The mist curled low against the forest floor as Corvin moved, each step silent, measured.
The Verdant Shroud was thinning around him now, the signs of civilization, even fractured as it was, slowly returning.
He moved through it like a shadow. While his body stalked forward, his mind wandered.
Comparisons surfaced.
Memories, not from this world, but from a planet where men built their empires with steel and silicon rather than stone and sorcery.
Earth.
Corvin remembered the way technology had dominated everything there.Satellites peering down from orbit, drones humming through broken cities, data flowing invisibly through the air like blood through unseen veins.
He compared it now to Valtheris. A world that lived and breathed through magic instead of circuits.
Magic was infrastructure here.Magic was economy, politics, war, science, medicine, and superstition all twisted into one suffocating web.
It fascinated him.
Earth's fictions had always portrayed magic romantically. Scholars raising armies of undead, healers knitting flesh back together with a touch, summoners bending eldritch beasts to their will.
Corvin had read hundreds of such stories. In the lifeless grey of intelligence offices.It had been one of the few comforts left to him when the real world offered only lies and deception.
But here...
Magic is different.
There were no summoners controlling vast battalions.No necromancers raising skeletons by the thousands. At least, there wasn't any in the memories he siphoned.
Here, elemental affinity was king.
Air, Fire, Water, Earth. And their secondary offspring: Lightning, Ice, Magma and other combinations. Rare elements like Blood, Dark, Light, Psychic existed, but they were exceptions, not norms.And Arcane elements, Aether, Time, Gravity, Void were myths wrapped in warnings, not tools.
Corvin found himself strangely... disappointed.
He had been hoping for darker arts.
For the cold dominion of death magic, the reshaping of life itself through power alone.For a system where his predatory instincts would have found a cleaner mirror.
Instead, the magic here was violent, direct, and often crude.
Not art. But a blunt force sharpened over generations.
He supposed it made sense.
After all, in a world like this, where strength meant survival and survival meant conquest, subtlety was often ground into dust beneath the boots of soldiers and warlords.
Still...
He could not deny the allure that rare magic whispered to him.
The darkness, the control and the ability to reshape the battlefield not with brute force, but with his mind alone.
If such powers existed, if the arcane or the forbidden still festered somewhere in the veins of Valtheris...He would find them.
And he would make them his own.
--
The fires of the orc camp had long since died down, but the stink of burned flesh still clung to the air like an accusation.
Commander Althar stood atop a shattered watchtower, arms crossed behind his back, sharp eyes scanning the smoldering ruins.
Below him, squads moved with mechanical precision, cataloging debris, dragging charred corpses into neat piles.
The Magisters had already departed.
Good.
Althar had little patience for their kind.
Academics, cloistered in ivory towers, always saw ancient curses and forbidden magics in every shadow. They chased ghosts and legends, while soldiers bled and died for real, tangible threats.
This... This was no ancient horror awakening. This was sabotage.
And sabotage meant intelligent, foreign enemies.
His mind sorted the possibilities coldly, ruthlessly.
Humans, the barbarians across the Ashen Straits were always a threat.
Three kingdoms bickering and bleeding each other dry, yet still dangerous in their desperation:
The Holy Verranate, a xenophobic theocracy worshiping the so called Flame of Purity, executing anyone who spoke against their doctrines.
The Iron March, a militaristic machine, all discipline and conquest, breeding soldiers like wheat fields.
The Guilded Court. A political cesspit, a fractious realm where knives ruled sharper than crowns, and alliances shifted with the wind.
The High Throne of their continent had been empty for a generation, and without central authority, the humans had turned on each other like starving jackals.
But jackals, even fighting, could still bite outsiders.
Then there were the Dark Elves.
He scowled at the thought.
The Umbral Synod rarely moved openly, but their assassins slipped through border defenses like mist. If anyone could orchestrate such a clean, bloodless removal of an entire military team... It would be them.
Third, there were the Feralis, the beastkin races scattered across their own wild continent, Savaryn.
They rarely organized, but when they did, they fought with brutal efficiency. Wolves, lions, even scaled draconics. Dangerous in open combat, if not so subtle in sabotage.
Lastly, there were the Demons.
The wretched continent of Velmoria seethed with their filth.
