Just A Matter Of Time.
Smoke still clung to his skin.The scent of seared flesh lingered—bitter, sharp—mingling with the rot thick in the poisoned air.
Uriel lay on his side beside the fading fire, arms curled tight against his chest, eyes half-lidded and unfocused.
He couldn't tell if he was shivering from the blood loss or the pain.Maybe both.
His limbs felt distant. Numb in places, searing in others. The cauterized wounds along his arms throbbed with a deep, pulsing heat, as though fire still lived under the skin.
But he wasn't bleeding anymore.He was still alive.
He forced himself upright, groaning as his muscles resisted. Every movement felt like dragging rusted chains.But still—he moved.Still—he breathed.
Ahead, the pool waited.Dark. Still. Oily, like it didn't belong in this world.
He squinted.There—beneath the surface—movement.A ripple. Then a flash of silver-green.
Fish.
They glided unnaturally, their scales reflecting strange hues under the dim light—red, violet, green. Like oil-slicked mirrors.Wrong.Poisonous, probably.
But they moved.They lived.And they could be eaten.
Uriel staggered to the water's edge, knees trembling. The fire had dulled the worst of the chill, but his skin still twitched with every breath.
He crouched low, watching the water carefully, timing his lunge.
The first fish slipped away.The second thrashed out of his hands.
On the third try, he caught it—writhing, gasping—and slammed it hard against a rock.Then another.And another.
By the time he stopped, he had four twitching bodies glistening on stone. Their flesh shimmered unnaturally, gills pulsing faintly, but Uriel didn't flinch.
He rebuilt the fire, feeding it dry bark and brittle leaves, coaxing the flames higher.Then he skewered the fish with sharpened sticks, held them over the flame, and watched them cook.
The smell was strange—tangy, like burning metal with a citrus twist.Not natural.Not clean.But it was food.
He bit into one, teeth sinking into hot, soft flesh.
The taste hit hard.Tangy. Bitter.Wrong.
His tongue numbed. A faint sting spread along his jaw.Poison.
But his stomach didn't clench.His breath didn't falter.No sweat.No dizziness.
His body didn't reject it.
The burning inside him—the one left by the pool—rose quietly, heat smoldering in his veins.The poison faded before it could take root.
He finished all four fish. Slowly. Mechanically.Not for pleasure—only survival.
Then, still chewing the last bite, he looked back at the pool.The surface was still again.Calm.Deceptive.
"How poisonous was that water, really?"
The question didn't leave his lips, but it rang in his skull like a bell.
"How lethal does something have to be for the Structure to call it impossible?"
He hadn't bathed in it.Hadn't soaked in it.He had only drunk from it—cupped his hands and swallowed it down like filth—and still, the system had whispered:
Impossible.
And yet, here he was.Alive.Changed.
He looked down at his arms.The wounds were sealed, blackened from the fire. His blood—thicker now—moved slow beneath his skin.
He touched his forearm.Still warm. Still real.Still his.
How did I survive something the Structure called impossible?
The thought circled his mind like a vulture, picking at what little strength he had left.
It didn't make sense.He should've died.That water should've killed him.
He sat still, staring at the fire, trying to make sense of it.But there was no sense to be made.Not now.
He let out a slow breath—the kind that carried exhaustion too deep for words.
There was no purpose in chasing an answer he couldn't reach.Not yet.
Cleanse
Uriel rose slowly, joints aching, body stiff beneath layers of grime and dried blood.
The fire crackled behind him, low and steady, casting flickering shadows that danced across the twisted trees.
He stared toward the pool, its surface stagnant and slick with rainbow film—more toxin than water.
"If I don't wash this blood off… it'll find me."
The thought pulsed through his skull like a drumbeat.
"The Stalker is drawn to scent. And I reek of dried blood."
He peeled off his shirt first—stiff with dried sweat and blood—then his trousers, then finally his undergarments.
The cold air bit at his skin, the cauterized wounds along his arms and sides still tender, raw.Only the shallow cuts remained open, sluggishly weeping.
