The dig site was a wound carved into the earth and now, finally, the High Elves were stitching it shut.
Magister Veridan Caeleth stood atop a ridge of broken stone, robes fluttering in the rising dawn wind. Below him, teams of Adept Mages and Spellwrights moved with quiet, disciplined efficiency. Each fossil was sealed under reinforced containment wards. Each artifact was cataloged, boxed, and marked for restricted transfer.
Around the perimeter, the Magisters raised stronger wards, shimmering nets of force, woven from sigils older than kingdoms. Designed to contain not just physical threats, but astral and planar breaches as well.
No risk would be tolerated.
Not now.
The researchers, Arcanists and Apprentices alike were escorted back toward the academy in secure carriages under heavy guard. Veridan issued orders without needing to raise his voice.
At his command, a sealed missive was sent to the nearest military outpost, Fort Vael'Zareth, garrison of the High Elves' southern defense ring.
Fort Vael'Zareth was a standard Type III Outpost. Solid stone walls, defensive wards etched into every brick, a central keep housing the command structure.
Typically, such outposts garrisoned between 500 to 700 soldiers, depending on strategic importance.
Their structure was ruthlessly simple:
Spearlings, raw recruits, barely trained. Shieldbearers, veteran infantry, trained in formation fighting and siege defense. Arcblades, elite close combat units, often trained with light magic enhancements. Aether Archers, mage augmented archery units capable of elemental arrow rains. Battlemages, spellcasters assigned to direct battlefield application. Warmasters, officers commanding companies or coordinating magical firepower. Fort Commanders, the outpost's supreme commander, answering only to the Magisterium Council.
Fort Vael'Zareth was not a front line fortress, but it was far from soft. If this predator whatever it was became a broader threat, military muscle would be needed.
Badly.
Veridan crossed the shattered courtyard and rejoined the others. Magisters Solmere and Vaelyn stood near a broken spire, their faces drawn and thoughtful. "We have no precedent," Vaelyn said, his voice low and taut with unease. "No documented creature has survived fifteen thousand years without decay. Not even the bio magical constructs of the Old Era."
Solmere tapped his gloved fingers against the pommel of his walking staff. "A mechanical entity, perhaps?" he mused. "Remnants of the golden age, when our forebears shaped armies from steel and sorcery?"
Veridan shook his head.
"No mechanical construct radiates this much living magic," he said. "And if it was simply dormant machinery... it would not have triggered the sickness among our lower rank mages."
Living magic.
A condensed, willful force. Something predatory. All three Magisters fell silent, staring down into the faintly smoldering wards around the now empty sanctum.
Whatever had awakened here, whatever had slipped the leash...
It was alive.
The sound of disciplined marching echoed through the misty clearing as the first wave of reinforcements arrived.
Two hundred soldiers, clad in the polished silver and green of the Aurelian Dominion, filed into formation with mechanical precision. The banners of Fort Vael'Zareth fluttered above them, proud and severe.
At their head rode Warmaster Kaelen Durnis, a broad shouldered figure armored in enameled plate, a crimson cloak hanging from his shoulders. He dismounted fluidly and approached the waiting Magisters, saluting with a closed fist over his heart.
"Magisters," he intoned formally, bowing his head with proper reverence.
Veridan acknowledged him with a sharp nod.
Without delay, Kaelen unfurled a thick vellum map over a flat section of broken stone. The Verdant Shroud sprawled across it like a living maze. Dense thickets, twisting rivers, ancient ruins swallowed by moss.
Warmaster Kaelen spoke crisply, tapping a gloved finger against the center where the dig site was marked.
"We've divided the force into ten teams, each composed for balanced field operations:
One Battlemage per team. Three Adepts for magical support. One Spellwright to maintain field wards. Five Aether Archers for ranged containment. Five Shieldbearers for frontline defense. Five Spearlings for reconnaissance and quick assault. Our Arc Blades are sent to capital for training, therefore there are none here. "
Veridan leaned in, scrutinizing the layout.
"Formation structure is sound," he said quietly. "But the Verdant Shroud is treacherous."
Vaelyn nodded. "Visibility will be poor. Line of sight lost in minutes if we spread too thin."
Solmere tapped the map thoughtfully. "We start from the dig site outward," he said. "Circular sweeps. Expand radius with every completed rotation."
"Incremental expansion," Kaelen agreed. "Prevents gaps. Prevents a mobile threat from slipping past us."
"And communication?" Veridan asked, voice sharp.
Kaelen smiled thinly.
"Each Battlemage light codex spells of distinct color signatures. Red for hostile contact. Blue for successful sweep. White for distress or unexpected phenomena."