There were no true kingdoms there. Only endless war, ruled by towering Archdemons, each embodying a Sin.
Pride. Wrath. Envy. Lust. Greed. Gluttony. Sloth.
They hated each other almost as much as they hated the mortal races.
But if a lesser demon lord had rallied a raiding party across the contonent...
Althar ground his teeth silently.
It could happen.
In truth, any of these forces could be behind the ruin at the orc camp.
What mattered was that this was not some ancient magical accident.
This was a threat.
And threats demanded elimination.
Commander Velis turned to his waiting captains.
"Double border patrols, recall all scouting teams within fifty miles. We ready the continental wards."
The captains saluted sharply.
War was a language they all understood.
And someone had just signed the first sentence.
--
The trees thinned gradually, the tangled canopies giving way to low hills and broken stone paths.
Corvin moved cautiously, every step calculated, every breath measured. The deeper he traveled, the heavier the air became, as if the forest itself grew wary.
When the first scattered structures appeared through the mist, he crouched atop a gnarled root, observing.
It wasn't a fortress. It wasn't even a proper city.
It was a town, pressed hard against the invisible border between High Elven and Dark Elven lands. A scar where two ancient powers rubbed raw against each other.
It had no official name.
The locals called it Veilthorn.
An apt description.
The buildings were a strange mixture of High Elven elegance and Dark Elven pragmatism. Tall spires and twisted domes rising in clashing angles, stone and darkwood fused together without artistry, only necessity.
There were no border walls. No gates. Only shifting faces, narrowed eyes, whispered deals in a dozen tongues.
Corvin watched for over an hour from his vantage point.
Spies. He could smell them.
Every second trader, every third pedestrian, every idle drunk in the corners. Watching. Listening. Reporting.
Half of Veilthorn's population, he realized grimly, were informants of some kind. For High Elves, Dark Elves, merchants' guilds, or third party powers lurking beyond even them.
It was perfect.
A chaotic no man's land where faces changed daily and death was a regular, unremarkable event.
This place, Corvin mused coldly, was built for predators.
He shifted back into the shadows, starting to circle the outskirts.
There were no patrols here. No city guard. Only hired blades and quiet assassinations.
He needed to plan carefully.
Strike too visibly, and someone would notice. Strike too timidly, and opportunity would rot.
He would move like he always did. Silently and efficiently. Choosing targets that would not be missed immediately. Rogue mages, independent mercenaries or unaligned spies. And with each soul harvested, he would grow stronger.
Veilthorn would become his hunting ground.
And none of its masters would even realize a greater predator had entered their midst.
Corvin found a hollow, half collapsed ruin at the edge of Veilthorn, half swallowed by brambles and broken roots.
It offered enough cover to remain unseen, but high enough vantage points to observe the town's ebb and flow.
He crouched in the shadows, unmoving, watching.
Veilthorn pulsed with quiet violence.
Markets bustled by day, filled with shifty eyed traders, desperate mercenaries, and cloaked figures bartering mana crystals or forbidden relics. By night, the true business began. Assassins meeting with veiled clients, smugglers shifting under the moonless sky, spies trading whispers for blood.
Corvin memorized patterns. Guards, if they could be called that, bought loyalty that meant nothing once coin changed hands again.
He could hunt here easily.
He leaned back against the broken stone, exhaling slowly, letting the tension bleed out of his muscles.
And for the first time since entering this world, he allowed himself to think.
Truly think.
About power. About the laws that governed this world and how he would break them.
Most natives are limited. Four elemental affinities.
One dominant, one weaker and two lesser. Maybe a few rare cases had more. But that was seen as a curse, not a blessing.
Because having too many affinities meant shallow waters, not deep oceans. Divided attention. Fragmented growth.
Mastery belonged to those with one path, walked to its end.
He smirked. Idiots. Short sighted fools.
He had no such limitations.
His Shadow Siphon did not care for natural compatibility or bloodline purity. He could collect endlessly, stacking affinities, absorbing power from every race, every class, every caste.
He recalled the elemental hierarchies he had gleaned from the memories of his prey:
Basic Elements, Air, Fire, Water, Earth. Secondary Elements: Lightning, Ice, Magma, Steam, Metal combinations of basics.
