Skeletal fingers broke through the earth, scraping against the cold stone beneath. The soil clung to him as if it were trying to drag him back into the grave, a futile, desperate grasp that only delayed the inevitable. His bones, brittle and fragile, resisted the weight of the earth above him, but he persisted. His movements were awkward, stiff, each motion a painful creak of joints that had long been frozen in the stillness of death. Slowly, inch by inch, he clawed his way upward, dragging himself from the depths of the ground. The air was thick with the smell of decay, and the dampness of the grave clung to his form as he emerged, fully into the night.

The process of rising felt like a birth, but a twisted, grotesque one. There was no cry of joy, no warmth of new life. Instead, the only sound was the scraping of bones, the rattle of movement that shattered the quiet of the forest night. He stood, unsteady at first, his body trembling with the effort. His ribs were exposed, stark against the darkness, and tattered rags hung loosely from his skeletal frame, their edges frayed with time. He could feel the remnants of the burial wrappings, now little more than forgotten cloth, fluttering in the breeze. His eye sockets glowed faintly with a sickly green light, like embers in the hollow of an old fire.

The world around him was silent—eerily so. The forest was devoid of the usual sounds of life. No birds, no insects, no rustling leaves—just the heavy stillness of an ancient place that had forgotten its own rhythm. Malric’s perception, different now from when he had lived, did not rely on sight, but on vibrations, the slightest changes in the air, the faintest movements in the ground. The world was an ocean of sensory input—an echo of life—but he was an outsider, a disruption in the flow.

The trees around him were skeletal as well, their branches like gnarled hands stretching into the void. Their bark was mottled with decay, and the ground was uneven, littered with loose stones and tangled roots. The moonlight filtered through the canopy above, casting a dim, cold glow over the forest floor. The earth beneath his bare feet was soft, uneven, yet it provided little resistance as he stood there, looking out into the dark expanse before him. He could smell the dampness of the air, the faint hint of mold and rot from the depths of the woods. Nothing moved. Not even a wind stirred the leaves. The air was thick with something ancient, something forgotten.

There were no other graves nearby, no signs of the dead around him. The forest was empty, a quiet monument to loss. Animals were nowhere to be found, leaving only the barren trees and a creeping sense of isolation. The silence stretched on, and Malric took a careful step forward, his bones creaking with the effort. His fragile body swayed as he adjusted to the weight of the movement. There was nothing but him, the remnants of life that once were, and the eerie expanse of the forest that had long been untouched.

Malric’s gaze shifted down to himself. His bones, once proud and sturdy, were now fragile and broken in places, weathered by time and the earth’s grasp. His ribs were visible, sharp and angular, like the cage of a bird long gone. His spine, crooked and bent from centuries of decay, gave his body an unnatural curve. The rags that hung from his shoulders were little more than tatters, barely held together by the faintest of threads. A rusted sword hung by his side, its blade pitted and chipped, more of a reminder of what had once been than a functional weapon. The sight of himself was not one of power, but of weakness.

A pulse of magic stirred within him, faint and weak but undeniably present. It flickered in his bones, an ember struggling to ignite. He could feel it, a small spark in the depths of his hollow chest, like a memory of something greater, something more. It was barely enough to make a difference now, but it was something. Something that could grow.

"Malric," he murmured to himself, his voice hollow and rasping in the emptiness of the night. The name lingered in his mind, as natural as the act of breathing—if only he could still breathe. The name wasn’t a gift; it was a fact, a simple truth that he could not explain, but he knew it without question. It was his, and it had always been. He didn’t remember the source, but it had never wavered. He was Malric, the name was as much a part of him as his bones, as his purpose, and it carried weight, though he had no idea what weight it truly held.

His hollow eyes flared briefly with a dim light as he stood there, a strange sense of something stirring within him. Weak, fragile, but with potential. He knew that much. His body might be weak, but there was something else—a drive, a hunger that surged beneath the surface. He could grow, he could become more. There was no question in his mind. He had to move. He had to leave this place and find whatever it was that would feed this hunger.

Without further hesitation, Malric stepped forward into the darkness of the forest. His movements were slow and deliberate, each step calculated, each motion cautious. The night seemed to welcome him, or perhaps it simply ignored him, as it had ignored all things for so long. The forest stretched out before him, a labyrinth of shadow and silence. There was no sound, no indication that anything lived here, but Malric knew better than to trust appearances. He had no knowledge of the world he now walked in, but he would learn. That was certain.

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The trees loomed over him, their skeletal branches like twisted fingers reaching for the sky. The path ahead was obscured by darkness, but it didn’t matter. Malric moved with purpose, each step taking him further into the void. He could feel the faintest vibrations of the earth beneath him, the pulse of the world still beating somewhere far off. He was an intruder in this place, but that was nothing new. It had always been this way—an outsider, a shadow in a world that had no place for him.