"A simple code," Vaelyn mused. "Elegant."
"Complicated orders invite disaster in the wilds," Kaelen said. "Especially with something unknown."
Veridan approved silently.
But there was more to consider.
"If the anomaly is mobile, it may attempt to double back," Solmere said. "We cannot allow the perimeter to weaken."
"I've anticipated this," Kaelen said. "Thirty Adepts and Spellwrights remain here." He gestured to the ruins. "They will maintain a centralized communication array. Flares sent skyward are logged. If any team ceases transmission or reports contact, reserves will deploy instantly."
Sharian, standing quietly nearby, allowed herself a small measure of relief.
This was not the reckless scramble of human armies. This was how High Elves operated, with cold precision, patience, and layered contingencies.
"Begin deployment," Veridan ordered at last.
Warmaster Kaelen saluted again and strode back to his officers, voice rising above the mustering troops.
The hunt had begun.
--
The simple traps Corvin had scattered through the woods had worked better than he dared hope.
Pits lined with spears of the orcs. Weighted deadfalls. Tension vines rigged to pull down jagged branches.
Crude tricks but brutally effective against creatures driven by rage more than reason.
Of the nearly one hundred and twenty orcs that had once roared and bellowed inside the encampment, barely fifty remained.
The others were dead, torn, crushed, impaled. Their bodies left to rot among the blood soaked roots of the Verdant Shroud.
Corvin moved now like a phantom through the remaining chaos.
Panicked warriors rushed about. Shamans gathered in hasty circles, chanting in harsh, guttural tongues, weaving minor protections against the unseen killer stalking them.
Corvin weaved through the tents and broken supply crates, a hammer in each hand, stolen from the dead.
He targeted one sentry first. A younger orc trying desperately to patrol an empty lane. Corvin struck from the shadows, smashing the orc's knee with a bone crushing blow before retreating silently into the night.
The orc's screams tore through the camp, raw and shrill.
Perfect.
As expected, one of the Shamans peeled away from the main ritual circle, moving cautiously toward the noise. Alone.
Corvin tracked him instantly.
The moment the Shaman crossed into the tented area, Corvin was already upon him.
He swung one of his heavy hammers in a smooth, silent arc. The weapon connected with the back of the Shaman's neck with a meaty, snapping crack.
The body collapsed.
He caught it before it hit the ground, lowering it silently to the earth.
The familiar prompt shimmered before his eyes:
[Absorb Target?]
-Yes -No
He chose Yes without hesitation.
Power flooded into him. Hotter, wilder than anything he had siphoned before.
His Status Screen updated in the background of his mind:
Fire Magic: E+
Wind Magic: E+
Earth Magic: E
Water Magic: D-
His heart pounded with the rush.
He barely paused before slipping deeper into the camp.
Another Shaman strayed too far from safety. Corvin struck again, merciless, unrelenting.
And another.
Two more bodies fell under his hands, two more surges of raw elemental power bolstering his veins.
His affinities now gleamed:
Fire: D
Wind: D
Earth: D
Water: D+
Dark Magic, newly awakened at F+
Lightning Magic, crackling at F+
The air around him seemed heavier, pregnant with potential.
Corvin smiled, progress at last.
But he wasn't done.
His real prize, the Elder Shaman still awaited.
He crouched behind a broken cart, mind racing through tactics.
Isolate, strike, absorb.
He needed the Elder's strength.
But just as he prepared to move, multiple red flares exploded into the sky around the orc camp.
Brilliant magical orbs, burning crimson against the still dark sky.
The High Elves were moving. The search net was tightening.
The noise drew the attention of the orcs as well.
From the heart of the camp, the Battle Chief, a hulking brute nearly twice the width of his kin, emerged from the largest tent, clad in rough iron and furs.
Beside him walked the Elder Shaman, bent and gnarled but radiating a dark, thrumming power.
Both warriors squinted at the distant red lights through slitted, suspicious eyes.
The camp gathered behind them, a broken army waiting for commands.
And in the shadows, unseen, Corvin tightened his grip on his hammer and began to plan.
The net was closing. The world was burning.
And his moment was near.
Corvin crouched low in the shadow of a half burned tent, watching.
The flares above the Verdant Shroud told the story even before he saw the movements. More Elven teams were approaching.
Circling. Tightening the noose.
The guttural roars of the Orc Chieftain echoed through the shattered camp. A bellowing call to arms, desperate and furious. The remaining Shamans, along with the Elder Shaman, began pulling back, forming shaky defensive circles near the heart of the camp.
Corvin's gaze sharpened.