Rare Elements: Dark, Light, Death, Life, Psychic, Blood, Plant. Arcane Elements, Aether, Time, Gravity, Void. The most dangerous, the most unstable.
No mage dared dream of mastering Arcane elements unless they were mad or suicidal.
But Corvin would not be a mage.
He would be a force.
Every life he touched would add another thread to his tapestry. Every absorption would tilt the balance further in his favor.
He wasn't building an arsenal. He was building an empire inside his own body.
And Veilthorn, this town of knives and broken oaths. Would be his first proving ground.
Corvin spent two days watching Veilthorn's heartbeat.
He moved only at night, drifting through alleys and rooftops like a phantom. By day, he retreated to his ruin, digesting the flow of information.
He needed a target.
Someone powerful enough to be worth the risk, but isolated enough that their absence would not spark an investigation.
And he found him.
A rogue Dark Elf mage, working independently. A freelancer trading minor curses, mind altering spells, and illicit enchantments to the highest bidder.
Corvin tracked him across two sunless nights, studying patterns.
He moved on the third night.
The mage slipped through an alleyway after a deal gone sour, grumbling to himself, a half empty satchel slung over one shoulder.
Corvin flowed after him like mist.
He closed the distance to within forty meters.
Spores released.
Invisible tendrils latched onto the Dark Elf's aura without resistance, siphoning skill, knowledge, and elemental alignment.
Corvin felt it immediately.
Dark Magic getting stronger.
Psychic Magic sharpened.
A new fragment... Blood Magic. Faint, F+, but present.
Rare and volatile.
The mage slowed as the siphoning completed, shuddering faintly, blinking as if dizzy.
Corvin struck without a sound.
One hand around the mouth. The other around the throat. A brutal, efficient twist.
The mage slumped to the ground, dead before he realized he was in danger.
The absorption was swift.
Knowledge and magic flooded into Corvin's core, slotting neatly into the growing web inside him.
Blood Magic whispered of forbidden arts. Manipulating veins, rupturing hearts, sealing wounds by force of will alone.
Dark Magic swirled thicker, wrapping around his soul like a cloak.
Psychic Magic grew denser, the invisible fingers extending further from his mind.
He exhaled slowly, checking the shadows.
There were witnesses, nor alarms.
No one would ask questions. No one would care.
He dusted off his stolen uniform, melted back into the crowd, and smiled coldly.
First blood had been drawn.
Veilthorn would feed him well.
Corvin moved through Veilthorn like smoke through broken glass.
No one gave him a second glance.
Another mercenary, another hunter, another ghost looking for coin or revenge. In this place, anonymity was survival.
He wound his way through the crooked streets, absorbing snippets of conversation from the alleys and market stalls.
Talk was frantic but low voiced.
The northern border patrols had tightened. The military was searching for something. An anomaly. Something ancient, something dangerous.
Rumors flourished like weeds:
A cursed relic. A rogue weapon unleashed. A monster stalking the mist.
Corvin slipped into the shadow of a leaning tavern, listening carefully.
"...they say the Magisters couldn't even explain it," one merchant muttered. "Some kind of... old magic waking up."
"Whatever it is," another hissed, "the patrols are doubling. No one gets past Fort Vael'Zareth without a full soulmark scan now."
Corvin smiled faintly.
Good luck finding your anomaly, he thought, amused.
It already slipped your leash.
He continued on, weaving through the market, choosing his next move.
First, he needed a cover identity. Papers, a history, a face in the crowd.
Second, he needed stronger prey. Not street rats or rogue hedge mages. Real operators.
Spy handlers, mercenary captains, low ranked Arcanists living under false banners.
Each kill would sharpen him. Each soul would carry him one step closer to the next evolution.
The hunter hid among the sheep. And the flock never saw the wolf until it was too late.
--
The candlelight flickered unnaturally as Rector Anareth scanned the parchment in his hands.
The Magisters' preliminary fossil report had just arrived. A formal log attached with sketches, material assessments, magical field readings, and biological analysis.
At first, it seemed like standard digsite procedure. Old bones. Unfamiliar formations. Minor anomalies.
But then he saw the sketches.
And his hand froze.
Elven skeletal remains, yes... but alongside them, something else.
