Pupils narrowed, widened, narrowed again—as though something struggled inside, trying to break through the fog of instinct. The bear shook its head, but Elira didn't remove her hand. She simply held her palm against its muzzle, feeling muscles tremble beneath the fur.

  "You can do this," she spoke quietly, almost a whisper, and ran her fingers behind its ear—there, where the fur was softer.

  The beast froze. Its breathing slowed, became deeper, steadier. The growl subsided, shifting to a low rumble like distant thunder in its chest. The girl stepped closer, placed her second hand on the opposite side of its muzzle, holding its head between her palms.

  "Look at me."

  Eyes met. Green, human—not a bear's. Kael looked at her through the bestial shell, and she saw the struggle in that gaze, how he clung to reason, tearing himself from the call's clutches piece by piece.

  The fur on its withers lowered. Claws retracted, pressed into the earth and froze. The bear exhaled again, and the breath came out almost human—relieved, exhausted.

  The body shuddered.

  Elira stepped back, lowering her hands, watching. The beast collapsed onto its front paws, head drooping, muzzle nearly touching the grass. Fur began to thin—hairs drew back into skin, disappeared, exposing pale human flesh. Bones cracked, shortening, returning to former shapes. The spine arched, the ridge protruded beneath skin, and the man groaned—low, hoarse, through clenched teeth.

  Paws transformed into hands—claws retracted, pads contracted, fingers lengthened, regaining familiar contours. Hind limbs shrank, hip bones shifted with dull clicks. The tail vanished last, drew back into the base of his tailbone, leaving only faint pain.

  Kael lay on all fours, naked, covered in sweat and black snake blood. His chest heaved in jerks, hair plastered to his forehead, hands trembling.

  "Papa!" His daughter lunged forward, but Elira stopped her with a look.

  "Wait."

  She crouched beside the man, placed her palm on his back—between his shoulder blades, where the skin burnt with heat. He flinched but didn't pull away. Simply breathed, heavily and raggedly, as though each inhalation came with difficulty.

  "You've come back," Elira said, her voice calm, as though nothing unusual had happened.

  The man nodded without raising his head. His arms buckled under his body's weight, and he slowly rolled onto his side, trying not to look at the group. At the girls frozen with their spears. At his daughter, hands pressed to her chest.

  "What was that?" One of them whispered.

  "Transformation," Elira answered without turning. "He awakened it without a quest—we were very lucky it happened during battle." She removed her cloak, draped it over Kael, covering his nakedness. "Everything's fine. He managed."

  Kael closed his eyes, trying to quell the trembling. The call still rang somewhere at the edge of consciousness—quiet, barely audible, but enough to remind him of its presence. He felt every muscle, every bone—all ached, throbbed, as though his body had been put through a mincer.

  Elira ran her hand along his shoulder, squeezed gently.

  "Rest. We'll talk later."

  He nodded without opening his eyes and allowed himself simply to lie there, feeling the cloak's warmth and the earth's coolness against his side. The girls began moving—collected the snake carcasses and withdrew to the clearing's edge, conversing in hushed voices. His daughter came closer, dropped to her knees beside him.

  "Are you in pain?"

  "It'll pass," Kael forced out hoarsely.

  Right at this moment, as he lay on the ground trying to catch his breath and quell the trembling in his exhausted muscles, his attention was caught by system text appearing before his eyes in semi-transparent lines.

  [Attention! Congratulations! You have independently unlocked the species ability: "Transformation", granting you a 5% increase to attributes when used.]

  [Attention! Congratulations! You have gained a new skill: "Creator".]

  [Attention! You have been offered a quest: "Call of Blood"

  Rank: E

  Objective: Find one who will help you master your inner nature

  Description:

  "You could not resist the bestial essence that slumbered within you. Instinct took the upper hand, and only by miracle did this not lead to irreversible tragedy. The beast inside you has awakened but not submitted. Next time fortune may turn away, and then you risk losing control completely, forever sinking into the call's madness.

  Find a mentor—one who has already walked this path, who knows how to master a shapeshifter's wild nature and not let it consume reason. Only an experienced guide will help you understand the changes occurring within you and teach you to control the power that now controls you."

  Reward:

  — Stabilisation of ability: "Transformation"

  — Experience: 250 units

  Do you accept the quest?

  Yes/No]

  Kael blinked, trying to focus his gaze on the glowing lines. Letters swam before his eyes, blurring and reassembling into words. He read the text twice, trying to grasp the meaning through exhaustion's fog.

  "Call of Blood..."

  The quest's name echoed in his head, resonating with that very call that had recently torn him apart from within, transforming thoughts into a mash of instincts and fury. He ran his tongue across dry lips, tasting iron—blood, either his or the snakes'.

  "Find a mentor."