The Elder Shaman, after barking orders in their foul tongue, moved toward the central tent. Alone. Perfect.
Like a shadow slipping through thicker shadows, Corvin closed the distance without sound. The Elder Shaman pushed aside the heavy tent flaps, took a single step inside and that was the only chance he was ever given.
Corvin was on him instantly.
He seized the Elder by the skull with iron fingers. A sharp snap cut off the Shaman's life mid breath.
The prompt flared across his vision even before the corpse fully settled.
The Elder's form dissolved into motes of golden black light, flooding into Corvin's waiting core.
Power roared through him.
His elemental affinities surged again. Climbing steadily toward the next threshold and two new branches unfurled in his mind:
Psychic Magic: F+
Telekinesis: F+
He flexed his fingers briefly, feeling the delicate threads of force tug at the world around him.
Another tool, he thought coldly. Another advantage.
Outside, the slaughter had begun.
Nearly one hundred and eighty Elven warriors, shieldbearers, archers and battlemages tore into the broken orc lines.
The orcs fought savagely, but they were outnumbered, outmatched and outgunned.
Lightning bolts cracked through the air, shearing flesh from bone. Arrows sang deadly hymns between the trees. Spellfire consumed everything.
Corvin watched, detached.
The Orc Chieftain, a massive brute, feral and scarred, made a last, desperate charge toward an Elven battlemage. He never made it.
A bolt of pure, crackling lightning slammed into his chest, blasting him backward in a spray of burnt flesh and scorched armor.
Corvin's eyes shifted immediately, scanning the chaos.
He wasn't looking for enemies now. He was looking for opportunity.
And he found it.
A Spearling, one of the youngest foot soldiers. Tall, broad shouldered, almost matching Corvin's own physique. He was fighting alone against a pair of wounded orcs near the camp's eastern edge.
Corvin moved silently.
As the Spearling lunged forward to skewer one orc, Corvin struck from behind. A single, lethal swing of the hammer.
The Spearling collapsed. Corvin seized the moment, driving his hammer through the second orc's skull to silence him as well.
He worked quickly. Without hesitation or waste.
He stripped the fallen Spearling's armor and uniform, donning it over his own body. He absorbed the body and smeared blood and dirt across his face, concealing his sharper features.
From the soldier's belt, he recovered folded identification papers and a battered emblem of Fort Vael'Zareth. Invaluable tokens of legitimacy.
Satisfied, Corvin crouched among the wreckage, positioning the two dead orcs nearby for plausible battlefield clutter.
He smeared more blood across his chest and shoulder, playing dead.
Then he lay still.
Breathing shallow. Eyes half lidded. Waiting.
The sun had reached its zenith, burning down over the shattered remnants of the battlefield, when the Elven forces began their systematic sweep.
Corvin lay motionless among the arranged corpses, heart slowed to a crawl, limbs slack and blood stained.
It was a long wait but patience was a weapon he had mastered long ago.
Two Shieldbearers approached, their armor gleaming under the harsh light.
One crouched, rifling through his uniform. The identification papers were found and tucked into a leather satchel without comment.
The soldiers hefted him with mechanical efficiency, carrying him to where the other Elven dead had been neatly arrayed.
A little more than a dozen casualties, respectable losses, given the chaotic savagery of the orcs.
Corvin, buried among them, listened carefully as the soldiers murmured to each other.
They were waiting for carriages from Fort Vael'Zareth to arrive and transport the fallen back for proper rites.
A good sign.
They weren't planning to burn the bodies.
He lay there as the day dragged on, the camp slowly emptying of activity.
Only one Elven team remained to secure the orc stronghold. The tenth unit, commanded by a mid tier Battlemage.
The orc corpses were unceremoniously heaped into a stinking mound at the far end of the camp. The Elven dead, by contrast, were treated with care, arranged respectfully with banners laid across their torsos.
Night fell at last, cloaking the ruined camp in thick darkness.
And the hunt began anew.
Corvin stirred like a whisper among the dead.
Silent. Patient. Lethal.
First, he located the guards. Three Spearlings, standing watch in loose formation near the eastern perimeter.
He moved through the darkness like smoke, one by one seizing them. A slit throat here, a snapped neck there.
Each kill was immediate. Efficient.
Each body absorbed silently into his growing core of stolen strength.
The Status Screen in the back of his mind pulsed faintly, recording the gains.
When the time came for shift rotation, Corvin was ready.
He struck again. Dispatching the replacements with the same brutal economy, dragging the bodies away before they could be noticed.
With each absorption, more knowledge trickled in:
Unit callouts.
Formation signals.
Battlefield hand signs.
Code words for retreat and reinforcement.
