Chapter 8: The Journey to the Plague Village


    As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, Ezren stepped out of the portal. The air was crisp, carrying the distant scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the morning chill. His next destination was the village to the south, the one struck by the plague. But before setting out, he had work to do.


    He turned to his undead bird, its hollow eyes locked onto him in silent obedience. "Scout ahead. Find the village and report back." The creature flapped its tattered wings and soared into the sky, disappearing into the clouds.


    Next, he turned to his wolves. "Hunt." The two undead beasts loped into the underbrush, seeking small prey. Meanwhile, Ezren focused on refining his control over his Branded bone spikes.


    Spotting a bird perched on a low-hanging branch, Ezren flicked his wrist, sending a bone spike hurtling through the air. It missed, slicing past the bird and continuing forward before hovering briefly in the air. Ezren''s will clamped down on it, forcing the spike to twist and change direction mid-flight.


    With a subtle gesture, he guided the spike back toward its target, the bone shard arcing through the air and striking the bird with ruthless precision. (then he put the bird into the portal)


    Ezren focused on another bird, his control flowing effortlessly through the Branded spike. Each time he missed, he redirected the spike, altering its trajectory until it pierced his target. The sensation was intoxicating—like having a invisible hands at his command.


    Within the hour, he had felled ten birds, his mastery over the Branded spike sharpening with each successful strike.


    The wolves returned shortly after, dragging their kills—a collection of three rabbits, two snakes, one turtle, and three frogs. Without hesitation, he deposited everything into the portal.


    He goes in the portal, he turned to Graos. "Analyze it."


    Ezren stepped back through the portal, emerging into the dim, pulsating glow of the Forge. Graos’s many eyes glistened in the darkness, watching his master’s approach with rapt attention.


    “Graos,” Ezren called, his voice firm. “Analyze the materials.”


    The Fleshsmith chittered in acknowledgment, extending tendrils from his body to grasp the birds, rabbits, snakes, turtle, and frogs he had gathered. Tendrils goes to the bodies. Analyzing


    “Workable. All suitable for manipulation,” Graos rasped, his voice wet and guttural. “What would you have me shape, master?”


    Ezren hesitated, then pulled two wolf skins from the portal, their fur still matted with blood. “Can you make me a belt?”


    Graos’s eyes blinked one by one, a ripple of amusement passing through him. “A belt? No. Such things are beyond my craft. I shape the living and the dead, flesh and bone—organic matter. Belts are trinkets of leather and iron.”


    Ezren frowned. “Then how about a bag? Something like… a tote bag.”


    “A bag…” Graos murmured, his voice thick with curiosity. “Yes. A simple construct of skin, reshaped to hold.”


    Graos drag 2 wolf pelt into the Sinew Pool. They sank into the writhing mass, swallowed by the pulsing depths. Graos’s tendrils extended, entwining and melding the raw material.


    “Straps of sinew for strength… layers of skin folded and bonded…” Graos rasped as he worked. “An open top for ease of access… reinforced seams to endure wear and strain…”


    The fleshy glow intensified, illuminating the grotesque craftwork. Moments later, Graos lifted the completed item from the pool—a roughly formed but functional tote bag. The surface was smooth, the edges melded together with unnatural precision. Two thick, sinew-woven straps hung from either side.


    Ezren nodded. “Beggars can’t be picky.” He grabbed the tote bag by its straps, the fresh wolf skin cool and clammy against his gloved fingers.


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    The bag was grotesque, its surface smooth and seamless—no stitches, no rough edges, just skin fused together as if it had naturally grown into the desired shape. Graos’s craftsmanship had melded the layers into a single, cohesive piece, the skin’s natural oils leaving a faint, slick residue on Ezren’s hands.


    It was unsettling. The texture was too lifelike, like holding something freshly peeled rather than properly cured. Yet, the bag was functional. It held its shape well enough, the reinforced base offering support and the straps sturdy where they fused into the body.


    Ezren slid one of his Branded bone spikes into the bag, testing the capacity. The skin flexed but didn’t tear. One by one, he added more spikes, their weight causing the bag to sag slightly but not enough to compromise its utility.


    Crude, but effective. The lack of stitching made the bag feel more organic, almost like something that had been grown rather than crafted.


    He didn’t care how it looked or felt—only that it served its purpose. And for now, it did.


