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I sat cross-legged near the fire, the journal open in my lap, its worn pages half-filled with notes and sketches. The steady crackle of the flames offered a comforting rhythm, a rare semblance of peace in this fractured world. My stomach growled again, sharp and insistent, reminding me that the meal on the makeshift spit was nearly done.

Food and water—at least I still had those. That small solace was a fragile anchor against the weight of everything I’d lost. My fingers traced the journal’s frayed edge absently as my thoughts circled back to my true losses.

The shield… gone. The memory of its destruction clawed at me. It had been strapped to my left arm when the blast hit, disintegrating it into nothing. Not even a scrap remained.

I clenched my jaw, my mind replaying the final moments of the battle. The spear hurt the most—its loss, I mean. Reliable, lethal, a companion through countless fights. I’d buried it in the overlord’s chest, driven it so deep that I hadn’t had time to retrieve it before the explosion threw me clear.

The acrid taste of ash still lingered on my tongue, mingling with the sting of failure. Stripped bare of nearly everything, and yet I was still here. Somehow, that was the cruelest part.

“At least,” I muttered, dragging my gaze to the pack beside me, “there’s still the bone blades.”

Trophies of a grim victory. I reached over and picked up one of the blades. Its rough texture was cool against my fingertips, the pale surface veined with faint, organic ridges. This one had belonged to an elite—a towering creature I’d barely managed to take down. Its sheer size made it a weapon unto itself, but with a little work...

“I’ll make these proper bad boys,” I said aloud, turning the blade in my hands.

It wasn’t just idle talk. Since recovering fragments of memory about enchanting, my thoughts had been racing with possibilities. Runes drifted through my mind like ghostly whispers—half-formed shapes and patterns teasing the edges of my understanding. If I could gather the right materials, if I could just practice... maybe I could turn these crude weapons into something more. Something deadly.

“What to add, though?” I tapped the blade against my thigh, the weight of it grounding me as ideas churned in my head. "Flame runes? No, too flashy. Lightning? Maybe, but risky if it’s raining."

The possibilities felt endless, maddening in their potential. It was like standing on the shore of a vast ocean, staring at the waves without knowing how to swim.

A sudden aroma broke through my thoughts. The smell of roasting meat wafted up from the fire, rich and savory, with just enough spice to make my mouth water.

"Finally," I muttered, setting the bone blade aside. My focus shifted fully to the meal.

The meat was browning beautifully, juices sizzling as they dripped onto the embers below. The leaf wrapping had sealed in the flavors, softening the texture while allowing the spices to seep deep into the flesh.

I leaned in, inhaling deeply. The scent alone was enough to make my stomach clench with anticipation, a sharp contrast to the bland, leathery jerky I’d been surviving on for weeks.

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“Gods, this might actually taste like real food,” I said to myself, a faint grin tugging at the corner of my lips.

Carefully, I unwrapped the first piece of meat. The leaf peeled back to reveal tender, steaming flesh beneath. The surface was lightly charred, adding a smoky edge. As I sliced into it with my knife, clear juices pooled on the makeshift plate I’d carved from a slab of wood.

I took the first bite cautiously, half expecting the dull monotony of survival rations. Instead, the flavors burst across my tongue in a wave. Salt and spice danced together, perfectly complementing the meat’s natural richness. It was tender, juicy, and deeply satisfying in a way I hadn’t experienced in what felt like years.

The second bite came faster. The third even faster than that. Before I knew it, half the skewer was gone, and I was already eyeing the next piece.

“This,” I said between bites, “is the kind of thing worth surviving for.”

The thought stopped me for a moment. I stared at the remnants of my meal, struck by an almost reverent intensity. For all the battles, bloodshed, and scars, there was something profoundly humbling about a simple, well-cooked meal.

It also made me realize how little I actually knew about cooking.

"Alright," I muttered, leaning back and wiping my hands on a scrap of cloth. "No more excuses. You’re learning how to cook, Lexi. No more luck or scavenging."

The words felt like a promise.

I let the fire burn low as I finished the meal, savoring every bite until all that remained were bones and a faint trace of spice on my tongue. Beside me, the journal sat open, its blank pages waiting. I picked it up and, in deliberate writing, jotted down a new note:

Learn cooking skills. Experiment with spices.

Licking the last savory traces from my fingers, I leaned back against a tree. The bark pressed into my shoulders through my shirt, rough and grounding. It felt real—like a tether in a world that had grown increasingly unstable.

The forest stretched out before me, shadows deepening as the feeble sunlight waned. My gaze traced the treetops, their shapes blurred by the dimming light. Maybe it was some seasonal thing, I thought, this weak sun. Or maybe the red moon was siphoning its strength. Either way, it felt like the day itself was retreating, leaving the world vulnerable.

I shook the thought away. No use dwelling on what I couldn’t control.

Reaching for the journal again, I flipped to a blank page. The slight rasp of paper against my fingers was oddly satisfying. By the glow of the embers, I began to write.

First, I wrote about the cave—the oppressive air, the cloying darkness, the sense of dread that had wrapped around me like a second skin. Just putting it into words lightened the weight of it, like peeling back a layer I hadn’t realized I was carrying.

Then came the plan. My lips twitched in a faint, self-deprecating smile as I scrawled the words.

“This was the dumbest idea I’ve ever had,” I muttered, shaking my head.

And yet, it had worked. Somehow. The absurdity of it made me chuckle softly, the sound strange in the quiet. Charging in, fueled by half-baked tactics and sheer desperation, relying on tools I barely understood—it was reckless, borderline suicidal. But it had worked.

My gaze shifted to the bracer on my wrist. Its surface was dull now, lifeless after expending all its charges. I turned it over in my hands, its weight strangely comforting despite its current uselessness.

“Wouldn’t have made it out without you,” I murmured, tapping it lightly.

The bracer had bought me time. It had saved my life. But now it was just a husk, a reminder of what I’d lost and what I still needed to do.

“Gotta find a way to recharge you,” I said quietly, adding it to the ever-growing list in my mind.

The journal lay open in my lap, its pages filling with a chaotic blend of musings, observations, and plans. Writing felt like untangling the mess in my head, laying it out where I could make sense of it.

With a final flourish of the pen, I set the journal aside. The night crept in, the forest growing darker, but for once, the weight in my chest felt a little lighter.

Leaning back against the tree, I closed my eyes. The crackle of the fire and the faint hum of the forest filled the silence around me. For now, that was enough.

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