  Kael smiled soundlessly, feeling his lips twitch in the semblance of a grin. A mentor. Someone who knew more. Who'd walked this path before. But where would he find this sage?

  He mentally reached for the "Yes" button. He couldn't refuse. If next time the call struck at an inopportune moment, if Elira with her cold calculation and ability to pull the right strings wasn't nearby...

  He pressed it.

  The text flared, dissolved, and in the corner of his vision appeared a new marker—active quest.

  "Right, now the skill."

  The second notification hung lower, and Kael shifted his gaze to it, squinting. He didn't know this skill. Couldn't recall encountering the description before—not in handbooks, not in guides. New? Unique? Or simply another game mechanic, hidden and guarded by clans?

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  He mentally touched the name, summoning details.

  [— "Creator"

  Rank: F (10/100)]

  No further explanation. No levelling requirements, no activation conditions, no hints. Though the name itself sounded ambitious. Grandiose. And utterly useless without specifics.

  Kael exhaled, closing the interface with a wave of his hand. The lines faded, leaving only faint afterglow on his retinas. His body still ached—muscles protested every movement, bones seemed not quite settled, leaving an unpleasant feeling of wrongness.

  "Are you sure you don't need anything?"

  His daughter's voice. Quiet, worried.

  He opened his eyes, turned his head. The girl sat nearby on her haunches, knees pressed to her chest, looking at him with wide eyes. Fear could be read in them—not for herself, for him. And guilt too, misplaced, foolish, but still alive.

  "Everything's fine," the man forced out hoarsely. His throat felt raw, as though he'd swallowed sand. "Move back. Let me... let me sort myself out."

  His daughter nodded but didn't leave. Simply withdrew a bit further, turned and sat again, clasping her knees tighter.

  Elira stood to the side, talking with the other girls—explaining something, gesturing sparingly and precisely. They listened, nodded, glanced his way sidelong. Distrust. Wariness. He didn't blame them.

  Kael slowly rose on his elbow, trying not to dislodge the cloak. His head spun, his vision darkened for a second, but he clenched his teeth, waited it out. Then sat up, drawing his knees close, wrapped himself tighter. Snake blood had dried on his skin in black crusts, pulling, itching.

  "Need to wash," he muttered under his breath.

  "No, let's first work out what we're going to do." Elira approached and lowered herself to the ground.

  "About what?" The man didn't understand.

  "About 'The Final Game'—what do you think about it?" Then Kael remembered what had started it all...

  Shaking himself as though casting off the weight of a spell, the man drove away the memories and slowly rose from the moss-covered pine. The bark had left dark damp patches on the cloak. The girl immediately withdrew, straightened, understanding that morning caresses had come to an end. A smile still lingered on her face, but her gaze had already become businesslike, focused.

  "Will Naila manage?" Kael asked quietly, as though to himself.

  Elira narrowed her eyes, surveying him from head to toe, and smiled with faint mockery.

  "Don't even doubt it. The girl's all you."

  Kael snorted, rubbed his palm down his face, covering his eyes. His head still hummed, thoughts crawled slowly, viscously.

  "That's why I'm worried," he muttered wearily. "What if she loses it... does something stupid."

  Elira flared. Her eyes flashed, lips compressed into a thin line.

  "Don't underestimate her!" She snapped. "She'll manage!"

  Kael raised his hand placatingly, leaning back slightly.

  "Steady on. I said I was worried. Just worried."

  "He's worried!" Elira almost shouted, taking a step forward. "She'll manage! Full stop!"

  Kael merely shook his head and smiled—weakly, wearily, but sincerely. This outburst was so unlike her. But he found it incredibly pleasing that there was someone else prepared to defend and protect his daughter.

  "As you say," he spoke conciliatorily, spreading his hands. "I suppose there's no point asking about your readiness..."

  The girl simply snorted and spun sharply on her heels, heading with broad, confident stride towards the camp. The cloak swept behind her back like a predatory bird's wing.

  She was genuinely, absolutely confident in herself. Confident to her bones, to every breath. That she'd manage the spontaneous transformation—without doubts, without hesitation. After all, if he'd done it, albeit accidentally, by trial and error, then she could certainly repeat it deliberately. Moreover—she must. Otherwise what was the point of everything she'd been taught? In discipline, in perfection, in flawlessness?

  The man caught up with her several steps later, silently falling in beside her, lagging slightly behind by half a body length. His steps were heavy, measured. His breathing even.

  Upon learning about such a possibility for their species—that transformation could be unlocked independently, bypassing the complex quest chain whilst gaining incredible bonuses—all the girls in the group literally caught fire. They wanted to gain the same advantages Kael had. Despite their age, all of Naila's classmates perfectly understood what advantage five per cent growth would provide in future.