    Satisfied, Ezren adjusted his grip on the straps, feeling the faint give of the skin as he lifted the bag. It would do.


    He meditates before going outside. He opens the portal and head out. The plague village awaited.


    Moments later, the scout bird returned. It flew in circles above Ezren before darting southward, repeating the motion until Ezren understood. The village lay a six-hour walk to the southwest. Now, he knew his path. He asks the bird if there’s large animal on the way. And the bird nodded. So he told the bird to point him to the creature he saw. Killing 2 bird with 1 stone. Hunting creature on the way to the village


    Ezren followed as it guided him to the boar’s location, not far from his route. A smirk curled on Ezren’s lips. He adjusted the straps of his shoulder belt and made his way toward the creature’s location.


    Upon arrival, he observed the beast grazing among the underbrush. Ezren gave a simple command to his wolves: "Kill it."


    The undead wolves sprang into action, closing the distance in seconds. The first wolf lunged, aiming for the boar''s throat, but the beast reacted swiftly, slamming its tusks into the wolf’s ribcage. Bone cracked, but the undead did not falter. The second wolf took advantage of the distraction, darting behind the boar and sinking its teeth deep into its hind leg. The boar bellowed in fury, thrashing to shake its attacker off, but the undead’s grip was unyielding.


    With a savage twist, the first wolf clamped its rotting jaws around the boar’s throat, dragging it down. The beast convulsed, kicking wildly, but its movements weakened as blood gushed from the gaping wound. A final, strained breath escaped its nostrils before it lay still.


    Ezren wasted no time. "Drag it back to the portal."


    As the wolves obeyed, then Ezren goes in the portal, Graos emerged, he told Analyze it, then butcher it. After Graos analyze it and provided his assessment, he skinned the boar, carefully preserving the hide before butchering the meat. Then Ezren took a kilo for himself and stored the rest.


    Now it was time to eat.


    Finding a suitable spot, he gathered dry wood and ignited a fire. The scent of sizzling boar meat filled the air as he cooked. He was halfway through his meal when a familiar sensation crept into his mind—an alert from his undead birds. Something was coming.


    Ezren calmly set down his food.


    Five wild wolves stalked from the treeline, fangs bared and eyes locked onto him.


    "Distract one," Ezren commanded. The undead bird dove, harrying a wolf with sharp pecks and erratic swerves.


    "Attack," he snapped at his wolves. The two undead beasts surged forward, crashing into the pack with ruthless efficiency. They moved without hesitation or fear, lunging and snapping with unnatural precision.


    Ezren didn''t waste time. His will surged into the bone spikes within his tote bag, and with a flick of his wrist, he launched them toward the wild wolves. The air hummed as the spikes tore through flesh, piercing two wolves in an instant.


    One wolf tried to lunge at his undead, but a spike slammed into its skull before it could bite. Another spike buried itself into the flank of a wolf trying to flank his undead wolves. Blood sprayed, the beast crumpling with a strangled yelp.


    In seconds, four wolves lay dead, their bodies crumpled and bleeding.


    Ezren turned just in time to see the last wolf—a fierce survivor that had swatted his bird from the air—charging toward him. Its eyes gleamed with desperate fury.


    Ezren reacted a moment too late. The last wolf lunged at him, jaws snapping down on his left arm. Pain flared as sharp fangs pierced through his sleeve, claws raking across his skin.


    Snarling, Ezren gripped the dagger from his belt with his free hand and drove it into the wolf’s neck. Hot blood gushed over his fingers as the beast choked and collapsed, its weight falling limp against him.


    “Blackblood.” Ezren’s voice was tight, but focused. Dark mana surged through his veins, tendrils of shadow weaving into torn flesh and sealing the wounds. The pain faded as his arm knitted back together, whole once more. The technique drained 10% of his mana, but the injury was gone.


    He rolled his shoulder to test it, satisfied. “Drag the corpses back to the portal,” he commanded his undead wolves. They obeyed without hesitation, jaws clamping down on the fresh kills.


    Ezren wiped the blood from his dagger, sat back down, and resumed his meal as if nothing had happened. Once finished, he rose and continued south.


    By the time he reached the village, the sun hung low in the sky. The plague-ridden settlement lay before him, silent and foreboding. He stepped forward, ready to see what awaited him inside.