The sun hung low over the western village, staining the sky a dirty orange that seeped between the ramshackle huts. Thirty days had passed since Cain and Lira stumbled into this dusty hole, a month of dry earth, screeching vermin, and hard-earned bread bought with sweat and blood. Cain sat on the edge of a hut, sharpening a long pole with a flat stone, his hands moving with a precision he hadn’t possessed a month ago. Hunger still shadowed his body—rations were scarce, and the nutrients siphoned from vermin didn’t fully fill the void—but he was no longer the bag of bones staggering after Lira in Iron Crest. His arms now had a wiry thinness, his movements a spark of control he’d once lacked.

  A month, he thought, his mind unfolding like a living archive, reviewing the data with the clarity of a scalpel slicing tissue. It wasn’t just time; it was an ongoing experiment, a cycle of trial and error with Flesh Shaper as the primary variable. Day one: he could barely hold the pole without trembling, and hardening his skin for ten seconds left him gasping. Day seven: he managed fifteen seconds stably, and the claws—like those in the Iron Crest alley—returned, clumsy but functional, stretching his fingers into bony points that tore vermin flesh with minimal effort. Day fifteen: muscle reinforcement stopped being a broken dream; he could tense his forearm fibers for ten seconds, striking with roughly 30% more force, based on the depth of wounds he inflicted. Day thirty: today, the claws were precise, skin hardening lasted twenty seconds without collapsing, and muscles endured brief bursts of power without tearing. All on a pitiful diet: two breads daily, sometimes a bitter root, and the threads of energy he extracted from vermin, a process that still left him nauseous but which he’d optimized to minimize biological rejection.

  His photographic memory didn’t just store numbers; it reconstructed every sensation, every tweak. Hardening skin was no longer a brute act; he imagined a hexagonal matrix, like reptile scales under a microscope, distributing stress across dermal layers to prevent fractures. The claws were a logical extension: he elongated phalanx bones, reinforcing them with calcium redistributed from his reserves, while the skin tightened to withstand the strain. Muscle reinforcement was trickier—fibers in spirals, like twisted cables, optimizing tension without adding mass—but the limit was energy. Insufficient calories, he told himself, calculating in real-time: a standard human body needed about 2,000 calories daily for basic functions; he was operating on maybe 800, supplemented by the 100-150 he stole from vermin. It was a miracle he wasn’t dead, and he knew it.

  Lira appeared in his periphery, emerging from a hut with a burlap sack in hand. For a week now, every seven days since their first week here, she’d vanish at dawn and return at dusk the next day, her cloak dusty and her expression guarded. Cain watched her, his mind dissecting patterns: Maximum walking distance, 20-30 miles round trip in a day. Steady pace, no visible injuries upon return. Likely destination: her main hideout, mentioned in the ruins. Probable purpose: supplies, information, or something she won’t share. He hadn’t asked directly—Lira wasn’t one to yield to pressure—but the suspicion was a cold certainty. She didn’t fully trust him, and he didn’t trust her more than necessary. They were partners of convenience, not friends.

  “Ready to hunt?” she said, tossing him the sack. Her voice carried that dry tone Cain now recognized as her default, but today there was a hint of fatigue, as if her weekly trip had worn her down.

  Cain caught the sack, standing with a smoother motion than he’d expected. “Always,” he replied, slinging the pole over his shoulder. “How many today?”

  “Five, as usual,” she said, drawing her dagger and inspecting it under the light. “Scaly old man doesn’t change the routine. One copper per head, two breads for the lot. Enough to not die.”

  Cain nodded, his mind already mapping the plan: Five vermin, 50-70 calories per corpse if I process them, plus the bread. Roughly 1,000 calories today. Acceptable. “No sign of the Ravens,” he remarked, keeping his tone casual as they walked to the north field. “Think they gave up?”

  Lira snorted, her tail flicking in a quick arc. “Ravens don’t give up. They get bored or find better prey. We haven’t left a trail since the market, and this village is a forgotten hole. But don’t get comfy. If they want you, they’ll come back eventually.”

  “You’re the expert,” he said, letting silence settle as they reached the field.

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  The terrain was the same as ever: dry grass, earthen mounds, shrill chittering floating in the air. Cain stopped a few meters from a hole, fresh dirt around it confirming recent activity. Lira hung back, dagger ready, but this time she didn’t step in. “All yours,” she said, leaning against a dry bush. “Let’s see how good you’ve gotten.”