  This further united their group, transforming it into a cohesive team with a common goal. And they completed rather quickly, almost eagerly, the entire long, convoluted quest chain for the village elder—a stern, taciturn old man with a grey beard to his waist, who, as it turned out, proved to be that very mentor the man needed to complete his path.

  After which Kael, having spent several hours in persistent questioning and appeasing the grumbling ancient, finally managed to extract from the old shapeshifter the precise method by which the other group members could repeat his path. How to undergo the same trial and gain the same bonus.

  It turned out there were exactly two methods of independent transformation. The first—natural, spontaneous, that very one the man had accidentally used in battle when he'd been cornered and no choice remained.

  Here several critical factors had to align simultaneously: emotional shock of certain strength, physical exhaustion to the brink of death, and some mysterious conditions connected with the phases of the moon. Moreover, all three of Seratis's moons, which moved across the sky in different rhythms and aligned in the required configuration once every few months. So this method was immediately ruled out for the group—too unreliable, too unpredictable, too dangerous.

  But the second method, which the ancient shapeshifter revealed to them whilst dragging on a long roll-up of some sharp herb, proved far more realistic and achievable. Though, as should be expected, by no means simple in execution—every grain of power in Seratis, as indeed in any other world of the Ether, came through hard labour and risk.

  They had to complete a dungeon that lay hidden beyond the dark coniferous forest east of Anish'taa, there where pines grew ever taller and grimmer, and between trunks began swirling mists that scratched the throat and spun the head.

  According to the ancient elder, slowly shaking his head and peering into distant memories through the haze of smoke from his roll-up, the Spring of Mists itself had spawned the very first shapeshifters in these lands many centuries ago, when the world was still young and wild.

  And this legendary pool, shrouded in mysticism and ancient legends, could be found only in the dungeon's very heart—in a hidden hall that opened exclusively after killing the final boss on legendary difficulty. At any easier completion, however hard the group tried, the hall with the spring simply remained locked tight, as though it didn't exist in this reality at all.

  The group members had long since verified this through bitter personal experience. Their squad had methodically completed this cursed dungeon at absolutely every known difficulty level, from normal to the incredibly gruelling mythic level, except one—legendary, that very final threshold that beckoned them all like an unattainable dream.

  Having raised their tenth levels with such difficulty through endless quests to unlock the dungeon entrance itself, they'd first completed it on normal difficulty. True, it took a full five attempts, each ending in painful defeat and bitter post-mortem analysis round the campfire...

  Then came trial level, which they conquered on the fourth attempt, having gained experience. After it came rare level, then elite, where every boss was a true nightmare, then epic level, which nearly broke the spirit even of the squad's most steadfast members, and finally—the exhausting mythic, after which everyone collapsed from fatigue but brimming with pride in their victory.

  To avoid losing their hard-won levels after countless painful wipes, which occurred with enviable regularity at each new completion stage, they constantly had to methodically accumulate at least some precious progress points in literally every available skill.

  And they had to kill at least one or two mobs so the experience bar wasn't at zero, otherwise, at the next inevitable death of the entire group, the game's merciless system would roll them all back. Had they not done this, they'd have long ago tumbled back to the very first levels, losing all their hard-won progress and becoming helpless novices once more.

  Yesterday, as the crimson sun declined towards sunset, painting Seratis's sky in blood-orange hues, all twelve members of their united group finally reached fourteenth level, and Kael, barely containing his own exhaustion, declared mandatory rest until dawn, so everyone could recover their strength and prepare mentally.

  Of course, they could have continued grinding and levelled even higher—to fifteenth, even to twentieth levels, if they'd wanted to spend additional time and effort on it. But Kael, having thoroughly analysed all available data and weighed all risks, made a firm strategic decision to stop precisely at fourteenth.

  The fact was that with every fifth level of the players themselves—that is, at fifth, tenth, fifteenth and so forth—the dungeon automatically scaled up, as though adapting to their increased strength, adding new deadly abilities to bosses, increasing the quantity of dangerous mobs and making all combat mechanics even more merciless and demanding.

  Fourteenth level, by the man's calculations, should be optimal—high enough to possess the necessary skills and attributes for confronting bosses, but at the same time not so high as to provoke unnecessary and potentially fatal strengthening of the dungeon itself before their single attempt at completion on legendary difficulty.

  And so it had arrived—this long-awaited dawn, when the first rays barely began breaking through the dense crowns of trees surrounding their camp, meaning the time had come for serious preparation for the decisive completion of the cursed dungeon.

  Entry at legendary difficulty was possible only once per entire year—such were this world's strict rules. So either they'd triumph here and now, leaving the bosses not a single chance, or they'd forever forget their cherished dreams of becoming even slightly stronger, standing out from millions of other players.