-----Chapter 6.1 - Instincts of the Forsaken -----

A sharp, wet sound filled the cave—Nyxen's ragged breathing, mixed with the sickening squelch of flesh pressing against torn flesh. His fingers, slick with blood, dug into his abdomen, trying to hold himself together.

His vision blurred. Pain. Raw, agonizing pain. It burned through his entire being, radiating from the gaping wound in his stomach. His body felt like it had been ripped apart—because it had.

He grit his teeth. He had to move.

Move, or die.

Nyxen dragged himself across the damp stone, leaving a smeared trail of crimson behind him. His legs barely worked. His arms trembled. The wound was deep—too deep. He could feel the warmth of his own insides threatening to spill out.

His breath came in short gasps, each movement sending a fresh wave of agony through his body. He reached the farthest corner of the cave, pressing his back against the cold rock. It was a pathetic defense, but for now, it was all he had.

His mind swayed between reality and unconsciousness. He couldn't pass out. He had to stop the bleeding. He had to live.

With shaking hands, he gripped a torn strip of cloth—his own shirt, now nothing more than a blood-soaked rag. He pressed it against the wound.

A scream ripped from his throat.

It took everything in him to not black out.

Slowly, breathlessly, he wrapped the cloth tighter around his waist. It wasn't perfect. It wouldn't heal him. But it would buy him time.

Time to think. Time to understand. Time to remember how the hell he got here.

---

It had happened in an instant.

He had seen them—the eldritch creatures lurking in the ruins, watching him.

And then they moved.

Fast.

Before Nyxen could even process what was happening, they lunged.

His body locked up.

Run.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

He had to run.

But his legs wouldn't move. His mind—his instincts—completely shut down.

His thoughts were screaming, but his body ignored them.

It was the first time he had seen something truly alive since waking up in the Exile. Yet, these things… they weren't alive in the way he understood.

Their movements were too smooth. Too unnatural. Like existence itself struggled to define them.

One moment, they were still—the next, they were upon him.

Flesh like shifting shadows. Eyes that weren't eyes, but voids. Fingers stretching too far, curling unnaturally as they reached for him.

His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.

He turned and ran.

His body finally obeyed.

The ruins blurred past him as he sprinted for his life. His mind was blank, survival taking over.

But they were faster.

Something slashed through the air behind him.

Nyxen twisted—too late.

A cold, razor-sharp pain tore into his stomach.

A deep, wet gash split open across his abdomen, a spray of blood painting the stone beneath him. His momentum shattered. He hit the ground hard, rolling across the broken ruins, his entire body screaming in pain.

He barely managed to push himself up—just in time to see them closing in.

Too close.

Too many.

He wasn't going to make it.

Move.

His mind pushed past the agony.

Nyxen forced himself onto his feet. His vision blurred, blood dripping from his wound, but he ran—he ran like a man who knew that stopping meant death.

The ruins stretched endlessly, but his eyes locked onto a dark opening in the distance.

A cave.

It was his only chance.

The creatures followed, their bodies flickering in and out of sight. They didn't breathe. They didn't make a sound. The only thing that told him they were still behind him was the unnatural shifting of the air itself.

His chest burned. His wound bled freely.

But he pushed forward, each step a battle against his own failing body.

The cave entrance loomed closer.

Ten steps.

Five.

Two.

He dove inside.

Darkness swallowed him.

And for the first time—they didn't follow.

He collapsed against the cold stone.

His body was broken. His mind—shattered.

But he was alive.

For now.

---

Time passed. Nyxen didn't know how much.

The sky never changed. There was no sun, no stars—nothing to measure the hours.

The pain had dulled, but the wound remained. A deep, jagged scar stretched across his stomach—a reminder of his weakness.

But he was alive.

And he had begun to understand.

The Exile was not a place meant for humans.

Everything about it felt wrong.

The air was heavy, filled with something unseen—something that pressed against his skin like invisible hands, always watching. The ruins stretched endlessly, but they weren't just abandoned.

They felt erased.

Like the world itself had forgotten them.

And those creatures…

His fingers curled into fists.

He had felt fear that day. A terror so deep it had paralyzed him.

But now, whenever he thought of them—rage burned beneath his skin.

They had gutted him.

Left him to die.

He swore he would return the favor.

But for that, he needed a source which would help him become stronger, enough to kill his enemies.

---

Nyxen stepped out of the cave.

The ruins stretched before him, a graveyard of forgotten history.

He moved carefully.

There was no telling when the eldritch would appear again. He had no intention of fighting them yet.

For now, he needed something—anything—that could be used as a weapon.

His body had changed.

He didn't feel hunger. He didn't feel thirst. The Abyss had stripped those needs from him.

And yet, he felt stronger.

More balanced.

More… suited to this world.

Still, he had no illusions about his strength. The eldritch creatures were beyond him. If he wanted to survive, he had to be smart.

Hours passed as he searched.

Most of the ruins were useless. Nothing but crumbling stone and remnants of a world long lost.

Then, he found it.

A piece of wood—long, sturdy, sharp at the tip.

It was barely a weapon, but it was better than nothing.

Nyxen slung it across his back, turning toward his base.

He would take the night to think.

But fate had other plans.

A shadow moved.

Not far.

Close.

Too close.

Nyxen's heart stopped.

The eldritch.

It wasn't wandering.

It was waiting.

For him.

The cave was behind it.

If he tried to move, it would see him. If he tried to run, it would chase him. And he knew exactly how that would end.

His mind raced.

There was no way out.

No way to avoid it.

No way to escape.

Unless…

He killed it first.

The idea was madness.

It had gutted him like nothing.

He knew he couldn't win head-on.

But maybe—

Just maybe—

He wouldn't have to.

His grip tightened around the makeshift spear.

If he couldn't fight it in a battle—

He would end it before it could react.

A silent kill.

His only chance.

His eyes locked onto the eldritch.

His body stilled.

His mind cleared.

It was time to see if he deserved to survive.