Anything for survival

Each step tore at the cuts scattered across his body, his breath rasping through blood-choked lungs. The world swam—rot, fog, dead trees—but he didn't stop. He couldn't.

Behind him, the cracked whispers of snapping twigs and bending bark echoed like a countdown.Crack... crack... crack...The Stalker was hunting.

He stumbled through a patch of thorned vines, thorns tearing into his calves, but he didn't flinch. His blood was already on the wind. The thing would smell him soon—if it hadn't already.

Pain flared in his ribs. He couldn't keep running.He needed to disappear.

Not behind a tree. Not in a bush.It would smell him.He needed something worse than himself.

He dropped to his knees, scanning the blighted grove, heart thundering like a war drum.

And then—there.

Half-submerged in the mud, collapsed against the roots of a dead tree, lay a corpse. Bloated. Split open at the abdomen. Rot gnawed at the skin like teeth.

The smell hit him like a hammer.But Uriel didn't gag.He couldn't afford to.

With trembling hands, he dragged himself toward it. Flies scattered. Maggots writhed.

The stomach cavity had burst partially, but it wasn't enough.He shoved the body open with blood-slick fingers and crawled inside.

The cold hit first. Then the stink. Then the wet.

Rotting flesh clung to his skin, soaked into his wounds, filled his mouth with the taste of death. His body screamed in revulsion, but he forced himself still, curled within the shell of another soul long gone.

Crack... crack...The sound was close now.

He held his breath.Silence.

Then—footsteps. Wet and slow.

They passed near.Paused.

Uriel didn't move.He could hear it standing there. Waiting. Watching.

Then the footsteps turned.And moved on.

Uriel stayed buried in rot, every nerve burning.

Alive.

For now.

Uriel's body was covered in slime and gore as he crawled out of the bloated, rotting corpse of the monster. The putrid stench of decay hit him like a wave, the air thick with the scent of death. His hands, slick with the remains of the creature, trembled as they gripped the ground beneath him.

His head was spinning from the toxic fumes, and his vision was hazy. The pain from his cuts—each one a cruel reminder of the torment he'd suffered—was sharp and relentless.

But it didn't matter.He had to keep moving.

With every ounce of strength he had left, Uriel pushed himself free, his body dragging out of the corpse, the weight of exhaustion nearly breaking him. The ground beneath him felt like it was shifting, but he didn't have time to care. Not now.

The Stalker was still out there, hunting him.

With a ragged breath, Uriel collapsed to his hands and knees. His body felt like it was made of stone, every movement slow and painful.

His throat was dry, his hunger gnawing at him, but he couldn't stop.Not now.

Pushing himself up, he stumbled forward, each step shaky and unsteady. His legs barely held him, and his feet dragged through the dirt.

The hunger inside him felt like it was consuming him from the inside out, and the gnawing pain in his stomach only spurred him forward.

His vision blurred, the world tilting as his exhaustion caught up with him. He could feel the weight of every injury, every cut and bruise that marked his body, but none of it mattered.

Survival was all that mattered.

He staggered a few more steps, then dropped to the ground. His hands scraped against the dirt as he tried to get back on his feet, his body giving out again.

He was so tired.Too tired to care.

But then, he saw it.

A stretch of dark, murky water, nestled between a cluster of gnarled trees.It was sickly, almost unnatural, but it was water.

Uriel dragged himself toward it, his body barely responding to his commands.

He collapsed in front of the water, reaching out with trembling hands. His vision swam, and everything around him felt distant. His mouth was dry, his throat raw, and the burning hunger inside him raged.

Without thinking, Uriel cupped his hands and dipped them into the stagnant water.

The scent of rot hit him before it even touched his lips—decay, death, something far worse than what he'd already endured.

But he didn't care.He drank, the liquid tasting of poison and filth, but it was water.It was something.

His stomach churned and burned, ripping at him, but his thirst was more painful, so he kept drinking until his head spun, the world slipping away from him.

And then—Darkness.

Uriel woke up, his head pounding and his body still heavy with exhaustion.

He blinked against the harsh light that seemed to press down on him, almost suffocating in its intensity.

His senses were sluggish, every part of him crying out in protest as his body begged for more rest.

But the words that echoed in his mind jolted him awake.

[You have done the impossible. You have survived the poison pool. Your body has undergone transformation. You are now immune to most poisons. Your blood is now both poison and cure to that poison.]

the Structure's message reverberated through him, piercing the haze in his mind.

He blinked, disoriented, but the words slowly made sense, sinking into him like a weight he didn't know he was carrying.

Immune to poison.

Uriel sat up, his head spinning as the world around him came into sharper focus. He could feel something strange within him—something different.

It was as if the poison that had ravaged his body was now a part of him, woven into the very fabric of his being.

He inhaled deeply, as though testing something.

The air—thick with poison, oppressive and heavy just moments ago—seemed lighter now. Easier.

A slight cough rumbled in his chest as his lungs expanded, but it was nothing compared to the constant choking, the sharp sting that used to claw at his throat.

He could breathe.He could actually breathe.

His chest felt fuller, clearer, and the oppressive weight in the air was just... lighter.

Like the very land was no longer suffocating him.He could still feel the poison in the air, but it didn't hurt him now.It didn't claw at him.His lungs no longer screamed in pain.

A bitter laugh slipped from his throat, dry and ragged. His chest tightened as he exhaled, staring up at the empty sky, realizing just how close he had come to death in these past few days.

How many times had he thought he wouldn't survive?How many times had he been sure the Stalker—or the next poison or the bleeding—would be his end?

Yet, here he was, alive.Somehow.

Uriel looked at his arms.

Still bleeding, but the blood was different.Thicker.Slower.

The wounds wept, but not as much as before.Still, they wouldn't close on their own.He had to act.

He staggered to his feet, scanning the trees.Dry branches.Dead bark.Bits of moss.All he needed.

He dropped to his knees and worked with trembling hands. He stripped bark, gathered tinder, and cleared a small circle in the dirt.

No bow drill. Not like this.He took a dry stick, found a flat surface, and started the agonizing task.

Rubbing it between his hands—fast, harder—pain biting into his palms.

He worked until his arms shook.Smoke rose.A coal glowed.

He fed it gently.Coaxing flame.Breathing life into the ember.And finally—fire.

Uriel broke a thicker branch, shoved one end into the flame, and waited.The tip darkened, cracked.

It glowed red—faint, but real.

He didn't wait.He pressed it to his wound.

The sound—sizzle.The smell—burning meat.The pain—blinding.

He screamed, body convulsing from the shock.

But he didn't stop.

Another wound.Another brand.More pain.

Eyes wet.Breaths shallow.

But still—alive.

Still fighting.