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Chapter 3 - Chapter 3: First Shard

Panic erupted. The illusions reacted exactly as their archetypes dictated. The burly man stumbled backward, his face a mask of terror, tripping over his own feet and landing hard in the mud. The numb man simply stood frozen, a statue of disbelief. The veteran, to his credit, let out a desperate yell and threw a rock at the descending creature, but the missile flew wide, completely ignored.

Lucian didn't panic. He moved.

In the split second the vulture began its dive, his mind worked with chilling clarity. He couldn't fight it head-on. He was weak, shackled, and armed with nothing. But he had knowledge. He knew these creatures were driven by simple, primal instincts. And he knew this battlefield was a scattered armory.

His eyes, sharp and focused, had already scanned the ground around him while the others were shuffling along. He had noted the position of a broken spear, its iron head half-buried in the earth a few feet away, its edge glinting with a rusty sharpness.

He didn't run towards the woman. He ran towards the spearhead.

The vulture's shriek filled the air as it slammed into its target. The woman's cry was cut short with a sickening crunch of bone. Lucian ignored it. He reached the broken spear, and without trying to pull it free, he stomped hard on the wooden shaft. With a crack, the rotten wood splintered, leaving the sharp, leaf-shaped spearhead attached to a jagged, foot-long handle.

He scooped it up, the rough wood digging into his palm. The heavy iron chain connecting his shackles clinked. An idea, born of desperation and insight, sparked in his mind. He looped the chain once over the spearhead, seating it just behind the sharpened edges. It wasn't a spear anymore. It was a flail. A crude, heavy, unpredictable weapon.

The Carrion Vulture was perched on the dead woman's body, its cruel beak tearing at the flesh. It was distracted, consumed by its meal. This was his only chance.

Lucian moved forward, his steps silent in the mud. Ten feet away. Five. The creature sensed him, its head snapping up, its black, beady eyes fixing on him. It let out an angry hiss, spreading its massive wings as a threat display.

He didn't hesitate. He swung.

The weight of the iron shackles gave the swing a ferocious momentum. The chain uncoiled, whipping the spearhead through the air in a deadly arc. The vulture tried to leap back, to take flight, but it was too slow. The improvised flail crashed into its side with brutal force.

There was a wet, cracking sound. The spearhead, weighted by the chain, pierced through the creature's tough hide and shattered the bone of its wing.

The vulture shrieked, a sound of pure agony this time, and thrashed wildly. It was grounded. Crippled.

Lucian didn't give it a chance to recover. He stepped forward, letting the chain go slack, and gripped the wooden handle of the spearhead with both hands. The creature lunged, its beak snapping just inches from his face. He sidestepped, using the monster's own momentum against it, and drove the spearhead down into the base of its neck with all his meager strength.

He felt a jarring impact run up his arms as the point punched through feathers, skin, and vertebrae. The creature convulsed, its talons scraping uselessly against the stone, and then went limp.

Silence descended upon the battlefield, broken only by the whistling of the wind and the burly man's heavy breathing.

Lucian stood over the corpse, his chest heaving. His hands were trembling, not from fear, but from adrenaline. He had done it. His first kill. It wasn't glorious. It was ugly, desperate, and brutally efficient.

He pulled the spearhead free with a wet squelch. As he did, he saw it. A faint, almost imperceptible glimmer of light escaped from the vulture's wound. It was a tiny mote of pure white energy that hovered for a second before drifting towards him. He instinctively reached out, and the mote dissolved into his chest.

A new sensation bloomed within him. The tiny, fragile spark of his soul core felt… warmer. Stronger. It was an infinitesimal change, but it was undeniable.

[You have slain a Dormant Nightmare Creature.]

[Your soul has absorbed a fragment of its power.]

The Spell's confirmation appeared in his vision. So this was it. The foundation of power in this world. Killing monsters, absorbing their essence, and strengthening one's soul.

He looked at the other illusions. The veteran was staring at him, his shrewd eyes wide with a mixture of shock and wary respect. The burly man had scrambled to his feet, his expression one of pure, primal fear. He was no longer looking at a kid; he was looking at a predator.

"It's dead," Lucian stated, his voice flat and cold. He glanced at the corpse of the woman, then back at the others. "She's dead. Her blood will attract more. We're still going to the tower."

There were no arguments this time. The burly man nodded dumbly, his bravado completely gone.

Lucian turned back to the vulture's corpse. He remembered from the novel that everything from a Nightmare Creature could be a resource. He used the spearhead to saw and pry one of the creature's long, sharp talons free from its foot. It was a grim, messy task, but he worked with a detached focus. The talon was as long as his finger, curved and wickedly sharp. A proper weapon. He tucked it into his rags.

With his new, primitive dagger and the knowledge of his first kill warming his soul, he turned his back on the carnage.

"Let's go," he ordered, his voice holding a new, unshakeable authority.

He led the way this time, the three remaining illusions shuffling behind him like obedient sheep. They were no longer just characters in a script; they were his tools. And he was no longer just a victim of the Nightmare. He was a participant. A hunter.

The crumbling watchtower loomed closer, a promise of shelter and the next step in his deadly trial. The game had just begun.

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