One by one, he dipped his clothes into the pool, rinsing them in the corrupted water.The fluid clung to the fabric like oil, and the smell… gods, the smell.It turned his stomach, sharp and fetid, like meat left too long beneath a poisoned sun.
But what choice did he have?
After wringing them out, he draped each piece over a crude rack of branches near the fire—makeshift, but functional.
Then, with a deep breath and a muttered curse, he stepped into the water.
It stung like acid.
The moment it touched his burns, his whole body jerked—back arched, breath hissed through clenched teeth.But he didn't stop.
He scrubbed the blood from his skin, from his hair, from beneath his fingernails.Every inch had to be clean.
"This water smells like rot and ruin," he gagged, voice hoarse, trying not to retch."But if the Structure's right… I'll survive it."
When he emerged, skin tingling and stinging, the fire welcomed him like an old friend.
His clothes were still damp—only half-dried despite the passing time—but he couldn't afford to wait any longer.He dressed quickly, ignoring the clinging wetness, then stood before the pool.
Decision
Uriel's mind burned with clarity.
The fire crackled behind him, its flickering glow painting the twisted landscape with shadows.His body still ached, his skin raw and tender from the cauterized wounds, but he didn't care.
That pain was nothing compared to the clarity that washed over him now.
The Structure had said to run.To endure.It had never told him to fight.
It had expected him to cower.
To flee.
To survive.
It didn't think he could kill this monster.
His fist clenched at his side, the sting of his shallow cuts burning at his movements, but he ignored it.
He wouldn't wait for the Stalker to come for him.
He wouldn't be the prey anymore.
He would make this creature his prey. And he would prove the Structure wrong.
He didn't have time to feel the fear that would have gripped him before. He didn't have time for hesitation.
He turned toward the pool, knowing what he had to do next.
Uriel glanced at the fire, then returned his gaze to the task ahead.
There was no turning back now.
Uriel's eyes swept across the dead, poisoned land, searching for anything he could use to craft a trap that might kill the Stalker.
He didn't have time to waste. The Stalker wouldn't give him that luxury.
His gaze returned to the pool. The oily surface shimmered with a rainbow sheen, but beneath it, silver shapes still moved.
Fish.
He crouched low again, waited—motionless. When one darted close, he struck, snatching it from the water with practiced speed.
The fish writhed in his grip, its scales slick and wrong, but he didn't flinch.He had work to do.
Uriel carried it back to the fire, then jabbed a stick deep into the flames and let it burn red-hot.
While the stick heated, he searched for a jagged stone, found one, and used it to slice open his right palm.Blood poured freely, and he squeezed the wound tighter, letting the thick red flow coat the fish until it was slick with scent.
Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the burning stick and pressed it to his open wound.The hiss of searing flesh filled the air, followed by the stench.
He didn't scream.He wouldn't give himself that weakness.He just bit down hard, his body trembling as he sealed the wound shut.
Then he moved.
He found a low bundle of rocks, stacked unevenly but tall enough to serve his purpose.Behind them, he set the blood-soaked fish—carefully, precisely—nestled just out of sight but close enough that the stench would drift.
Next, he went to the trees.
He snapped off branch after branch, thin and splintered, and returned to the rocks.With slow precision, he stabbed them into the dirt behind the stone pile, arranging them into the crude silhouette of a human figure.
From a distance, it might look like someone crouched or standing just out of view—a shadow cast behind the rocks.
It didn't need to be perfect.It just needed to distract the Stalker.
Uriel's next step was rope.
He gathered every vine he could find, tearing them from twisted trees, knotting them together until he had a thick length of makeshift cord.
Then he searched for a boulder—something massive, heavy enough to drag even that nightmare down.
He found one just up the slope.
Grunting with effort, he tied the vine around it tightly, looping the other end into a snare and placing it in a rough circle near the baited fish.
Everything was set.
The rope stretched taut, hidden beneath a thin layer of dirt and leaves.All he had to do was wait.
When the Stalker stepped close enough… he'd push the boulder, and the poison below would do the rest.
Uriel crouched behind a crooked tree, eyes locked on the trap.The scent of blood lingered in the air, mixing with smoke and rot.
Now it was just a matter of time.