Alliyana Etheria's perspective
I woke early.
My body moved before my thoughts did—habit now. I reached for my satchel and checked the sealed jar nestled at the bottom.
Still intact.
I held it up to the window light. My makeshift detox mixture swirled sluggishly, the nutrients still suspended. It wouldn't last long. Methionine isn't stored for long in the body, and B vitamins are water-soluble. Excreted quickly. Time mattered. So I need to consume it 30 minutes before the demonic meat.
Some activated charcoal just in case.
I didn't bother washing up.
I grabbed my cloak, slung the satchel over my shoulder, and moved fast toward the kitchen. I needed to "borrow" a knife. I had time. My shift wasn't until six in the evening.
The kitchen was mostly empty, save for a few groggy prep workers and a chef yawning into his sleeves. I recognized one of them from before—the one who denied me extra rations. He looked up as I entered.
He remembered me.
Didn't care.
I asked about discarded utensils, offered to help clean later, and within seconds I had a small field knife tucked into my satchel.
Now for the hard part.
Outside, the wind rolled low over the courtyard. The guards by the western gate looked half-asleep—arms crossed, scarves pulled high. But one of them noticed me.
"Oi. Kid."
I turned.
He walked over. "Where you headed?"
"Exploring," I said plainly.
"Not happening." He pulled me aside. "Orders are tighter during winter. Nothing personal. The Duke's out with a culling party. Until he's back, movement's restricted."
I frowned.
"I thought you didn't care who leaves," I said.
He grunted. "That was before three hunters didn't return last week. Duchy's big, but no one lives beyond the fortress walls. Especially not in winter."
I looked past him.
The streets were quiet. Too quiet. Doors barred. No carts. No vendors. Just frost-covered windows and the distant sound of boots echoing from a patrol line.
"I understand," I said.
He relaxed. "Good."
But that didn't stop me.
I tried the northern gate. Less traffic. Less oversight.
I ducked behind a storage cart, waited for the right moment, then slipped through the narrow gap between the outer fence and the old stone wall. A tight fit, but I was small. Efficient.
I walked until I was out of sight, then pulled my cloak back over my shoulders and headed north.
The edge of the forest came into view after half an hour. Gnarled trees coated in frost. The soil was thin here—black earth laced with red veins. The corruption. Even the wind felt different, like it carried something heavier than air.
I climbed a tree—quiet, fluid. Branch to branch, checking for weight distribution. Snow made it harder. I stayed close to the perimeter.
I wasn't here to explore.
I was here to test.
Demonic beasts.
I'd read about them. Wolves, bears, giant insects, scaled cats. They resembled animals of this world, but something about them was wrong. Anatomically wrong. Even their existence seemed to defy rules.
Magic has its limits. Its equations. Its costs.
These creatures… didn't.
Not divine either. I remember what the divine felt like—radiant, overwhelming, comforting. This was different.Wrong.
Their existence demanded study.
My thought was interrupted.
A bear.
Massive. Mangled fur. Crimson eyes. Horns curling from its shoulders. It stood alone in the clearing, sniffing the wind.
Perfect.
Solitary. Unlike wolves. Less chance of a group encounter.
I pulled my cloak off and tucked it into the satchel. Slid down the tree. Silent. Calculated.
I drew the knife. And cast a spell.
Barrier magic.
Crude. Wasteful. But for this? Necessary.
The blade shimmered faintly as a thin mana lattice coated its edge—a refractive plane of semi-solid light, forming a sheath sharper than the steel itself.
Barrier magic was taught to be too impractical for combat. The neurological strain was exponential the larger the barrier was. Thus, barrier magic is taught only as a conceptual or academic spell—a footnote in magical engineering, not a viable combat technique.
But keep it small, it becomes viable.
Stupid. Dangerous. But viable.
I smiled.
Then I reinforced my body—limb by limb, muscle by muscle. A basic spell, common among soldiers and mercenaries. Nowhere near the complexity of simple healing. Just brute-force enhancement.
I thanked the healers last night who shared extra food with me.
Acting cute has its perks.
Mana-enhanced muscle tissue burns more calories. I might need every ounce.
I dropped behind the bear. One foot planted. One aim. One breath.
I lunged.
The blade plunged into the base of its spine with a sickening crunch.
It roared—spasming violently, its massive body twisting in protest.
One paw lashed out, blind and furious. I moved before it landed.
I ducked. Slid left.
The beast kept moving. Spasming. Dragging its dead lower half.
It turned toward me—eyes wild, blood foaming at its mouth.
I grinned.
It had been so long. Not since sparring as a young man—but even then, it was never like this. Never this clean.
Surgical precision. No movement wasted.
I slashed again, low across its throat.
Hot blood sprayed across my face and chest. I stepped back as it flailed, weakened, slowed.
I waited.
