The northern wind of Lumeria was no longer merely cold today. It was a razor blade carving into every inch of exposed skin. Snow fell heavily, piling onto the hunched shoulders of Clive Collins and adding even more weight to the fifty-kilogram wooden crate strapped to his back since dawn. Clive stopped for a moment at the edge of a spotless marble sidewalk, his breath spilling out like steam from an ancient locomotive. He rubbed his bluish hands together, desperately searching for warmth that had vanished long ago. Ahead of him, Lumeria’s upper district stood in magnificent splendor, buildings forged from gold-toned architecture while warm magical light glowed behind thick crystal windows. The people there wore silk. Clive wore burlap layered with moldy scraps of sheep’s wool. “Almost there, Clive... just two more blocks,” he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse and trembling. “Hey! Dumbass porter! Don’t stop in the middle of the street, idiot! You’re rui

Dawnlight in the Shadowfell Wilds never brought warmth. The sky merely shifted from pitch black to a suffocating shade of dull gray. Fog slithered between the tree roots like starving ghosts, soaking Kael’s leather cloak and Clive’s ragged clothes with acidic dew that stung against the skin. Clive woke with violent nausea twisting in his stomach. The heartbeat inside his pack, so vivid the night before, had faded into a faint pulse now. Yet every time it throbbed, the nerves in his left arm felt stabbed by icy needles. “Wake up, kid. Don’t act like some sleeping princess. We need to cross the swamp before the sun fully rises,” Kael grumbled while crushing the remaining embers beneath his heavy boots. Clive forced himself upright, his body stiff and aching. “Kael... last night, the box...” “I know,” Kael cut him off sharply. He looked even more exhausted than yesterday. The lines across his forehead seemed deeper now. “Don’t talk about it. The le

“AAAAAAAGHHH! GET IT OFF! GET THIS THING OUT OF MY BODY!” Minutes later, Clive Collins writhed across the snow, screaming in agony like a fish thrown onto burning coals. His new left arm, a pulsing mass of black muscle, was suffering catastrophic biological malfunction. Thick dark-purple fluid seeped from its pores, hissing the instant it touched the frozen snow. This was not just a wound. It was a civil war at the cellular level. [Warning: Acute Tissue Rejection Detected!] [Subject Immune System is attacking Lycus cells. Lycus cells are retaliating by consuming the subject’s white blood cells.] [WREN: Clive, stop thrashing. You are accelerating the tearing of your own tendons. Current synchronization rate is 8.4%.] “YOU... YOU THINK I CAN STAY STILL... WHEN IT FEELS LIKE MY ARM’S BEING FED INTO A MEAT GRINDER?!” Clive screamed, veins bulging from his neck. The black arm suddenly extended, then snapped back violently. New bones made of a carbon-like

The flames consuming the remains of Kael’s body slowly dwindled, leaving behind black ash that danced in the wind at the bottom of the ravine. Clive Collins stood motionless before it. His gaunt face was streaked with drying blood that had already begun turning dark, creating horrifying patterns beneath the dim light of Shadowfell. His left arm, the monster that had become part of his anatomy, pulsed softly. The small eye on the back of his hand blinked, as if savoring the warmth of the fire that had just erased the last proof of Clive’s humanity. “Satisfied, huh?” Clive whispered to his own arm. His voice cracked, sounding more like a growl than human speech. [Analyzing Subject Psychological Condition...] [Status: Acute Trauma, Emotional Instability, and Neural Exhaustion.] [WREN: Clive, if you wish to remain alive long enough to achieve the revenge you were muttering about earlier, it is recommended that you stop this unproductive internal monologue. Your u

The purple neon glow of Onyxspire offered no warmth. It was merely the color of poisonous gas forced to shine so it could illuminate humanity’s greed beneath the earth. Clive Collins stood at the edge of the waste trench surrounding the outer walls of the lower city. The air smelled different here than it did in Shadowfell. In the forest, the scent had been organic death. Here, it was mechanical death, oil vapor, rust, and the sweat of millions crushed together in desperation. Before him towered the Black Iron Gate, the only official entrance into the outer districts of Onyxspire. The gate was guarded by mercenaries from the Iron-Lung syndicate, men with artificial lungs that hissed every time they breathed, carrying high-pressure steam rifles. “My legs... feel so damn heavy...” Clive whispered. His legs felt like dried wood ready to snap apart at any moment. [Warning: Leg Muscle Degradation Has Reached 15%.] [WREN: Clive, your remaining kinetic energy is nearly de