----Chapter 6.2 – Evolution of the Forsaken----

The eldritch creature did not move.

It stood at the entrance of the cave, an unmoving silhouette against the pale ruins. Its form was unnatural, shifting between solid and something incomprehensible, like it wasn't meant to exist in this reality.

Nyxen did not move either.

His breath slowed. His grip on the spear tightened. His muscles tensed. Every instinct in his body screamed at him—run, hide, escape.

But there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

And if he ran, he would be hunted.

No.

This time, he would be the hunter.

Nyxen moved.

He shot forward, his feet barely making a sound against the broken stone. The distance between him and the creature vanished in an instant—his spear lunging straight for its core.

Then—

The eldritch twisted.

Not like a person. Not like an animal. It bent in ways that should not be possible, its body shifting like liquid, yet moving with the precision of a machine.

Nyxen's spear barely missed.

The creature lashed out.

A limb—or something close to one—sliced through the air toward him.

He barely saw it.

He threw his body to the side, rolling against the ruined ground just as the attack ripped through where his skull had been seconds ago. The air cracked from the force—not just a slash, but a tear in reality itself.

Nyxen didn't stop. He couldn't.

Another attack.

He ducked. A clawed appendage skimmed past him, the sensation of its presence alone making his skin burn. Too close.

Another.

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He leapt back, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs.

The eldritch moved like a nightmare given shape. Every strike wasn't wild or reckless—it was calculated, aimed to kill with terrifying efficiency.

Nyxen couldn't afford a single mistake.

He shifted his weight, angled his spear again, and lunged—this time aiming lower.

The creature moved—but not fast enough.

The spear struck.

A sharp resistance. A sickening squelch.

It hit something inside the creature—something that shouldn't have been there.

The eldritch shuddered. A horrific, unearthly sound—**not a scream, but a noise that scraped against his mind—**ripped through the air.

Nyxen gritted his teeth. He pushed deeper.

For a moment, he thought he had won.

Then—

His spear broke.

A splintering crack echoed as the weapon snapped in half, the force of the impact jarring through his arms.

Nyxen barely had time to react before the eldritch moved again.

It was enraged.

A limb lashed out—faster than before.

Nyxen dodged, barely. A sharp, stinging pain ripped across his shoulder, the tip of its attack grazing his skin.

Too slow.

He rolled backward, gripping the broken half of his spear.

His weapon was useless now. Or at least, it should have been.

But he had no choice.

If he couldn't use it as a spear—he would use it as a dagger.

The eldritch lunged again.

Nyxen sidestepped at the last second, his body moving on sheer instinct. The creature's attack tore through the air beside him, missing by a fraction.

This was his moment.

He drove the jagged remains of his spear into its neck.

The broken wood dug deep, slicing into the eldritch's shifting form. Black liquid—**no, not liquid, something thicker, something otherworldly—**poured from the wound.

The creature convulsed.

Nyxen didn't stop. He couldn't.

He ripped the weapon free. Stabbed again. Again. And again.

Each attack felt like he was piercing into something less like flesh and more like existence itself.

The eldritch twisted violently, its form collapsing in on itself, flickering between being and unbeing.

Then—

It fell.

Nyxen stumbled back, panting.

His body trembled, his hands still gripping the broken weapon. His blood dripped onto the ruins, mixing with the remnants of the eldritch's existence.

He had won.

But before he could even process his victory—

Something happened.

The eldritch's corpse shifted.

Or rather, it began to dissolve.

Not into blood, not into flesh—but into something else.

A substance, neither liquid nor vapor, yet both at the same time, seeped out of the body. It was impossible to describe, impossible to comprehend—like something that had never belonged in the mortal realm.

And it was moving.

Towards him.

He tried to step back. His body wouldn't move.

The substance **wrapped around him, sinking into his skin—**not like a physical force, but as if it were bypassing reality itself.

Then—

Pain.

A sharp, crawling sensation at first. Doable.

Then—

Agony.

Nyxen's entire body locked up. His nerves burned. His vision turned white.

It was not pain like an injury. It was deeper. Worse.

It felt like his entire being was being unraveled and remade at the same time.

He tried to scream—nothing came out.

Then, the world went black.

Nyxen didn't know how much time had passed.

When he woke, the pain was gone.

But something else had taken its place.

Strength.

It was faint—barely there, barely noticeable. But it was there.

His body felt… different. Lighter. Stronger.

He pushed himself up. His arms no longer trembled from exhaustion. His wounds—they were still there, but the pain had dulled.

He clenched his fists. Something had changed.

He needed to be sure.

Nyxen stood. He jumped. Threw a punch. A kick.

The difference was subtle, but undeniable.

This wasn't temporary. This was real.

He looked down at the eldritch's remains—slowly disintegrating into nothingness.

That… thing.

That substance.

It had made him stronger.

Not much. Not enough to turn the tide.

But enough to give him hope.

Enough to make him hungry for more.

His fingers clenched tighter.

If this was the key to survival in the Exile—then he would take every last drop.

He looked toward the ruins ahead, toward the endless expanse of death and horror.

And for the first time since falling into the Abyss—

He smiled.

"I will survive."

---

Nyxen exhaled, his body still tingling with the remnants of whatever had just happened. The sensation of strength was exhilarating, but the memory of the pain still clung to him like a phantom wound.

If this is what it takes to survive…

His fists tightened. He looked down at the last traces of the eldritch's remains, fading into nothingness.

The power was real. The growth was undeniable.

But so was the agony.

If every kill meant suffering like that—if every step forward came with the risk of being ripped apart from the inside out—then he couldn't afford to rush blindly.

Survival wasn't just about strength.

It was about control.

Nyxen took a deep breath, steadying himself. He would grow. He would hunt.

But now, he understood the cost.

And if he was going to walk this path—

He would choose his battles wisely.