Varkai: Arc I — Ashes of the Shatterworld
The groan beneath the ruins deepened.
It echoed like the snapping of thick roots soaked in blood, the creak of wood twisted by centuries of hate. Vrakon tensed. Thren reached back and unslung the jagged glaive from his back—a weapon etched with spiral grooves and bone-light carvings.
"Verdant surge incoming," Thren muttered. "Hollow-damned timing."
The green light swelling from below grew brighter. Creeping vines pulsed along the stone, thick with unnatural growth. Fungal blooms erupted from cracked walls, releasing spores that shimmered in the air like floating ash.
Vrakon stepped back. "What is that thing?"
Thren's jaw clenched. "A Pulse-Beast. Core-Born class. Verdant-warped. They feed off abandoned Wells like this one. You're lucky it didn't spawn right on top of you."
"I've fought one before," Vrakon said quietly.
Thren shot him a look. "Not this kind."
The stone below split open with a sound like wet earth cracking. From it emerged something grotesque and majestic all at once—a creature stitched from roots, bark, and bone, with luminous green growths pulsing across its limbs. Its head was a deer-skull twisted into the shape of a blooming flower, haloed by crawling tendrils.
Its body oozed regenerative sap. Multiple arms unfurled from its back like thorned vines. Every movement it made brought new growth to the stones it touched. Grass sprouted beneath its claws. Moss devoured broken marble.
Verdant Core-Tier Pulse-Beast
—Lv. 3 Core-Born Threat
—Type: Nature / Growth / Rot
—Known abilities: Regrowth Loop, Pulse-Sap Spines, Rootlock
Thren muttered under his breath. "It's not just feeding. It's nesting."
"Then let's kill it before it seeds," Vrakon said coldly.
Thren grinned despite himself. "You're either brave or cracked."
The beast reared back and let out a low roar, muffled like a sound underwater. Vines shot forward, erupting from the ground like spears.
Vrakon dodged, letting his Spiral Instinct take hold. His body shifted before he thought—spinning beneath the vine, grabbing a broken shard of stone for a temporary blade.
Thren moved with trained fluidity, parrying vines with the flat of his glaive, then slicing through them with an upward arc. Green sap splattered across his arms, hissing as it burned through leather.
"Don't let the sap touch your blood!" he shouted.
Vrakon rolled behind the beast's flank, plunging the stone shard deep into one of the pulsing knots on its limb. The shard cracked—but the knot burst, releasing a hiss of gas.
The beast shrieked. A dozen vines burst from its back and flailed wildly.
It swung one massive clawed arm at Thren, but the Mourndusk warrior caught it with his glaive and channeled Pulse through the haft, sending a concussive shock that knocked the limb off-course.
"It's protecting the Core-bud!" Thren called. "Center of its chest. See it?"
Vrakon spotted it—a swirling green node pulsing like a heart beneath the bark-chest.
"I see it."
The beast arched back and unleashed Pulse-Sap Spines, green needles flying like a rain of barbed hail. Vrakon ducked behind a collapsed pillar, one spine grazing his shoulder. Pain flared instantly—like venom seeping into his nerves.
His Core pulsed in response.
Not now. Don't burn too much.
He gritted his teeth. "You distract. I'll strike."
Thren glanced at him. "Hope you're right, lakeboy."
He charged left, slicing through a web of vines. The creature turned to follow.
Vrakon ran full sprint across the broken field, his eyes locked on the glowing Core-bud. His Spiral Instinct surged—guiding his steps across unstable stones, his breath syncing with the Pulse rhythm.
The beast reared back again—but too late.
Vrakon leapt.
With both hands, he drove the broken spear haft he'd retrieved earlier—now little more than a jagged Pulse-imbued stake—straight into the Core-bud.
The beast let out a deep, thunderous cry, the forest itself trembling.
Green light flared from within.
Then—silence.
Its body began to unravel, vines withering, limbs collapsing in on themselves. The Pulse-bud at its core shattered, releasing one final wave of Pulse.
Vrakon stumbled back, half-blind from the light.
Thren rushed to his side. "You alright?"
"Fine," Vrakon said, wiping sap from his face. "Just... tired."
The Pulse-Beast crumbled into moss and rot. All that remained was a glimmering Pulse shard, hovering above the ground where its Core once beat.
Thren knelt beside it. "You earned this. Core-Born slayer gets the shard."
Vrakon stepped forward and took it.
The shard was warm, humming faintly. Not enough to power him up, but enough to stabilize his Genesis Core. His hands stopped shaking. His breath grew deeper.
He pocketed it.
"You fight like someone trained by death," Thren muttered. "Not talent. Not style. Just… death."
Vrakon looked at him, silent.
Thren stood. "Come with me. Mourndusk isn't far. You'll need shelter before the next surge."
"I don't owe you anything."
"Didn't say you did. But people who walk alone here usually end up eaten by worse things than Pulse-beasts."
Vrakon glanced up at the sky. The cracks above seemed to pulse now with a darker hue. Something had changed.
He nodded.
"Lead the way."
---
Hours Later — Mourndusk Border Camp
They passed through the outskirts of a decayed forest called Gnarlroot Hollow, trees twisted into spiral arcs, roots forming natural cages. Old Pulse lanterns glowed faintly blue, marking paths carved by the Fractured Kin.
Eventually, torchlight shimmered ahead. Watchtowers. Spears. Faces beneath hoods.
The camp was rough but alive—canvas shelters, blackwood pikes, Pulse forges, and iron-banded flags bearing the fractured crest of the Mourndusk faction.
Thren lifted a hand as they passed through.
"Got a guest," he called.
A woman approached—sharp-eyed, her armor stitched with crow feathers and scrap bone. She had a mask slung to her hip and a curved blade with a spiral hilt. Her hair was silver, eyes pale violet.
"You dragged another stray," she said flatly.
"He survived a Verdant Core-Beast," Thren replied. "Solo."
She eyed Vrakon. "You didn't harvest its pulse-root?"
"No time," he answered.
"Hmph. Name?"
"Vrakon."
"Mine's Saelin. I keep Thren alive when his pride outpaces his pulse."
She turned and waved them through. "You've got a bunk in the outer barracks. No funny ideas. No stealing. Try to rest—we've had surge-rumblings two nights straight. Something's moving near Hollow Nest."
Vrakon followed in silence.
---
Later — Outer Barracks
The room was small, shaped from Pulse-hardened stone, but warm. A thin mat. A sealed flask of water. A bowl of bitter roots. He sat quietly, drinking slowly. The pain in his arm had dulled. The Pulse shard's effects steadied his inner rhythm.
Still, his mind churned.
The Core is stable.
But what now?
This wasn't his world. Not truly. But it was the only one he had left. The shrine was behind him. Shayra, Mirra, Kaelen… all ghosts.
And now there was Thren. Saelin. Mourndusk. Survivors. Fighters.
Vrakon stared at the cracked ceiling above.
Was he meant to survive this long?
Or was he simply too stubborn to die?