Watched.
And then—finally—it stopped moving.
My heart was steady.
I looked down at the beast, my breath still controlled.
Even in my prime, I was never this efficient.
There was a theory forming at the back of my mind. A strange one. Perhaps my method of training my body's ability to use and handle mana enhanced my neural network. My reflexes and awareness are far above and beyond my prime. Neurological efficiency. Or I'm just small. Hopefully it's the former.
But that would have to wait.
For now, this was my first kill.
A spark snapped to life between my fingers.
Fire. The most primitive of tools. The most elegant of catalysts.
I knelt beside the crude stone ring I'd assembled—wood packed beneath, leaves dried from a fallen nest, the bear's massive body half-shadowed behind me. My palm hovered low, and the flames began to rise.
The convenience of fire magic. Just gather enough mana in the fingertips, and friction does the rest. Nothing flashy. Just fuel, spark, ignition.
I remembered the books—Combat Adaptations Of Elemental Disciplines. Fire mages, they called them.
A joke, really.
"Mages."
More like brawlers. Fighters who used flame not as spellwork, but as kinetic release. They compressed air in their fists, ignited it mid-strike, and let internal thermogenesis bleed into combustion.
Their bodies would grow colder with each blast—heat siphoned outward, redirected to stoke the flame at the point of contact.
I smirked.
"I guess fireballs are only fantasy after all."
The meat came apart easily under the edge of my barrier-coated knife—still glowing faintly along the refractive ridge. I worked slowly, methodically. Each cut was precise. Clean.
Something about the air felt… different. Lighter.
I paused.
That's right. I'd noticed it before.
When the bear was alive, the corruption in the area was thicker—like the air itself was viscous. Upon death, it receded to normal levels. The kind I was used to.
Soldiers didn't die from corruption so I can rule out anything supernatural.
I uncorked my jar and drank the concoction—thick, vegetal, acrid. The glutathione brew. Methionine. B vitamins.
This was still test number one.
I placed a strip of meat over the fire. It sizzled. Smoked. The scent was familiar. A little wild, but no sulfur. No rot.
Strangely hot. Even in the cold air, the corpse hadn't cooled completely.
That shouldn't be possible.
Warmth after death in freezing temperature? Unusual. Not ambient. Physiological?
Filed for later.
I cooked the slice through. Took a bite. Small. Chewed. Swallowed.
Then cast simple healing on myself—self-targeted metabolic boost.
My core temperature rose. Heartbeat stable.
And I waited.
One hour.
Then another.
Nothing.
Maybe it was the antidote, I thought.
Exogenous compound. Glutathione-conjugated toxin. Possible.
But I needed to be sure.
I waited another hour. Enough time to washout—methionine and B vitamins would be mostly cleared. No more help.
Test two.
New slice.
Same cook.
No antidote. Just self-casting simple heal.
Swallow.
Wait.
An hour.
Then another.
Still nothing.
So that's it.
As long as I self-cast, it's safe.
Test three.
Same slice. Same heat.
This time, no casting.
I stayed still. Monitored myself. Breath slow. Vitals on alert.
Three minutes in—my pulse rose.
Fifteen minutes—pain.
Chest tight. Fingers trembling. Vision narrowing.
Cardiac arrest? Neurochemical flood?
It felt like an arrhythmia pulling me from inside out.
I panicked. Cast simple heal.
Warmth. Pressure relief. Stabilization.
I slumped to my side and breathed. Carefully. Shallowly. Alive.
So the self-casting worked.
But why?
If it was purely metabolic, enzyme saturation would have kicked in. I'd have tipped over.
Dose-dependent toxicity?
Theories collided, none quite sticking. But I had one more test.
I cooked more. Thinner slices.
This reminds me of Korean barbecue.
Slice. Bite.
Slice. Bite.
Fifteen minutes. Nothing.
Thirty minutes. Nothing.
I should've collapsed by now. Instead, I just feel full and satiated.
Was it temperature after all?
If so… why doesn't cooking neutralize it?
I stared at the flames.
Maybe internal temperature was the key. Not preparation. Not antidotes. No detox.
The thought lingered. Then a darker one followed.
What if I stop casting?
I had consumed enough demonic meat to kill a grown man ten times over.
I stood up. Slowly. Tense.
I stopped casting.
My heart started to race.
Early onset toxicity detected.
I dropped my cloak to the ground. Felt the cold rush up my spine. My skin flushed. Muscles tensed.
If I want to feast on demons…
Maybe I need to fight like one too.
With every calorie surging through me, there was no reason to hold back. I was free to let myself loose in a world of magic.
The trees were swaying.
The corruption was getting thicker.
And I was hungry.
I started running.
Not toward the fortress. Not toward safety.
But deeper. Past the treeline. This isn't just toxicology testing anymore.
"Happy hunting."