“Two levels? Only two? I busted my ass off slaughtering an entire buildings worth of people, several elites, and a mob boss. Why is that only worth two levels?”
I blink, realization hitting me. “Is it because I didn’t finish off Corvin? Was I supposed to do the deed? Is Daiyu leveling from ending him instead of me?”
The floating ball blinks, awaiting further instruction. It is unbothered by my complaints, merely existing to frustrate me more and more every annoying second.
“Fine, stay silent. Just show me my stat page.”
“Acknowledged.”
Skills Obtained: 3
Souls Possessed: 4
“Put the points into strength and let me wake up.”
“Acknowledged.”
The smell of sterility greets me like a reminder that I’m not on my ship—
a unnervingly comfortable reminder.
The bed beneath me is soft, too soft. I stretch, flicking my tail and blinking against the faint violet glow spilling through the pipes overhead. Most of the others are still asleep, sprawled under their sheets. Even Mishka snores, the sound a faint growl under her breath.
I hop quietly off the bed, paws making no sound on the cool floor, and pad toward the doorway.
Outside, voices drift through the low hum of gas lines.
“Now,” Veynar is saying, his tone professorial, “the fume is dense with mana. Its violet coloration and fluorescent glow are the visual indicators of that saturation.”
I peer around the corner. Veynar Drauss sits at a table cluttered with vials, runes, and strange instruments that look half medical, half torturous. Nepenthes stands opposite him, her posture attentive, the glass of her eyes reflecting violet light.
“The city uses it for light,” she says, her voice even. “But that seems a waste of potential.”
“True,” Veynar replies, “and not untrue. The gas maintains most of its potency even after refinement. However, when exposed directly to flesh…” He gestures with a gloved hand, his tone turning almost reverent. “The result is rapid evolution—though is a generous word. Uncontrolled, it becomes a tumorous mana-feeding mass. Lethal more often than useful.”
He picks up a vial of liquid light—the gas condensed into fluid form. “But when condensed and guided with one’s own mana, it becomes manageable. Directed. What was once mutation becomes… creation. We call this process ”
Nepenthes clicks her pincers thoughtfully. “I have observed many residents with crude augmentations. Misshapen, unstable. Is that a consequence of incompetence?”
“Precisely.” Veynar’s tone warms with satisfaction. “True Fleshforging demands finesse—both in mana control and biological understanding. Few reach the rank of [Fleshbinder], fewer still true mastery.”
“And are competent?” I ask, hopping up onto the table beside them.
Both jolt—Veynar almost dropping his vial, Nepenthes’ pincers snapping shut inches from my tail.
“By the gods, don’t that,” Veynar exhales, hand to his chest. Then, regaining composure: “Have you not seen my level?”
Now that you mention it…
I blink. “You’re ”
“Indeed,” Veynar says, with quiet pride. “The most experienced [Fleshbinder] on this island. My reputation was the reason Corvin’s men took me—to strengthen their ranks.”
I almost tap a beaker off the table, but restrain myself. “I see. Well, Doctor Drauss, how reliable are your ? Could you improve my Fenrimorph form?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Fenrimorph? So that your transformation? I hadn’t realized a [Shifter] could assume such an aberration. That explains your regeneration, though. Remarkable.”
“It is,” Nepenthes agrees. “Potent enough that your fume may fail to interact with his tissue.”
Veynar rubs his clean-shaven chin. “A test, then. Simple enough. I will need a sample of your flesh.”
I nod, shift into my monstrous form, and with a low growl tear a chunk from my side. It hits the table with a wet slap. Then I shift back into my far superior feline self.
Veynar doesn’t flinch. His attention sharpens, eyes gleaming like a scholar’s before revelation. He uncorks the vial, pours the glowing liquid down a stylus etched with runes, and draws it across the sample.
The reaction is immediate. The flesh ripples, hardening, darkening—fibers tightening into cords like tempered steel.
“Amazing,” both Veynar and Nepenthes breathe at once.
“The evolution is exceptionally fast,” Nepenthes says.
“And stable,” Veynar adds, excitement creeping into his voice. “Even controllable. But…” He frowns, measuring the mana drain. “Costly. Any subject lacking immense regeneration would perish.”
“I regenerate fifty mana per minute—about ten percent of my pool.”
“Impossible!” Veynar snaps upright. “Not even pureblood [Nobles] who devote their lives to Vitality achieve half that!”
I shrug. “Let’s just say my Fenrimorph is… a little special.”
He goes quiet, thinking deeply, the glint of obsession flickering in his eyes. “Fascinating. Truly fascinating. Then perhaps…” He trails off, then abruptly stands. “Wait here.”
He vanishes into the back room and returns moments later carrying a large quill covered in intricate runes—the same one from Corvin’s office. Its surface hums faintly with restrained power.
“I believe,” he says, setting it reverently on the table, “this will interest you.”
Veynar sets the rune-etched spike on the table with a soft It hums faintly, the air around it seemingly shimmering.
I tilt my head. “That’s one of those Sparkhold Quills, right? The kind you jam into people to give them skills?”
“Correct,” Veynar says, eyes gleaming behind his lenses. “Though how Sparkhold imparts skills into these artifacts is a mystery I’d to unravel. Still—” he gestures to the quill reverently, “this one contains the skill an Elite [Assassin] technique that enables short-range teleportation. An exceedingly rare piece. Normally, installing such a quill would drain a body to death. But with your regeneration rate…” His mouth curls faintly. “It should be quite manageable.”
I blink, ears twitching. “Seems too good to be true.”
“Perhaps,” he admits, adjusting his gloves. “Every skill has limitations. Cooldowns, mana costs, side effects… sometimes all three. But even with such drawbacks, the potential is worth the risk.”
I mull that over. He’s not wrong. Even one teleport a day could turn a fight upside down.
“Alright, fine.” I grin. “Install it.”
Veynar’s eyes brighten, a scholar’s excitement barely kept in check. “Excellent. Now, regarding the —what enhancements do you desire? Strength, durability, sensory refinement? Full-body augmentation or localized improvement?”
Let’s see… strength? Already have that. Durability? My regeneration covers it. Perception? Flawless, obviously.
“I want more control,” I say. “Specifically in my hands. I’m… not the best with delicate tasks.”
“Simple enough.” He scribbles a quick note in violet ink. “Anything else? Hardening the skin or fur, perhaps?”
I blink. “You can modify ?”
“Of course,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “It’s simply keratin-based tissue—infinitely easier to restructure than muscle.”
I hum, tail flicking thoughtfully. “In that case… can you increase my fur density?”
That gets him to pause. Veynar tilts his head, frowning in analytical confusion. “I can, though the process is inefficient. Denser fur means higher mana draw. It would be… costly.”
“That’s fine,” I say cheerfully. “Just make it happen. And while you’re at it, reinforce the muscles and toughen the body. Might as well get the full spa treatment.”
His frown deepens. “That many simultaneous grafts could overwhelm even your regeneration.”
I grin. “So long as the fur gets fluffier, everything else will be fine.”
For a long second, he just Then, with a resigned sigh, curiosity wins out.
“Very well,” he says. “Take on your Fenrimorph form and lie down on the table.”
With a thought, I shift back into a Fenrimorph and head to the table.
Nepenthes watches silently, her eyes glinting like polished glass. “If anything appears amiss,” she says coolly, “I will intervene.”
“Duly noted,” Veynar replies. His tone doesn’t waver, but I can see the spark of scientific glee hiding beneath the calm. “Let’s begin.”