  Cain smiled, a small but sharp gesture. Challenge accepted, he thought, his mind racing, reconstructing every fight from the past month like a 3D diagram. Optimal stance: two steps back, 45-degree attack angle to maximize pole reach. Leap probability: 80%, based on prior patterns. Response: harden skin on left forearm as a shield, claws on right hand for counterstrike. Energy cost: minimal, thanks to refinements.

  He struck the mound with the pole, a dry thud resonating through the ground. The screech erupted, and the vermin shot out: gray scales, short claws, a meter of blind fury. Cain stepped back, letting it leap. His left hand tensed, the tingling flowing as he hardened his skin—a hexagonal matrix imagined in milliseconds, collagen aligned like armor—and blocked a swipe. The impact was a dull thud, but the skin held, twenty seconds without a scratch. His right hand reacted instantly: claws sprouted, phalanges stretching into bone points sharp as scalpels, and he slashed the monster’s flank in a precise arc. Black blood splattered the earth, and the creature fell, twitching before going still.

  Lira whistled, a low but genuine sound. “That was quick,” she said, stepping closer. “Those claws look handy.”

  Cain flexed his hand, retracting the claws. Energy cost: low. Skin duration: stable. Cut precision: 90% effective, he analyzed, satisfied. “They are,” he replied, severing the head with the pole and tossing it into the sack. “But there’s still room to improve.”

  The second vermin was craftier, emerging from a blind angle behind a mound. Cain heard it first—his memory logged the chitter’s frequency, 3,000 Hz, a distinct peak—and spun, hardening his forearm just in time to deflect a bite. The claws returned, faster now, and pierced the creature’s neck in one motion. Blood splashed his tunic, but he didn’t care; the cut was surgical, a leap from the clumsy tears of weeks ago.

  The third tried an ambush from a bush, but Cain had mapped the terrain: Dense grass, 70% ambush chance. He thrust the pole first, forcing it out, and finished it with a reinforced strike. He tested muscle again, tensing his bicep in spirals—fibers aligned like a biological spring—and the pole came down with 40% more force, crushing the skull in one blow. It lasted eight seconds before pain forced him to release, but it was enough.

  The fourth charged head-on, a fatal mistake. Cain hardened his skin for a full twenty seconds, blocking swipes like stone, and his right hand’s claws found the heart—or whatever these things had—in a clean strike. The fifth was a game: he lured it with ground stomps, let it leap, and speared it mid-air with the pole, claws ready but unneeded. Five heads in the sack, under fifteen minutes. Efficiency, he thought, calculating: Average time per vermin: 2.8 minutes. Energy spent: 200 calories. Net gain with absorption: 250 calories. Significant progress.

  Lira approached, checking the sack with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve gotten good at this,” she said, her tone torn between impressed and teasing. “A month ago, that third one would’ve taken a chunk out of you. Now you look like a real hunter.”

  Cain cleaned the pole in the grass, his breathing steadier than he’d expected. “Practice,” he said, simple but with a hint of pride. “And a bit of food. Still weak, but not as bad as before.”

  She laughed, a brief but warm sound. “Weak, he says. You killed five vermin in the time it takes me to sharpen my dagger. Don’t sell yourself short, little one.” She paused, eyeing him closer. “That trick of yours… the claws, the skin, they’re really useful. Keep this up, you could charge more than a copper per head.”

  “Hope so,” he said, slinging the sack over his shoulder. “But for now, bread’s enough.”

  They returned to the village, the sun now high and scorching. The scaly demi-human grunted at the sack but slid five dull coppers across the counter without complaint. Two of them bought two loaves from the scruffy-bearded vendor, and Cain and Lira sat under their usual hut, eating in comfortable silence. The bread was hard, but each bite was a victory, a step further from collapse.

  “Where do you go every week?” Cain asked finally, breaking the silence. It wasn’t an accusation, just curiosity, though his mind already had hypotheses: Main hideout. 24-hour absence. Fixed schedule. Likely supplies or contacts.

  Lira looked at him, chewing slower. “Somewhere,” she said, evasive but without anger. “Don’t worry about it. If you needed to know, I’d tell you.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, finishing his bread. “As long as it’s not to sell me out, I’m not complaining.”

  She smiled, a small but real gesture. “For now, little one. For now.”

  Cain leaned against the wall, the sack of heads beside him. A month in the village, and he was alive, stronger, sharper. The Ravens weren’t a visible threat, but the cracks lingered, a distant echo that could shatter this calm at any moment. For now, he had claws, tough skin, and Lira. It was a start.