His body felt ruined. Every muscle screamed in protest, and a deep, gnawing hunger tore at his guts. The final attack had consumed every last drop of power, leaving nothing in reserve to heal the livid burns that streaked his arms and torso, with a hunger deeper than any he’d known that clawed at his stomach. He was running on absolute empty, a woozy lightness threatening to pitch him forward into the ash.

  “How the hell did you do that?” Evans’s voice was low, calm, but his eyes were locked on David. “How are you only barely burned?”

  “Trade secret,” David offered a weak shrug that sent a fresh spike of pain through his shoulder. “Wouldn’t try it at home.”

  Barely burned, he says. Feels like I tried to hug a campfire.

  Corbin said nothing, his jaw tight. He had reloaded, his sidearm held tight at his side, not pointed but not holstered. Evans had done the same. Mara’s concern was more naked, her eyes wide. “David, you’re… you’re really hurt.”

  “It’s mostly cosmetic,” he deflected, his voice raspy. Cosmetic. As if second-degree burns were a fashion choice.

  It was no use. His stored energy—heat, demonic, whatever else—was completely dry. The presence of stats implied his body generated two types. If he waited, he might generate enough mana and demonic energy to move. Until then, he remained stuck, immobile in the hell-forest. He was a car on fumes.

  But there was still a drop, the dregs of something at the very bottom of his being. Mana? Vitality? He didn't have a name for it. He focused, pushing that last, pathetic ember through his body in a feeble attempt at reinforcement. It wasn't enough to stand. It was just enough to crawl.

  He ignored their questions, dragging himself through the dirt toward the nearest patch of still-burning brush. He rolled onto his back in the flames with a grunt of effort.

  “What is he doing?” Mara gasped.

  What does it look like I’m doing? Taking a nap. He closed his eyes, shutting out their stares, and breathed in.

  The heat washed over him, and for a terrible moment, nothing happened. Then, the familiar, weary siphon began. The healing came first, then strength came slow, agonizingly so, like the first drops of water to a man dying of thirst. The pain in his burns began to recede, not completely vanishing, but soften from a shrieking agony to a dull, manageable throb. The woozy emptiness in his chest was slowly, so slowly, being filled with a trickle of immediate warmth and power.

  He kept his eyes closed, but he was hyper-aware of the others. He could feel the weight of their gaze, especially Evans and Corbin. He knew, without looking, that their hands stayed tight on their weapons, ready in case he grew horns and an appetite for human flesh. Heh. As if they could do anything about it if I did, he thought, too exhausted to even be horrified by the possibility.

  Before realizing he was decidedly not bulletproof—and they definitely could do something about it, namely, put several bullets through his head that he couldn’t fire-heal his way through, David decided to pay close attention to them both moving forward.

  He had just revealed a card he never meant to play, and now he was desperately, publicly, scavenging for the energy to play another, less compromising card. He was exposed, vulnerable, and replenishing himself in the one thing that should have killed him.

  Let them think this is all I can do; healing, he thought. Fire goes in, wounds close. Simple math. No hidden cards or surprises. His body ached from the strain, no longer stinging, he held his expression steady. Healing and maybe higher stats. That’s all they get. Anything more, and they start aiming for the head. Everyone has stats.

  David kept still, watching them from beneath half-lowered lids. They studied him as if waiting for a trick he no longer had the energy to perform. The two marshals’ sidearms angled toward him slightly, but not outright pointing. Hell, Corbin had his in that two-hand grip cops, soldiers, and overenthusiastic divorced dads used when they held guns.

  Really? Contemplating shooting me already, after I saved my life and yours by coincidental proxy, he thought as the healing fire seeped into his bones. This is a great way to build trust.

  He lifted his head, movements deliberately slow and open, his hands clearly empty. Corbin’s posture was a coiled spring, the gun in his grip not quite aimed but decisively ready. A very specific sort of conversation. David’s eyes didn’t leave the man, mentally calculating the distance, the shift of weight required to slam a palm up into Corbin’s wrist while a knee found something soft. The odds on the first shot missing were, he estimated, not in his favor.

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  Corbin’s stare was unwavering. After a long moment, he let out a controlled breath and holstered his weapon. “You were bleeding from places a person shouldn’t survive bleeding from.”

  David offered a faint, economical tilt of his chin. “Strong skincare regimen.” He was too tired to speak, psychologically, but he forced the words out anyway.

  “We’re exposed here,” Corbin said, his voice low and urgent. “Mara’s conscious but her vision is swimming. Evans is favoring his right side. They’re mobile.”

  “I’d feel better with a pointy thing,” David rasped. He pushed through the protest in his joints to crouch, retrieving the warlock’s serrated dagger. He wiped the flat of the blade clean on the ground, then picked up the glinting shards of the broken talisman.

  “We need to move, now,” Evans said. “The fire won’t completely hide the smell of blood. We should wash the wounds.”

