Chapter 9: If I so much as sneeze
The rush hits like a tidal wave, a mix of raw adrenaline and something deeper, darker—a primal, gnawing excitement that pulses in my chest. It's not just the thrill of danger...it is the voice of Hunger. It wakes fully now, for it smelled a feast, roaring like a wildfire in my head, drowning out the other voices, consuming them whole. There are no words, for the Hunger knows them not. It only speaks through actions.
The Level 2 wolf leaps at me, almost a mirror image of the first one. Its powerful legs coil and release, sending it hurtling through the air, claws outstretched, fangs bared. This time, though, there's no spear in my hands.
Time slows. I can see the way its muscles ripple under its filthy fur, its jaws wide enough to snap through bone, its eyes wild and bloodshot with madness. Behind it, the other two wolves fan out, cutting off my escape routes with a pack's precision.
Too bad for them—I never planned to dodge.
I pivot slightly, cocking my fist back, every muscle in my arm coiling like a spring. The wolf's trajectory doesn't change. It barrels toward me, claws swiping at my chest, fully committed to the attack, utterly unaware of what's coming.
Everything happens at once.
The claws rake across my chest, sharp and brutal, carving a deep gash through skin and muscle. Pain blooms instantly, but I don't flinch, don't falter. My fist rockets forward, faster than I've ever moved before, and slams into the wolf's head with so little force that it would barely even bruise it usually.
The effect is catastrophic.
The flesh on its skull all but detonates under my touch, peeling away in a wet spray of gore, muscle, and fur. One of its eyes pops like an overripe fruit, liquefying on contact, while its jaw slackens in an instant, mid-snap. Blood erupts from the shattered wound in a torrent, painting the air red even before the body crashes into the ground. Before I can process it, the other two wolves lunge for me, jaws snapping toward my legs. My body moves on instinct—I push off the ground and leap, twisting midair to avoid their snapping teeth.
Dexterity earns its place as my favorite stat the moment my foot slams down on the head of the nearest wolf, its skull grinding against the dirt under my weight. The air is electric, and my muscles sing with the rush of adrenaline as I clamp down on the intoxicating feeling of control that whispers at the edges of my mind.
Before the pinned wolf can recover, I bring my fist down in a brutal arc. The moment my knuckles connect with its body, the effect is immediate—its flesh ripples unnaturally, as if the solid muscle and sinew beneath had turned to liquid. The wolf's howl splits the air, high and agonized, as my hand plunges deep into its abdomen. It thrashes wildly, its jaws snapping at my shoulder in blind desperation. But the damage is done, and the shock of trauma overwhelms it—its motions slow, jerky and uncoordinated.
I don't get the chance to finish it off.
The last lvl 1 wolf barrels into me from the side, its full weight slamming into my chest. I crash to the ground with a grunt, dirt and blood smearing my back as the beast's claws dig into the already gaping wound on my chest. Fresh pain sears through me, sharp and biting, but I barely register it. There's too much adrenaline flooding my veins, too much of the Hunger still roaring in my skull.
The wolf straddles me, its bloodied maw inches from my face. Its teeth gleam, jagged and yellow, saliva dripping in long, sticky strands as its jaws snap closer, aiming to tear my face apart. Its eyes would burn me if they could, its muscles straining as it presses its weight down on me, the claws at my chest grinding deeper with every passing second.
But if the past 30 seconds taught me anything, it is that getting up close and personal with me is a bad idea.
I let the Hunger guide me.
It doesn't take effort—barely even a thought. My hands, locked against the beast's chest to keep it at bay, begin to sink into its flesh as if pressing into wet clay. The wolf freezes, a flash of confusion breaking through its frenzy.
Then I will it.
The skin parts, the muscle shreds, the nerves sever, unraveling like thread beneath my touch. The light in its maddened eyes flickers, then goes out entirely, leaving only a lifeless weight atop me.
Just like that.
