The nest had gone quiet after the breaking. Sparks had dimmed, silence hanging heavy, but it did not last. Flesh carried its own noise—breath hissing, heart beating, blood pressing through veins—and the world had noticed.
Zeke sat with his back against the cold wall, chest rising unevenly. Fire, light, and shadow leaked from him in turns, each breath shaking more motes into the air. It was not just aura anymore. Flesh had weight. Flesh had smell. The tang of blood clung to his skin, sharp and metallic, mixing with sweat and heat. It curled upward like a signal.
Growls answered from beyond the nest.
He froze, claws flexing. The sound rolled low at first, then multiplied. Shapes shifted in the haze outside the opening. Ash-beasts. He had felt their hunger before, when he was only slime. Now he smelled their answering hunger turning toward him.
For the first time, he understood: he could be tracked. Slime had been quiet, formless, scentless. This body was not.
The first beast lunged into the nest mouth. It was wolf-shaped but stretched too thin, ash mutating its hide into cracked plates, its eyes glowing red. It came with a snarl and the reek of hunger. Zeke rose clumsily, feet sliding, and slashed on instinct. His claws caught the beast across the throat. It dropped with a wet crunch, twitching once before stilling.
Zeke staggered back, panting. He waited. For the surge. For the flood of essence that always came when prey fell. It had been law as a slime: kill, devour, grow.
Nothing came.
Only the gnawing twist in his gut sharpened. Hunger deepened, cruel and insistent.
His claws trembled. "Killing… doesn't feed me."
Another growl echoed. The second beast prowled in from the side, circling. Behind it, more shapes glinted in the haze. His new body shifted uneasily, every muscle loud with strain. He braced.
The next charge came faster. He dodged clumsily, stumbling into the wall, but caught the beast across the shoulder. Claws sheared hide, blood spraying. The creature howled, snapped, and lunged again. Zeke twisted, slamming his fist down into its skull. Bone cracked. The beast went limp.
Pain bloomed in his arm from the impact. Muscles throbbed, chest heaving. Sweat stung his eyes. His lungs burned with the effort of breath. He stared at his hand, at blood dripping between claws, and remembered a truth from the slime days: he had never tired. Not like this. The body then had been fuel itself, endlessly fed by every kill.
This body bled energy with every motion. Stronger, sharper—but fragile.
A third beast slunk forward. Zeke's knees shook when he stepped to meet it. The creature circled, testing him. Behind it, others waited. He swallowed, hunger clawing. His gut turned hollow, acid-sharp. His eyes slid to the corpse at his feet.
He remembered the gagging bite of raw meat from earlier. The taste of blood coating his tongue. Disgust curled low in him. But his gut roared. The emptiness would not let go. He crouched.
For a moment, he hesitated. He could cook it. Fire would burn away the stink, make it palatable. But the nest already reeked of iron, and the predators outside prowled restless. Fire would carry farther, draw more. He clenched his teeth. He did not have that luxury.
He split the carcass open with his claws. Hot blood welled, the stench thick. His stomach lurched. He forced the first mouthful down, gagging as sinew tore. His throat convulsed; his body tried to expel it. He swallowed again and again until it stayed.
The furnace inside him stirred.
The meat unraveled, not as flesh but as fuel. Threads of mana spun out from it, pouring into his vessels. Heat spread through his chest, his arms, his legs, steadying the shake. His pulse smoothed. The emptiness dulled. Relief washed over him with a shame sharp as iron.
He tore another bite free. The taste was foul, the texture worse, but the furnace accepted it. Power folded into him, strength stitched seams. He ate until the gnaw eased, then pushed the carcass aside, panting with blood on his mouth. His claws shook less now. His legs felt steadier. The cost was his dignity.
"If I don't eat…" he rasped, "…I'll starve, even if I win."
The thought had barely settled when another beast lunged from the dark. Zeke jerked up, half choking on the last swallow, and exhaled in panic. Heat ripped from his chest, tearing through his throat. Flame burst ragged into the air, striking the beast mid-charge. Fire clung to its hide, smoke rising sharp. The creature yelped, skidding away, then fled yowling into the ash.
Zeke collapsed onto his knees, coughing, smoke pouring from his lips. His throat burned raw, chest aching. He dragged air in through scorched lungs, gagging until the taste of smoke eased. But he had seen it—fire, real and searing, driven from him.
He lifted a trembling claw. Ash fell from it in flakes. "It… worked."
Silence crept back into the nest. The circling predators retreated, wary of the flame's memory. Only carcasses lay near him now, cooling in their own blood. The furnace still turned inside, warm and relentless, digesting what he had forced down.
Zeke sank onto the ground, back pressing against the wall once more. His body trembled, exhausted but alive. He stared at the faint reflection of himself in a smear of blood across a scale patch. Horns, claws, pupils narrow with firelight. A face half-child, half-dragon.
"I can fight," he whispered hoarsely. "But fighting isn't enough."
The truth weighed heavier than the hunger. Slime had been endless. Flesh demanded. Demanded food, demanded rest, demanded fuel. Every breath was a price. Every step was a bargain.
Yet when he flexed his hand and saw blood glint dark against the scales, when he remembered the burst of fire driving predators back, a strange pride flickered under the exhaustion.
"This body…" His voice rasped like stone. "…it will break. But it will endure."
The words sank into silence. Beyond the nest, the ash wastes exhaled. The predators had gone, leaving only the stench of blood and the boy who had fed and fought and remained standing.