  The flames David was using for healing had extinguished. He pressed his hand against the dirt, then crawled toward another dying flame nearby. Every motion sent sparks of pain through him. “Just a minute,” he said through shallow breath. “Need a refill.”

  From the corner of his eye, David caught mana coiling around the corpse of the dead werebeast warlock. Mara crouched beside it, tore free a piece of flesh, and slipped it into her pocket. What the hell, he thought. Why would she do that? It could be a skill, or something else entirely. He decided to watch her closely.

  Corbin’s tone sharpened. “David—”

  David ignored them. He opened his palm and breathed in. The flame bent toward him, its heat thinning as he pulled it into himself. The sting faded. His skin tightened, mending faintly. “Okay, ready.”

  “Can you stand?” Corbin’s gaze was already scanning the oppressive tree line.

  “Never better,” David exhaled, hauling himself upright. A bright, sharp pain flared in his ribs, and the gnawing emptiness in his stomach seemed to mirror the sentiment. “Like Evans, I’d prefer to be elsewhere when the local wildlife comes to investigate the smell.”

  Evans, his face a mask of strained endurance, watched them. He gave a terse, single nod, his own hand resting on his holstered sidearm.

  “We’ll need to talk about this,” Corbin stated, his tone flat and final. “But finding cover comes first.”

  [Name: David Carter

  Level 5

  Demonic Realm: Floor 1/???

  Difficulty: Impossible

  Time left until forced ejection: 4y 364d 17h 57m 32s.

  Primary Class: Locked

  Sub-class: Locked

  Strength: 9

  Dexterity: 7

  Constitution: 23

  Mana: 17

  Demonic Energy: 22

  Skills: Battle Sense Lvl 3, Calm Mind Lvl 1, Energy Affinity Lvl 3, Demonic Energy Mastery Lvl 2,

  Free points: 0]

  David, now fully clothed with a fresh set from his hand luggage, leaned against the cold, dented hull, his body utterly drained. A profound, energy-based hunger ached in his core, and a feverish heat made his skin slick with sweat. He was relying entirely on his standard issue human resilience to recover, whilst waiting for the strange demonic energy and his mana to replenish themselves. He concentrated on his skill, [Calm Mind], to push back against the existential hunger.

  Rhea knelt beside him. She was Elara's sort-of friend, and had probably heard a great deal about him. Her face was typically unreadable, but a flicker of something showed in her eyes. With a deliberate gesture, she pressed a finger against a raw spot on the back of his hand.

  David jerked his hand back. "Was there a point to that?" he asked, his voice flat.

  "Checking for nerve damage," she said, her tone devoid of apology. She lit a cigarette. "You're still responsive. That's something."

  He could sense her stats, a transparent overlay in his mind. She had given him permission, apparently you could do that:

  [Level: 0

  Strength: 3

  Agility: 9

  Resilience: 1

  Focus: 2]

  Her skills, [Telekinetic Tug Lvl 1] and [Distant Gaze Lvl 1], were listed plainly. She was the one who had first catalogued the abilities of the other survivors for him.

  David watched the group, catching the small tells—the twitch of a hand, a shift in stance, that faint tension of someone trying to not look powerful. So, he thought, I’m not the only one who got a party trick. He’d figured as much. The idea of being the chosen one had always sounded like something a bored god came up with after a few drinks.

  Still, the overlap threw him. He’d expected variety—something more boutique. Instead, half of them seemed tuned to the same strange frequency. Energy, mana, whatever label people were using in this twisted dimension. The word had a mystique, as if it came prepackaged with self-importance.

  It powered their Skills, ran their impossible architecture. And damn if it wasn’t tempting. Under saner conditions, he might’ve spent a week just experimenting, poking at the edges to see what happened. The method, but without the method.

  He imagined it as a toy box full of volatile parts—fun until one of them detonated. A fair trade, in his opinion. After all, progress sometimes came with a little combustion.

  The luxury of experimentation, however, was a distant dream. Three men approached. The one leading them was Corbin, who moved with a pronounced limp. His expression was a mixture of determination and profound awkwardness.

  Corbin pressed on. "Henderson found a river. Down the valley. Five-minute walk from where... from where we lost Levi." He swallowed, glancing at David’s companion. "The possessed armor... there was nothing we could do."

  Evans spoke, his voice low and steady. "Henderson took two others back for the body. To bring Levi back."

  That made David pause. His previous assessment of Henderson as fundamentally timid recalibrated itself. Going back for a body. Your friend’s body. In this. It’s sentimental and illogical, but brave. That's a desperate man, or a loyal one. Misjudged that.

  David pushed himself upright, he took a slow breath, focusing on the [Calm Mind] skill to keep the world from tilting.

  "Lead the way," he said, his tone all grim functionality. "Let's go see this river."