A week slowly passed in the broken ruins...
From Nero’s perspective, the days seed to blurry together.
Between his daily training, hunting, and studying what remained of the ancient civilization, these little days of respite felt like the cool evening breeze.
He fell into a rhythm that felt almost peaceful, though the word itself seed inappropriate to describe anywhere on this chaotic world.
Each morning, he woke before dawn and began the daily drills with Gungnir. The mont evening ca, he returned to his temporary camp with whatever he’d managed to hunt on the settlent’s outskirts.
Since they were the most abundant, the Horned Coneys made up most of his diet, though occasionally sothing stranger wandered close enough for him to test Gungnir’s Unwavering aim.
His Seals climbed steadily this way, reaching a total of a hundred and fifty by the week’s end. None of the creatures posed real threats with them being Grade F Abominations for the most part.
But the training with Gungnir was a different matter entirely.
On the third day, Nero noticed sothing wrong with his body.
He’d been practicing a series of basic thrust movents, when his reflection caught in a puddle of stagnant water. He stopped mid-motion and stared at his twisted image.
He was taller.
Not significantly so, but enough that he noticed.
Several inches, maybe more. His proportions had shifted subtly, his fra elongated in ways that shouldn’t have been possible in just a few weeks.
Nero set the spear down and examined himself more carefully.
His claws had grown longer. What had once been sharp nails were now even sharper, black and slightly curved like those of so bipedal predator.
The darkened layer of skin— the corruption that had spread across his body due to the Black Body transformation, had hardened further. It no longer felt like skin at all, but more like leather or scales.
And although this feature made him much tougher than regular humans, it was still rather unsightly.
And then there were the welts and tumors growing on his body.
He twisted to look over his shoulder, grimacing at what he saw. The growths on his back had expanded significantly. They clustered along his spine and shoulder blades, raised bumps that were nightmarishly monstrous in nature. While they didn’t hurt, nor did they itch, they were there, undeniable and growing.
’I’m changing faster than I thought.’
He flexed his fingers, watching the claws extend and retract slightly. The movents felt natural.
{The Heretic’s transformation accelerates with each Seal absorbed} the Oracle said.
{This is inevitable}.
"I know," Nero muttered.
He picked up Gungnir again and resud training, pushing those thoughts away.
***
By the fourth day, the problem with the spear had beco impossible to ignore.
No matter how much he practiced, the weapon refused to cooperate. The weight continued to shift unpredictably, throwing off his balance and ruining his form. What should have been clean thrusts would beco clumsy jabs and sweeping arcs turning into embarrassing stumbles.
It wasn’t a matter of strength or stamina either. Those had improved significantly thanks to Vineheart. He could train for hours now without feeling winded, his body recovering from exertion far faster than it had any right to.
No, the problem was sothing else.
Nero stood in the center of the clearing, Gungnir held horizontally before him. He ran through the Crimson Crucible forms again. Forward thrust. Diagonal slash. Overhead strike. Parry. Riposte.
Each movent fought against the spear’s nature.
He stopped, scowling.
’What am I doing wrong?’
The technique was solid. Peter had been a harsh teacher, but thorough. The forms were designed for efficiency—quick, powerful strikes that could be executed from any position. They worked with swords. They worked with other polearms.
So why not with Gungnir?
Nero planted the spear in the ground and sat down heavily. He wiped sweat from his face and stared at the weapon.
The shifting weight had to an sothing. It wasn’t random. Gungnir was too deliberate for that. Every ti he moved with the Crimson Crucible forms, the spear resisted. Every ti he tried to force a strike, the weight beca unbearable.
But occasionally—just occasionally—the weapon felt right.
Those monts were fleeting. They ca when he wasn’t thinking, when his body moved on instinct rather than training. A stumble that turned into a flowing circular motion. A recovery that carried through into the next strike without stopping.
Nero’s eyes widened.
’Flow. It’s about flow.’
The Crimson Crucible technique was built on power and precision. Linear strikes. Rigid structure. It treated the weapon as an extension of the body, sothing to be controlled and dominated.
But Gungnir didn’t want to be controlled.
It wanted to move.
Nero rose to his feet slowly, gripping the spear again. This ti, he didn’t force the forms. Instead, he let the weapon guide him. He started with a simple thrust, but instead of stopping at full extension, he let the montum carry through. The spear’s weight shifted, and he followed it, turning the thrust into a sweeping arc.
The weapon felt lighter.
He continued the motion, letting it flow into a circular pattern. The spear moved with him now, the shifting weight becoming part of the rhythm rather than an obstacle. When it grew heavy, he used that weight to drive the next strike. When it lightened, he accelerated into the follow-through.
It wasn’t perfect. His movents were still clumsy, unrefined. But it was progress.
Nero grinned despite himself.
’This is going to take ti. But I think I understand now.’
On the fifth day, Nero ventured into one of the crumbling houses near the temple ruins.
Most of the structures were too damaged to contain anything useful, but this one had been ho to a scribe, judging by the scattered parchnts and broken writing tools. He gathered what he could—fragnts of texts, partial scrolls, a few intact pages.
The writings were mundane. Records of daily life. Lists of supplies. Notes about weather patterns and crop yields. Nothing groundbreaking.
But they painted a picture of the people who had lived here.
They had been scholars, mostly. People who valued knowledge and observation. They studied the stars, cataloged plants, debated philosophy. Their disputes were petty—argunts over interpretations of Orion’s teachings, disagreents about proper rituals.
Nero sat in the ruined house and read by the light filtering through a collapsed wall. The ordinariness of it all struck him. These people hadn’t been monsters. They’d been human, with human concerns and human flaws.
He set the pages aside and left the house.
By the week’s end, Nero stood at the edge of the settlent, staring out toward Malady’s Garden.
The verdant grass gave way to sothing darker in the distance. Trees twisted into shapes that defied nature. The air itself seed thicker, heavier with corruption. To his side, the dark river flowed up the slope. Sothing that should have not been possible.
And yet, it was.
He adjusted the straps on his satchel and hefted Gungnir over his shoulder. The spear felt different now—not quite familiar, but a little less foreign. He’d begun to understand its rhythm, though mastery was still far off.
And ahead, was the next portion of his journey— a forest that promised death in equal asure to anything and everything within and about it.
Once he made it through the forest, he would arrive at Liedenstorm.
Nero took a breath and stepped forward.
User Comments
0 comments from readers