Daylight Between Shadows

The forest was never truly silent.

Even in this hostile, alien world, there was a rhythm — the dull thrum of distant movement, the screeches of unseen predators, the creak of twisted bark groaning under unseen strain. Luciel had grown accustomed to the background noise during his recovery. So when it stopped, he noticed.

It began subtly.

The ambient mana shifted — the current, ever-chaotic and over-saturated in this Gate, slowed. Like a breath being held. As if the forest itself had paused.

His breathing had been steady. His mind had been sifting through fragments of scattered knowledge, reorganizing plans, calculating long-term priorities.

But now, all thoughts were shoved aside.

He didn't move. Not yet.

Stillness was a weapon, and Luciel wielded it with precision.

A faint pulse of foreign mana brushed against the edge of his perception, a presence, barely noticeable but he caught the subtle shift in the mana outside the alcove.

It was wild, sharp-edged and without discipline, but not overwhelming. The creature behind it wasn't strong by this world's standards — but Luciel's body was still recovering. In his current state, even a low-tier predator could end him.

He reached to his side, fingers brushing the chilled stone wall of the alcove. No tremors. No vibrations.

The creature wasn't approaching directly. It was circling. Testing.

A predator's patience.

Luciel's gaze swept the alcove again. The structure itself was crude, a natural wedge of rock formed where two massive boulders leaned together. The entrance faced north — narrow, half-covered by a curtain of ivy-like moss. Shadows clung thickly to the corners, masking his presence, but it wasn't a fortress.

A persistent creature would find its way in.

Luciel's hand moved to the flattest stone beside him — a palm-sized shard of broken rock.

It wasn't ideal — but then, nothing here ever was. He pulled it closer, fingers wrapping around the uneven handle. The edge glittered faintly, frost still clinging to its surface from his last attempt at mana infusion.

Even that small effort had cost him.

The backlash was subtle now, but ever-present — a pulsing tension behind his sternum, where his core still refused to stabilize. Every attempt to pull in mana ignited tremors through his nerves. The Gate's energy was too dense, too untamed.

So he adapted.

Instead of forcing internal flow, he would shape what surrounded him.

Luciel reached outward. The chill of ambient frost responded, sluggish but present. He cupped his other hand, drawing the threads of elemental mana together. A thin layer of frost materialized in the air, swirling slowly before hardening into a narrow spike, brittle but sharp.

The creation cracked slightly as he held it. Not perfect. But sufficient.

Another pulse of foreign mana.

Closer.

Luciel moved, slow and quiet. He pressed himself deeper into the alcove's back wall, his breathing shallow. Every shift of his limbs sent aches through his ribs, his side still tender from bruising and frost-numbed muscle. But he endured it.

He dragged a loose rock toward the entrance, positioning it near the side. Not a barrier — just weight. Something he could knock down later.

The alcove floor sloped slightly near the edge. A natural funnel. He marked it mentally, visualizing potential trajectories. If the creature entered there, he'd have one shot. Maybe two. Then it would be too close.

He held the frost spike like a dart.

Not to fight.

To misdirect.

Another shift — this time audible. A rustle. A branch cracking under weight.

Luciel stilled.

Then it appeared.

Its shape was vaguely canine. A wolf-like, perhaps, in its original form — but time within the Gate had warped it beyond recognition. Its back arched unnaturally, protrusions of crystal spiking from its spine and ribs. One eye was missing; the other glowed with a faint green hue, flickering like a dying ember.

The creature moved cautiously, sniffing the air. Its pawsteps were silent, despite its bulk. Even in corruption, it remained a predator.

Luciel didn't throw.

Not yet.

He let the beast move closer, its head shifting from side to side. The creature crept toward the alcove's mouth, twitching as it brushed the hanging moss.

He moved.

The frost spike shot from his hand.

But not at the creature.

It struck a rock to the side, fracturing loudly. At the same time, Luciel gathered a condensed burst of mana and slammed it into the floor just behind a loose shelf of stone.

The Gate's volatile mana responded violently.

A loud crack echoed through the alcove — stone falling onto stone, a mimicry of a cave-in. Dust exploded outward, and for a moment, vision was stolen.

The creature snarled, startled. It jerked back, head whipping around. The sound hadn't come from directly in front — it came from behind. From deeper in the rock.

It retreated a step. Then two.

Luciel watched, frozen.

Another growl, then the beast turned, leaping back into the undergrowth.

Gone.

Silence returned — not natural, but tentative.

Luciel waited, pulse slow, body aching.

Five minutes.

Ten.

No return.

Only then did he exhale.

The frost spike had disintegrated on impact. The stone slab he'd cracked now hung looser than before. His body, tense and aching, protested every breath.

But he was alive.

Luciel remained still a little longer, replaying the encounter in his mind.

The creature's behavior had been… wrong. It hadn't moved like a lone predator. It paused, circled, studied. Not instinctual. Almost deliberate.

And the crystals.

Mana corruption wasn't rare in unstable Gates, but this was different. The growths weren't just mutations — they looked like conduits. Amplifiers.

As if something had shaped them for a purpose.

Luciel leaned against the stone, letting his mind drift.

Not out of fatigue — but calculation.

This wasn't an isolated incident. The monsters here didn't behave as they should. Either the Gate itself had some form of will… or something else was guiding them.

Another variable. Another threat.

He reached for the wall behind him and traced a small line into the stone with the sharpened shard. A notch, thin and clean.

Then another, crossing it diagonally.

A mark.

"Day 2."

He stared at it.

Time held no meaning in this place. The sky remained murky, the light strange and uneven. But he would count it. He would measure it.

Because no matter how foreign this Gate was — he was still Luciel Eloi Vaelmont.

And he had no intention of dying in a place that refused to name itself.