The goblin camp was in a state of barely contained chaos when Malric entered its heart. The crude, flickering bonfires revealed the shaman—an unmistakable figure even amidst the noise and panic. Clad in a robe stitched from skins of creatures, humanoid and otherwise, the shaman stood tall atop a crooked mound of stones. Faint magical runes etched into bone charms glowed around his neck, pulsing like dying embers. In one gnarled hand, he held a twisted staff topped with a jagged skull, while his other hand danced through the air, weaving chants in a language older than Malric cared to know.

Around the shaman, a ring of goblins bristled with jittery, unspent energy, clutching rusted blades and crude spears. Their eyes darted through the shadows, flinching at imagined shapes that lurked just out of sight. Malric had whittled down their numbers enough that they now expected death at any moment. Their disorganized movements and hunched backs revealed their terror. Even the shaman’s voice, though strong and resonant, seemed strained, as if it was the only thing holding their fragile courage together.

Malric watched, hidden in the darkness beyond the fire’s reach. Magic. The word hissed through his thoughts with a flicker of irritation. He had seen lesser necromancers and priests wield such tricks before, though this shaman’s crude sorcery was no doubt more primal—a wild, untamed flame rather than precise mastery. It made the goblin leader a true threat.

Malric stepped forward, the edge of his form meeting the firelight.

The shaman saw him first. The chanting stopped abruptly, replaced by a guttural bark. The goblin warriors spun to face the darkness, eyes wide with terror.

“Shadow! Kill it!” the shaman snarled, his staff slamming into the stones. A wave of heat erupted outward, sparks dancing from the skull at its peak. Malric moved—too slow to evade the full blast. The fire swept through him, blackening parts of his bones and leaving scorch marks along his ribs.

So it’s fire. A dull pang of annoyance gnawed at him as he emerged from the smoke, unbothered by what would have killed a living foe. Malric knew pain only as distant feedback—senseless, but informative. And now he understood.

The goblins screamed as they charged, driven more by desperation than bravery. They rushed him in a mob, brandishing weapons with shaking hands. Malric’s additional arms moved like bladed appendages, sweeping through the crowd with sickening cracks. A spear pierced into his torso, chipping against his reinforced ribcage. Malric grabbed the offending goblin by the neck, its legs flailing as he crushed it with a single squeeze and hurled the corpse into the fire.

The shaman barked another spell, and a crackling wall of orange flame erupted between Malric and his remaining warriors. A barrier—not strong, but enough to slow him. Malric paused, observing the fire’s dancing edge. His skull tilted slightly, jaws parting in an empty, silent grin. The goblins screamed insults at him, emboldened by their leader’s magic.

“Clever,” Malric thought, his eye sockets narrowing on the shaman, “but cleverness won’t save you.”

With a burst of motion, Malric sprinted to the right, skirting the flames. He moved with unnatural speed, his sharpened claws clicking against stone. The goblins shrieked in surprise and scrambled to meet him, only to be met with his wrath. Blades clanged uselessly against bone. His additional arms crushed skulls and snapped spines with brutal efficiency.

The shaman, now alone atop his stone mound, began chanting in a frenzy. Bone charms rattled against his chest as magical energy flared bright enough to sting the eyes. From the earth around him, small cracks widened, glowing with embers.

Malric saw the intent. A final spell. A desperate bid to kill him.

He dashed through the thinning line of goblins, his footfalls heavy and precise. The flames that burst from the ground singed him again, but Malric barely slowed. His single-minded determination made him a force of inevitability. He climbed the mound in two quick strides, the shaman’s voice rising to a crescendo—

Malric’s claws found the shaman’s throat.

The goblin leader’s eyes bulged, the last syllable of his incantation choking into silence. The energy in his staff flared one final time and then sputtered into nothing. The skull atop it cracked in half, and the shaman’s limbs went limp.

Malric held him there for a moment, his expression unreadable, before squeezing until the goblin’s neck gave way. The body slumped forward, lifeless, sliding down the stones.

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The remaining goblins, leaderless and terrified, scattered into the night, their shrieks echoing across the camp. Malric let them go, watching their shadows fade into the distant woods. The tribe was broken; there was no reason to waste further effort.

Silence settled over the battlefield, save for the soft hiss of dying fires and the distant wail of stragglers.

Malric stood amidst the corpses, his form darkened by scorch marks and caked in gore. He glanced down at the shaman’s remains, noting the faint glow still lingering in the brittle bones. Magic clung to them—a subtle residue of what the creature had wielded.

“These will do,” Malric thought, crouching to begin his work. He methodically stripped the shaman’s bones, starting with the skull. It held a faint resonance that intrigued him—useless for spells, perhaps, but valuable as a means of sensing magic. He plucked ribs and vertebrae next, feeling their peculiar density and wondering if they might further strengthen his reinforced frame.

Around him, the campfire sputtered its last embers. Malric worked with the care of a craftsman, pausing only when a sudden thought crept into his mind. Their strength is only what they take. It was true of goblins, humans, and himself alike.

But where others were bound by flesh and weakness, he was something else entirely. A predator of bones—a collector, evolving with every kill.