[You have defeated a Wolf - lvl 2]
[You have defeated a Wolf - lvl 2]
[You have defeated a Wolf - lvl 2]
[You have defeated a Wolf - lvl 1]
[Lvl 1 > Lvl 2]
The notifications hover at the edge of my vision, faint and unobtrusive. I glance at them briefly as I push the heavy wolf carcass off me with both hands, its blood still warm against my fingers. Then I breathe. Slowly, deliberately, savoring the air as it fills my lungs. The Hunger ebbs, its deafening roar retreating to the recesses of my mind. The maddened grin I'd worn during the fight fades alongside it, leaving only the calm clarity of reason.
I glance at the mess around me—the skewered wolf, the one with its face obliterated, and the gutted one whose body still twitches faintly as its nerves fire their last. No satisfaction stirs within me at the sight of their deaths. Victory, though? That's different. The thrill of surviving, of winning—it's electric, a euphoric rush that courses through my veins like pure caffeine. My chest rises and falls, my heart still hammering from the adrenaline, and I can't help but feel...alive, even though I just courted death a little bit.
The wolves themselves, though? No. Their deaths are just the byproduct of surviving, nothing more. If anything, it feels like a waste. They would have been perfect for honing my dexterity, especially now that permanent wounds will probably become more of a minor inconvenience than a lasting problem. Training methods need to evolve alongside circumstances, and I need to figure out smart ways to push my limits.
I invest the three stat points from my level up without hesitation, dumping them into Constitution and feeling an almost imperceptible shift as it climbs to 10. I see that the fight had pushed my Dexterity and Strength up as well, bringing them to 11 and 7 respectively. Progress on all fronts, eh?Awesome. I feel a bit lightheaded though. A little dizzy.
Am I forgetting something? I glance down, and oh.
Yeah, that would do it.
The cut on my chest is... not great, to say the least. It's long, running diagonally from just under my left collarbone to the right side of my ribs, deep enough that it probably nicked a few veins. The edges are jagged, flesh gaping open, and blood streams freely, soaking my shirt and trickling down my torso.
There are smaller cuts too, scattered across my arms and legs, but this one? This is the big one, the one threatening to make me take a very long nap. Judging by the dizziness, I'm pretty sure I'm suffering from hypovolemia—blood loss—and if I don't do something about it, fainting and dying in that order are in my immediate future.
Well, now seems like as good a time as any to experiment, doesn't it? Madness whispers and I nod.
I take a shaky breath and pinch the edges of the wound together, my fingers slipping slightly from the blood. It's messier than I'd like, but it'll do.
What if I were to... there we go. The flesh under my fingers softens—wiggling unnaturally, almost as if it's alive. I watch as the edges begin to meld together, a few drops of blood-tinged pink liquid falling to the grass. Each drop hardens into something brittle the moment it lands, but I ignore it, focusing entirely on the task at hand.
[Fleshcrafting - lvl 2 > Fleshcrafting - lvl 3]
The notification flickers briefly in my vision, but I barely register it. I don't know what I'm doing, not really. The level-up suggests I should, but this is all instinct. I don't really feel anything besides pain right now, so I can't get any feedback, but I know the theory at least.
Focus. First the blood vessels, to stop the internal bleeding. Then the muscle fibers. Finally, the skin.
It's like molding clay with trembling, arthritic hands, in pure darkness, but when all you want is to press said clay together... The edges of the wound resist, sticky and stubborn. Well, it's more like me being unable to control the flesh properly. With the wolves, the only command I had to give was -begone- and it worked wonders, but it turns out that fixing stuff is harder than breaking it. Who would have thought.
Even so, slowly, the wound begins to knit.
The process feels...alien, but familiar, like my own flesh is both an uncooperative material and an extension of myself. I can't decide if I love it or hate it, but I know I will abuse it either way. It's just too damn exploitable.
When I finally let go, the result is... underwhelming. It looks like shit, frankly—red, raw, and uneven, as if a child with safety scissors and a stapler decided to play surgeon. It feels fragile, too, like the whole thing could split open if I so much as sneeze. But it holds.
Even as I stand and shift my weight, it doesn't reopen, only leaking a little. That's good enough for now. I take it as a win, grab the smallest wolf corpse by the scruff, retrieve my trusty spear, and start jogging back toward the clearing while whistling softly. That's enough adventure for the next... what, two hours? Maybe three.
Now, I really, really, really want to do some testing.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone