The memory of the fallen warrior steeled Cal's resolve. Cal walked forward, senses keen, scanning the dense underbrush for the path to survival—or perhaps a similar oblivion—that lay ahead.

“Watchful.”

Cal delved deeper into the bowels of the earth, the book's cryptic icons a beacon in the oppressive gloom. The air grew dense, heavy with the scent of damp stone and ancient secrets. He navigated narrow ledges and skirted gaping chasms, each step a silent dialogue between Cal and the world itself.

The cavern loomed above, with blue crystals lining the ceiling. Cal was unsure when one day ended and another began with the lights always bioluminescent blue.

Cal had considered pre-emptively ambushing some beasts on his way to the next destination – the fallen warrior’s base camp. However, there were no indications that there were any strength / dexterity organs to be gathered on his route.

A rustling broke the silence—a skittering that danced just beyond the reach of sight. Fights were inevitable, however, predators would be predators.

Cal’s hand gripped the spear, its shaft now a familiar weight against his palm.

Cal paused, senses honed. There, in the dim light, an “octopussnail” emerged, its tentacles undulating with predatory grace.

Cal lunged, the spear a blur, but the creature was quick, dodging with a fluidity that belied its bizarre form. He felt the tug at his joints, the direhog hide armor binding him like a second skin—too tight, too constrictive. The vambraces clanked, a metallic symphony accompanying his every move. The combination of armor was protective, but unnecessary.

"Come on," he hissed through clenched teeth, feinting to draw the creature out.

It obliged, a rush of movement that was all tentacle and slime. But Cal was ready, sidestepping with a deftness that spoke of countless battles. His thrust was true, the spear's tip finding the soft flesh beneath the octopussnail's shell. It recoiled with a gurgled shriek, its life force ebbing away.

"Quick, but not quick enough," Cal muttered, yanking free the weapon. The flexibility and range of the spear made confrontations much simpler, especially with his current strength and dexterity.

His breaths, nevertheless, came fast, a testament to the exertion. Cal was nearing a full recovery of the arrow wound. His insides were all that remained to be healed. He shook his limbs, willing flexibility back into muscles constrained by battle-worn leather. The octopussnail lay vanquished, a mere footnote in Cal's relentless journey, and in the fallen warrior’s. He pressed on, the guidebook whispering promises of passages yet untrodden.

Hours passed, a silent testament to Cal's tenacity. His boots, caked with the mud of simple battles, found purchase on the slick forest floor as he advanced.

An alcove emerged from the wilderness, a mouth of shadows yawning wide against the greenery. It matched the warrior’s description: a natural cavern, walls steep and embracing and defendable. Cal's piercing blue eyes swept the perimeter. No threats lurked in the dimness—only solitude and echoes of the past.

"Base camp," he murmured to himself, voice barely carrying.

He stepped closer, gaze dissecting the interior. The remnants of a fire pit lay cold and abandoned at its heart. A small water hole, nestled in the corner, caught glimmers of the singular large crystal light, its surface undisturbed. This was where the warrior had rested.

Cal knelt by the water hole, submerging his hands and testing for any foreign creatures. The chill of the liquid clawed at his skin, stripping away grime and the lingering warmth of combat. He welcomed the sensation, a fleeting connection to the elemental forces of this unforgiving world, but the pond was empty and clear. He hurriedly filled his water sacs and canteen with water, and took a long gulp.

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Cal stood up and look around, "nothing," he whispered to the shadows, the word hanging heavy in the air. The place was stripped clean, save for the elements themselves. No weapons, no supplies, just the earthy scent of abandonment. A quick rinse, and he was done—lingering was not an option. The warrior must have packed everything in the special bag.

Cal sat down next to the dry and lifeless fire pit and unloaded his satchel. His gaze lingered on the pile of organs amassed besides him. These were the special cores of the beasts, the crux of this newfound power. They pulsed with alien life, all harvested in the hope of finding the key to this labyrinthine nightmare. But the ones he sought, eluded him still.

"Useless," he was restless. Each victory, each fallen foe, brought more viscera but not the power he needed. His frustration simmered, and he couldn’t help reaching out for one of the organs. Without Temp to stop him, or remind him otherwise, he gripped it in his hand. It was vigor / dexterity. He couldn’t help himself and absorbed it to feel the rush of power once more. Cal rationalized that it still contained the attributes he wanted. Temp would have to recalibrate when he woke up.

The energy of the organ seeped into Cal's being, filling him with a familiar power. But he knew that in order to continue onward, he needed a clear and refreshed mind. With a deep breath, he shed his armor and clothing and leapt into the icy water hole below.

As he submerged himself, the coldness bit at his skin, awakening all of his senses. The water surrounded him like a cocoon, blocking out all external distractions and allowing him to focus solely on his thoughts and intentions. He stayed under for a few moments before resurfacing, feeling rejuvenated and most importantly clean for the first time in what felt like eras.

Cal rose from the water, shaking droplets from his body. His muscles hummed with a familiar newfound strength, a rush he almost forgot. A pang of guilt surprised him as he looked at the simple chair by his side.

He shook it off and looked toward his gear.

Cal's fingers traced the sleek lines of his tuxedo generator, a small device no larger than a deck of cards. With a flick and a hum, the machine spun its magic, fabric weaving over his frame in seconds. The direhog armor was all but useless now with the defensive capability of the vambraces. The rough hide was replaced by the crisp lines of a perfectly tailored suit. He flexed, relishing the newfound freedom of movement. Over this, he affixed the metal vambraces—gleaming, sturdy, promising protection.

"Better, much better" he murmured, admiring the fit. The metal vambraces felt solid yet unobtrusive, their weight a comforting presence on his forearms.

Cal flexed his body and practiced a small warmup routine with the spear to confirm, but the effect of new flexibility was immediately obvious.

"I’ll keep moving," he commanded himself, the cloak of determination settling back upon his shoulders. He ignored the ache in his limbs, the whisper of fatigue. He quickly glanced at the route, and stowed the journal as well.

With a last glance at the desolate camp, Cal set off once more.

Cal turned his back on the alcove and his direhog armor and stepped once more into the unknown, the warrior's cryptic guidance his only compass in a land rife with enigmas.

He moved on, senses alert for the next creature.

It was immediate. As soon as he stepped out of the cave, another beast reared its head in ambush. This time a large roach of some variety. No other distinguishing features.

"Let's dance," Cal said, brandishing the spear with a flourish. The creature lunged, but he sidestepped, swift as thought. His spear struck out, a viper's bite, catching the beast beneath an undulating tentacle. So the roach had tentacles. Black ichor spurted. The creature recoiled, hissing, its movements sluggish now.

Cal pressed the advantage. He pirouetted around a swipe, vambraces clanging against the roach’s carapace. One thrust, two, three—he counted the strikes until the creature lay still, a heap of defeated malice. Cal wiped the spear clean, not a breath heavier.

The cavern yielded more horrors as he continued onward. Each shadow birthed a nightmare, each echo a potential death knell. But Cal was a tempest, a flurry of jabs and feints. His spear—a blur. Vambraces—a shield. Suit—a second skin.

A four-legged terror emerged, scales glittering, jaws wide enough to swallow him whole. It roared, a sound that shook stone and bone alike. Cal didn't flinch. He met the charge, rolling aside as the beast crashed past. Up again, he drove the spear deep into its flank. The creature shrieked, thrashing. Again, Cal struck, a precise jab to the underbelly.

"Fall," he commanded, and it did.

On he traveled, through winding tunnels and vast caverns. Each step was a defiance, each breath a claim to survival. The creatures grew bolder, deadlier, but so did he. His mind wove tactics like silk, his body executed them with lethal grace. The book's enigmatic guidance led ever onward, toward an end—or perhaps a beginning—that beckoned with unseen fingers.

"Next."

“Cal, I believe some would call this a flag. Also, you are being quite silly wearing the tuxedo here of all places. I half expect us to be travelling to a gala.”