The night swallowed him whole as he stepped beyond the dead camp, shaman’s skull in hand. The forest loomed, dark and endless, but Malric felt no fear. His form would grow stronger still, and with it, the hunt would continue.

Malric’s eyes glinted in the dim light of the dying campfire as he loomed over the shaman’s body. The goblin had been a skilled mage, wielding dark magic to bolster his tribe’s defenses—magic that Malric had no use for in the traditional sense. Still, there was something about the goblin’s connection to the arcane that intrigued him. He had sensed something different, a pulsing energy that radiated from the shaman's form. That energy was not just raw power—it was magic imbued into the very bones of the creature.

The spine, now partially cracked and broken from the fierce battle, seemed like an obvious source of that power. Malric had already observed the intricate symbols and runes that had once been etched into the vertebrae of the goblin’s spine. The glyphs had once pulsed with a faint glow, the remnants of whatever enchantment the shaman had woven into his own form. Malric could feel the lingering traces of that magic—fragile, yet potent.

Without hesitation, he crouched low beside the goblin, his skeletal fingers curling into the broken bones of the shaman’s back. Malric’s mind raced as he thought about the potential this could bring. He had hunted and killed countless creatures, but this was different—this was a piece of magic that could, if integrated properly, allow him to manipulate forces beyond the physical world. The shaman’s spine might be the key to unlocking that power.

The goblin’s bones came away with a sickening crack, the tendons tearing, and the fresh tissue separating from the spine. Malric didn’t flinch—he had long grown accustomed to the grotesque process of disassembling his prey. His claws shredded the remaining flesh, leaving only the pale bones, streaked with the faintest traces of magical energy. The runes were more distinct now, glowing faintly in the dark as though waiting to be awakened.

Malric studied the spine in his hands. The markings on it weren’t just decorative—they were complex, a deep network of symbols designed to channel power, manipulate forces, and possibly even extend life. If he were to integrate this spine into his own, he would not only gain strength from it but could also harness its arcane properties. The question was: how would it affect him? The unknowns loomed large in his mind, but Malric was not one to shy away from a risk.

He positioned the goblin’s spine against his own skeletal frame, testing the size, the fit. The spine was slightly smaller than his own, yet its flexibility might offer him something his current bones lacked—a fluidity, a resonance with magical forces that his rigid form couldn’t replicate. His skeletal fingers traced the runes on the goblin's spine, feeling the faint pulse of energy that seemed to hum under his touch.

Malric wasted no more time. He began the process of integration.

His claws worked quickly, stripping away parts of his own back to make room for the goblin’s spine. The process was intricate, delicate. Malric had learned over time how to meld bones together, but this was different. The infusion of magic into his form was no simple matter. He carefully slotted the goblin’s vertebrae into place, allowing the arcane runes to align with the sockets in his own skeletal structure. The moment the bones touched, Malric felt a shiver course through his frame.

The energy surged through his body, a crackling current of raw magic flowing into his bones, as though the very essence of the goblin’s soul were being absorbed into his own. His skeletal form trembled with the sudden influx of power, the runes along his new spine glowing brightly. A surge of sensations, both physical and ethereal, flooded Malric’s mind. It was almost overwhelming, but he resisted the urge to recoil. He was no stranger to pain, and this was no different.

The spine melded with his form, fusing seamlessly. As the bones settled into place, Malric could feel his body adapt, his muscles and tendons—though inhuman—adjusting to the new arcane properties. He could sense the magic swirling within him, connecting with the remnants of his own life force. The sensation was intoxicating, as though he were more than just a pile of bones now—he was something else, something more.

As he straightened, the first thing Malric noticed was the subtle shift in his perception of the world. Colors seemed brighter, sharper, and the shadows around him held an ethereal depth. His senses were heightened, but it was the sensation of power, of potential, that lingered the longest. The magic flowed through him now, a reservoir he could draw from at will. It was as though the very essence of the shaman’s power had become his own.

Malric flexed his hands, testing his new form. There was no doubt about it—he was stronger, but now he could feel the power within him responding to his thoughts. A simple wave of his hand caused the air to hum with subtle magic, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, Malric understood the true potential of his undead existence. This was not just about physical strength—it was about control, manipulation, and the ability to impose his will upon the world.

But it wasn’t all perfect.

As Malric marveled at his newfound power, he also felt the weight of the change. The integration of magic into his bones had not come without a cost. The magic itself was volatile, and the more he used it, the more unpredictable it became. Malric could feel a subtle strain on his skeletal frame, the arcane energy fighting against his rigid, dead body. It was a fine balance, and he would have to be cautious. Any overuse could lead to instability.

Still, the benefits far outweighed the drawbacks. Malric had unlocked a new layer of his potential, a power he had never before thought possible. And as he stood there, the last remnants of the goblin’s life energy still pulsating in his bones, Malric knew that he had taken another step toward his ultimate goal.

The Basilisk's Fang would not be able to escape him. With this new power, he would find them. He would learn their secrets. And he would use them to further his own ambitions.

With a final glance at the fallen tribe, Malric turned toward the forest once again, his new spine humming with latent magic. The hunt was far from over.