Twisted vertebrae, unnatural bone plating, mandibles shaped like hooked blades. Organic structures that suggested no species known to any continent of Valtheris.
Some fossilized bodies were upright, petrified in mid motion. Not laid to rest, but frozen in battle.
Anareth's eyes narrowed.
And there, in the margins, a note from Magister Solmere:
"This morphology does not match any catalogued planar species. No known demonic, bestial, or elemental creature on record. My working theory is either magical mutation… or something pre Recorded Era."
That was all he needed.
Anareth rose from his desk with sudden purpose, robes whispering behind him like falling ash.
He pulled open a locked drawer with a flick of his fingers and retrieved a slender parchment scroll sealed in obsidian wax. A communication reserved only for the High Council of Valtheris.
He sat down once more and began to write, his hand swift and precise:
To the Esteemed Arbiters of the Circle,
Urgent matter. Potential pre Sundering species unearthed in Verdant Shroud. Fossil record enclosed. Arcane field instability at site confirmed by multiple Magisters. Recommend full academic lockdown of quadrant. Awaiting directive.
Rector Anareth Vaelisar, Starlight Arcanum
He attached the fossil sketches, the spectral field recordings, and the composite assessment.
Then, with care, he folded the scroll and sealed it with a fresh glyph of cognition. One that would carry not just his message, but his emotional imprint of urgency.
He stepped onto the Rector's balcony, high above the academy's spires.
With a whispered command, he extended his arm.
From the blackened sky above, a sleek winged creature descended. Feathers woven with soft violet shimmer, eyes glowing like cold starlight.
It was a Velkarin. A breed of avian courier native only to the oldest peaks of the Aetherborn range, loyal to the Arcanum since before the Concordance Wars.
"Take this to the High Council," Anareth said softly.
The Velkarin took the scroll in its silver clawed talons.
Then it vanished upward into the night like a dagger thrown into the stars.
Rector Anareth returned to his private library, the doors sealing behind him with a thrum of ancient magic.
The Primarch's Archive had many layers. The public records, the forbidden histories, and then the truths whispered only from Rector to successor.
He moved to the deeper alcoves, drawing out tomes bound in materials older than any kingdom now standing.
He opened the first book carefully, the pages crackling under his fingers.
Accounts of the Pre Sundering Era.
Once, Valtheris had been a world of ambition without restraint.
Mages plumbed dimensions freely, opening planar gates without oversight, seeking power, knowledge, domination. There had been no High Councils, no planar regulations, no Circle of Arbiters.
And they had paid the price.
The Evolving Nightmare had entered through one such gate. A species unlike any known entity.
It was not a demon. It was not a beast. It was not a planar spirit.
It was adaptive terror, a predator that grew stronger with every confrontation, devouring knowledge, magic, and blood alike.
It did not invade with armies. It spread like a disease.
Elves, Humans, Feralis, Aetherborn, and even Demons. Ancient enemies, mortal rivals had set aside their hatred to face the true threat.
Entire continents were scorched clean. Whole bloodlines sacrificed themselves. Magic itself was reshaped to close the open planar fractures forever.
The survivors called it The Sundering, and built the modern world atop its ashes.
Since then, a strict doctrine had ruled the civilized races:
Anyone born with strong affinities in rare elements ofnDark, Blood, Psychic, Life, Death, even Plant, was immediately taken under the protection and observation of the nearest Academy.
No independent rare magic user was allowed to remain unmonitored past adolescence.
All planar experiments, regardless of the goal, were forbidden without direct approval from the Arbiters' Circle.
Even then, very few experiments were sanctioned.
The fear of opening another breach of inviting another Evolving Nightmare was a terror rooted deeper than any political ambition.
It was why only Magus rank and higher knew the truth. It was why even Archmagus and Arbiters walked carefully when dealing with planar research.
Anareth closed the book slowly, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Whatever had been stirred in the Verdant Shroud was not simple.
It was not a dormant artifact. Not a rogue spirit. Not a forgotten warbeast.
It was something worse.
It was a tremor echoing from the ancient enemy they had all sworn never to speak of aloud.
The Evolving Nightmare.
Anareth stared into the dying candlelight, and for the first time in many years, he felt cold.
Very cold.