Enemy Defeated: Primal Ambush Turtle (Northwestern Pond Turtle Rank L, 9)

Level Gained

Available Characteristics: 5

Chase glared at the screen in front of him that had appeared once he secured the cotton gauze on the part of his face that was once a nose.

"I fucking hate this," he grumbled, glaring at the corpse of the turtle. It was going to be a bitch and a half to get the shell off, but the meat and bones should make some alright food, and the shell could be made into a shield to try to keep himself from being injured so much.

Sighing, Chase sat down next to the turtle, its mouth still agape in death. As he sat there, catching his breath and feeling the aches in bones he didn't even know could ache, Chase pulled up his character screen to distribute the points he'd gotten from the level up.

Name: Chase Newell

Level: 7

Race: Human (Rank L)

Class: Locked

Achievements: Cursed, Damned, Front-Runner, Gambler's Folly, Jotun Slayer, Trailblazer

Characteristics:

Strength 38

Vitality 50

Resilience 48

Agility 25

Intellect 30

Cunning 28

Presence 21

Fateblessed 36

Available Points: 5

Curses: Tutorial Exile, Honesty of the Sidhe, Mystic Malediction

Blessings: Scentless

Perks: None

Skills: None

Abilities: None

Paths: None

Last time he’d dumped everything into physical stats, this time he had a feeling that he’d be better served by turning his attention to the mental side. Presence was obviously a social focused stat, which was currently useless to him as there wasn’t anyone around to be social with. Intellect was almost certainly the primary casting stat, which was closed off to him due to his Mystic Malediction Curse. Which left Cunning.

Chase wasn’t sure what Cunning was in charge of, but there was a feeling in his gut that told him that he’d be well served in boosting it. With that in mind…

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Cunning: 28 (Base: 23 | +2 | +12%)

Increase Base Characteristic: +1 | +5

Dumping all five of his available points into it, Chase dismissed the screen and turned his attention back to the turtle. Taking a moment to crack his neck, he got started on butchering the turtle that weighed as much as he did. After some time spent cutting through the sides of the shell, he managed to pry it off, revealing the bloody and gooey flesh underneath.

"Disgusting," he grumbled, pulling a face as he reached in and began removing the organs and intestines. Once they were all out, he set the entrails and most of the organs aside, keeping the liver and heart in the hopes that they'd be useful. Then, with the carcass now hollowed out, he began hacking the flesh off the bones and carving it into chunks.

The top portion of the shell he'd set aside to turn into a shield, the portion that covered the turtle's belly he'd save to make into a breastplate or something like that. He knew it was going to be a long shot fashioning any sort of protective gear from the turtle’s shell without proper tools, but necessity was the mother of invention, and in this cursed game-like world, he was nothing if not resourceful. Chase rummaged through his makeshift campsite for anything that could serve as a binding agent or tool. His fingers closed around a particularly sharp rock and an old leather strip that might just do the trick.

With the rock, he began scraping at the inner surface of the shell, smoothing out rough edges and carving notches where the leather strips could be fastened. It was crude workmanship by any standard, but after several hours of labor under the dimming sky, it began resembling something wearable. It was far from perfect; however, it would have to do until he could find better materials or a proper craftsman—if such things even existed in this forsaken place.

As night began to close in with its familiar cold and eerie silence, Chase returned to the cabin to build up a fire in the hearth and prepare his meal for the evening. He had a long and difficult day ahead of him. He would need his strength.

~*~*~*~

The next several weeks were a blur of activity.

Chase threw himself into the daily routine of his new life, working tirelessly to make the best of his situation. He scavenged and hunted, gathering resources and food for the winter. He explored the woods, mapping out the area and scouting for potential dangers. He'd killed nearly half a dozen beasts like the puma and turtle in that time, the worst one being a squirrel the size of a Rottweiler that was level 20, and the best way Chase could describe its personality was 'hippo with a hemorrhoid.'

Each creature provided him with necessary experience and resources, though none were easy prey. Each day brought a new challenge, testing Chase's resolve and his growing skills. The squirrel, in particular, had been a tough opponent; fast and ridiculously aggressive. It had taken him the better part of an afternoon to take it down, suffering numerous scratches and bites in the process. But from its carcass, he'd managed to fashion a decent set of gloves and boots, the fur surprisingly tough and insulating.

The problem he'd run into as the first month after the world went crazy, was that he'd started stumbling across desiccated bodies of beasts that looked like they'd been drained of their fluids, and that wasn't counting the other, more gruesome, signs.

Signs like a deer, dead but seemingly untouched, save for its empty eye sockets and mouth.

Chase shuddered and kept walking, keeping an eye on his surroundings, though the sun was bright and high in the sky. Something was very wrong in the woods, and he wanted to find out what. Readying his turtle shell shield and pickax, he hiked into the woods in the direction that he’d found the most drained bodies.

As he pressed deeper into the thicket, Chase felt the atmosphere change; the air grew heavier, almost palpable with a sense of foreboding. The usual sounds of wildlife were conspicuously absent, replaced by an oppressive silence that seemed to echo with unspoken threats.

Every step he took was cautious, his eyes scanning the shadows between the trees for any sign of movement. The further he walked, the more frequent the signs of unnatural death appeared. Small animals, even insects, were found in similar conditions: perfectly preserved yet utterly devoid of life essence.

He marked each find on his makeshift map, a pattern slowly emerging that seemed to center around a particularly dense part of the forest. The trees here grew close together, their branches interlocking to create a dark, almost impenetrable canopy overhead. It was in this gloomy environment that Chase found traces of something else – tracks that didn’t belong to any animal he was familiar with. They were oddly shaped, without any toes, but unmistakably a foot.

A high pitched, keening sound in the distance snapped Chase out of his trance-like state. Whatever had left these tracks was not human, of that much he was certain. The cry, which sounded like the screeching of a dying cat, pierced the air again, sending a chill down his spine. His instincts screamed at him to flee, to turn around and put as much distance between himself and the source of that awful noise as possible. But a part of him, the same part that had led him on the ill-fated journey to the mountain in the first place, urged him onward.

With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Chase made his way towards the source of the sound, his hand tightening around the handle of his pickax. Each step was measured, cautious, as he navigated through the dense undergrowth and the shadows cast by the cramped foliage. As he approached, the keening grew louder, more high pitched, almost becoming a droning sound.

As he stepped around a tree, he caught sight of the source of the sound, and immediately understood he’d discovered what had been draining the bodies of the beasts.