique was crude, half-forgotten muscle memory from both lives. He reached inward, searching for the faint glimmer of mana within his core.

There.

A cold spark, nestled deep within his abdomen. Unlike the sluggish, almost reluctant mana he remembered before — this was faster, livelier. The response time was quicker. A gentle pull, and threads of mana began gathering with surprising ease.

A faint mist began to rise from his fingertips — cold, pale, and unstable. It shimmered in the dim light, evaporating almost as soon as it appeared. Still, it was progress. He gritted his teeth against the effort. His control was shaky, the mana fluctuating, thin streams slipping through the cracks of his grasp.

Unacceptable.

Luciel focused harder. Visualized the mana condensing, sharpening like a blade. This time, the mist solidified slightly, clinging to his hand in wisps of translucent frost. The air grew colder around him, the temperature dipping perceptibly. A few drops of water that clung to the rocky ceiling crystallized, forming tiny, jagged shards.

A small, grim satisfaction settled in his chest.

Good. At least this much remains.

Now came the difficult part. He directed the gathered mana toward his injuries — specifically, the sharp, hot burn of torn muscle in his thigh. Icy tendrils seeped into the wound, numbing the pain and slowing the inflamed tissue's pulse. The cold spread gradually, freezing the bleeding vessels, reducing swelling.

The process was crude, temporary — but effective.

Luciel applied the same technique to his ribs next, encasing the fractures in a thin sheath of frost. It dulled the pain, hardened the area enough to prevent further damage with minor movements. A deeper injury might have defied this method, but for now, it would serve.

His breathing steadied. The sharpness in his chest subsided to a manageable ache.

This will hold. Barely.

Opening his eyes, Luciel allowed himself a moment to assess the change. His control was far from perfect, the mana threads still flickering, unstable. Yet the speed… the gathering had been much faster than anything he'd experienced in his previous life.

Faster… denser.

Even with his crippled physical condition, his mana gathering rate had improved — drastically. There was no logical reason for it. No technique he'd learned before, no prior inheritance, no bloodline advantage had produced this level of efficiency. Before, it took time and effort, layers of patience. Now it came like a tide, eager to answer his call.

Why?

He considered the possibilities.

Is it the merging of souls? An unforeseen side effect?

Or… is it this body? Or the environment?

Too many unknowns.

For now, it was enough to know that his affinity for mana had improved — particularly with Ice. He didn't question the element itself; that had always been his affinity before. What puzzled him was the potency. The cold felt sharper, deeper. The ease of it unsettling.

Luciel shifted again, testing the support of his makeshift ice brace around his ribs. The pain was tolerable now — distant. Good enough for limited movement, though he knew better than to overestimate his recovery. He had perhaps a few hours of relative mobility before the ice degraded, or his weakened state caught up to him.

Next priority. Shelter, resources, safety.

He scanned the alcove.

The space was narrow — barely wide enough for him to lie down. The ceiling low, walls jagged and cold. It offered concealment but little else. No natural resources here, no water. The chill was preferable — it slowed bleeding and masked scent trails — but it wouldn't do for long-term shelter.

Beyond the alcove, through the screen of tangled roots and vines, the forest pulsed with quiet menace. Shadows shifted between towering, ancient trees. Distant sounds drifted on the wind — guttural growls, the snap of branches under something heavy, the shriek of night-creatures unseen.

Luciel noted them all.

He could tell from the patterns — there were territories here. Predators and prey. The howls were moving, circling. No immediate threat nearby, but it wouldn't stay that way forever.

Time. I need more time.

He took mental inventory. No food. No water. No weapon. His mana control unstable, his body weak. Staying here would mean death, eventually. Moving was inevitable. The question was when.

Not yet.

He needed rest. Time to regain minimal strength, reinforce the ice braces on his injuries, and gather more mana. Without a weapon or solid mana techniques, any confrontation would be fatal.

He leaned his head back against the cool stone, letting his eyes half-close. A lesser man might have despaired. Might have panicked, cursed fate, screamed for help. Luciel did none of these. Emotions were irrelevant. Only logic mattered now.

Survive. Adapt. Analyze.

He would test this body's limits.

Refine his mana control.

Map out the surrounding area.

He didn't need companions. Didn't need comfort. He only needed strength — cold, absolute, unquestionable.

The sound of shifting leaves made his crimson eyes snap open. Movement. Far off, but approaching.

Not yet visible — but there.

He watched the treeline carefully. The light was dim, the air thick with mist. Pale slivers of moonlight filtered through gaps in the canopy, illuminating patches of ground like scattered pools of light. In one of them, a flicker — the quick, sinuous movement of something low to the ground.

Too distant to identify. But it confirmed what Luciel already suspected.

He would not be left alone for long.

Slowly, carefully, he gathered what little mana he could, fortifying the ice around his ribs and leg. The effort left his vision swimming, dark spots dancing in his peripheral. His stamina was nearly depleted.

He couldn't afford to lose consciousness now.

Another sound. A faint snarl, followed by a rustle. Closer.

He pressed his back against the stone wall, eyes narrowed. He could see the outline now — a hunched shape moving between the trees. Not large. Perhaps a scout for something bigger. Not worth the risk of engagement.

He waited.

Minutes passed.

The creature eventually moved on, vanishing into the undergrowth. The night resumed its steady, oppressive rhythm.

Luciel exhaled slowly.

He would stay here tonight — conserve what little strength he had. In the morning, with better light and a clearer sense of his surroundings, he would move. Search for a better position. Water. Resources. Anything.

But for now — rest.

His crimson gaze remained fixed on the shifting forest, watching, calculating. The cold mist from his mana still clung faintly to the alcove walls, little wisps of ice mist curling in the air like pale smoke.

Tomorrow.

He would begin again.