He moved deeper into the night, his bones clicking softly with each step, his form swallowed by the darkness. The forest seemed to close around him, the trees growing denser, the shadows darker. The stillness was almost suffocating, yet it did not deter him. Malric did not feel fear, only a quiet anticipation.

As he disappeared into the depths of the forest, the silence seemed to stretch on forever. There was no turning back now, no place for retreat. His journey had begun, and the path ahead was uncertain, but it did not matter. Whatever lay ahead, Malric would meet it. He was ready, or at least, he would be soon.

The night swallowed him whole, and the forest, silent as ever, continued on, uncaring.

Malric’s footsteps were quiet, but the weight of his existence pressed upon the forest with every step. His bones rattled lightly, and the faint pulse of magic within him flickered once more, stirring something deeper, a gnawing sensation that he couldn't place. This magic, so weak and meager, hummed beneath the surface of his bones like the memory of a once-great force. It was subtle at first, but each time it stirred, he felt the faintest surge of something. Power, though it barely existed, flowed through him with the promise of growth—of what he could become.

He paused in the dark, his hollow gaze fixed on the trees ahead, his fingers curling instinctively around the hilt of his rusted sword. The air was still, the night empty—until, suddenly, a crack in the silence. A barely perceptible hum of energy swept past him, too faint to be noticed at first. But it lingered. The source was distant, hidden within the thick of the trees.

The pulse of magic flickered again—stronger now. Malric's senses prickled as something he could not understand, something primal and instinctual, rose within him. He lifted a hand to the air, testing the presence of the unseen force. His fingers brushed against the faintest edge of the magic, sending a shock through his body, enough to make him flinch and stagger back. But then, that same odd sensation returned—a flicker of recognition.

His magic, such as it was, had a hunger. A sharp, gnawing hunger. It was as though he was starving for something. He could feel the magic course through his bones now, not just beneath them. It flowed, a current that began to feel almost familiar. It wasn't enough to empower him fully, not yet—but there was potential. The sensation of it, however, ignited something darker in him—a thirst for growth, and a growing hatred for anything that might stand in his way.

Suddenly, the sound of something distant pierced the air—a rustle in the trees, faint but distinct. Malric’s head snapped upward, his eye sockets narrowing. His attention snapped towards the movement, his pulse quickening—if a skeleton’s pulse could quicken. It was not the subtle shift of a breeze this time. Something was approaching. Something alive.

His empty sockets flickered briefly with a greenish glow. The hate flared within him, something instinctual, ancient, like a long-buried memory that had been clawing to the surface. He didn’t have to think about it; he knew. The living were inferior to him. They were warm, breathing, arrogant creatures, unaware of the decay that would eventually claim them. He could feel the difference between them and him, the very essence of life that was so vibrant in contrast to the cold, still emptiness of his form. He despised it. He despised their vitality, their fleeting existence that always burned so bright before it inevitably dimmed. They clung to their fragile lives, oblivious to their impending end, while he—he had endured death, and yet he still walked. The very thought of them filled him with an uncontrollable, raw fury.

He stepped forward, but then something held him back. His own caution. A feeling he had not expected. He hesitated, stepping backwards instead of advancing. Malric’s gaze shifted downward to his own frail, decayed form. His sword was rusted, practically useless in combat. His bones, brittle and fragile, would shatter under any true force. The magic within him, though present, was too weak to even protect himself against such a creature. It was a humbling realization, one that cut deeper than he would ever admit.

The figure in the distance was still unseen, but Malric knew it was close now. The slight, barely perceptible rustling of the forest continued, the sound growing ever so slightly louder as the presence drew near. He clenched his bony hands into fists, his grip tight around the rusted hilt of his sword, the metal cold against his skeletal fingers. He hated the living, he wanted to tear them apart, but he wasn’t ready.

Instead of charging forward, Malric took another step back, his hollow eye sockets fixed on the direction of the noise. His instinct for self-preservation overwhelmed his hatred. He would wait. The living would always be around—there was no rush. And when the time came, when he was strong enough, he would rip their lives away, piece by piece. He would become more than just this fragile shell of death. But not today. Not yet.

The presence in the forest came closer, but Malric did not move, his body tense with the fury and restraint. It would not be today that he would lash out. No, he would wait, grow stronger, and then he would claim his vengeance. But the rage still simmered beneath the surface, the flicker of magic inside him burning ever so brightly. He would make them pay—the living. The ones who had everything to lose.

For now, Malric remained in the shadows, silently watching, his bony body stiff and still. The distant noise faded slightly, and though he knew it was not gone entirely, he chose to remain motionless. His gaze remained fixed on the space ahead, the place where the living had been. He could feel them, that warmth, that vitality, but it wasn’t enough yet.

He would wait.