Corvin was no longer an outsider.
He was learning to think like them.
Next came the Shieldbearers. Heavier infantry, more experienced. They fell just as easily, surprised and overwhelmed before they could even raise an alarm.
Five Spearlings. Two Shieldbearers.
All harvested. All added to his growing reservoir.
Among the fresh memories and instincts, he gathered vital intelligence:
The dig site status: heavily fortified.
Three Magisters and a Warmaster overseeing operations.
The remnants of the Verdant Shroud being combed in expanding sweeps.
Not my concern... yet, Corvin mused darkly.
His immediate prey was richer.
The team still contained Aether Archers, Spellwrights, Adepts, and at the pinnacle, a Battlemage.
The Aether Archers were the next to fall.
Corvin found them in the north quadrant, resting, their bows unstrung and slung carelessly over shoulders.
He dispatched them with careful strikes. Clean slashes through the spine, sharp enough to avoid decapitation.
Another prompt. Another surge.
Their knowledge of enhanced archery and magical trajectory manipulation trickled into his mind.
He smiled thinly. Next came the Spellwrights, clustered near the shattered remains of an old orc altar, poring over scavenged artifacts.
He cut them down methodically, each death silent, each corpse absorbed.
Dawn approached. Faint pink bleeding across the treetops.
The camp was deathly silent now.
Only three Adepts and the Battlemage remained between him and complete assimilation of the Tenth Unit.
Corvin, hidden in the rising mist, tightened his grip on his stolen Elven blade.
The final course of tonight's feast was waiting.
And he was hungry. The night still held its breath as Corvin crept closer.
Two of the Adepts were asleep inside a smaller side tent, their magical wards minimal, their senses dulled by exhaustion.
Corvin unleashed his spores silently. Threads of dark ether latching onto their sleeping forms. Both Adepts shuddered faintly, almost as if disturbed by a dream, before Corvins blade falling and stilling them for eternity.
The prompt flickered before Corvin's mind:
Their knowledge, Magical aptitudes, and fragmentary magic theories flooded into him.He barely paused before moving to the final tent.
The last Adept and the Battlemage occupied the central pavilion. Heavier with enchantments, but nothing Corvin's senses couldn't thread through.
He released a smaller, focused burst of spores.
The Adept was immediately hooked. Siphoned cleanly. Still asleep, his body slumbered silently.
But the Battlemage was different.
The moment Corvin's spores brushed against him, the man's body jolted upright, instinct flaring. And he shouted, voice echoing through the camp.
Corvin acted instantly.
He lunged toward the Adept emerging from the tent. A clean, surgical thrust of his stolen elven blade sank into the Adept's throat, silencing him mid gurgle. The Adept crumpled to his knees, choking on blood.
Corvin knelt, absorbing the dying man in a heartbeat.
Just in time.
A bolt of crackling lightning screamed past his shoulder, burning a gouge into the earth behind him.
The Battlemage was already at work, condensing another sphere of electric death aimed toward the tent's entrance.
Corvin did not hesitate.
He sprinted along the outside of the pavilion, slicing through the taut fabric of the tent with a swift stroke.
He entered from the side, catching the Battlemage mid cast.
Combat training, muscle memory from his old life took over.
Krav Maga and CQC. Efficiency over showmanship.
Corvin closed the distance, weaving under a desperate firebolt, and crashed into the Battlemage's center mass.
They struggled briefly, brutally. Inside the confines of the tent.
It was a delicate balance. He needed the body intact for absorption. No crushed skulls, no missing limbs.
Corvin shifted tactics, wrapping his limbs around the elf's body, locking in a triangle choke. He squeezed ruthlessly, cutting off blood flow, magic, and oxygen in one crushing, brutal clinch.
The Battlemage thrashed weakly, eyes wide with shock. Confused, betrayed, dying.
You never expected betrayal from your own, did you? Corvin thought grimly.
Within a minute, the elf's struggles ceased. Corvin looted swiftly before absorption.
He searched the corpse, stripping it clean. Spell scrolls, identification runes, A badge of the Starlight Arcanum.
And best of all, a ring glinting faintly on the Battlemage's index finger. A purple gemmed storage ring.
Corvin almost laughed aloud.
Fortune favors the efficient.
He slipped the ring onto his own hand without ceremony.
Once everything of value was secured, he stood over the fallen Battlemage and called forth his remaining spores.
Only three spores managed to latch. A hard limit, it seemed, per individual.
Was it a daily limit? A personal resistance cap? He didn't know yet.
But it was enough.
[Absorb Target?]
-Yes -No
The body dissolved into streams of golden black light, pouring into Corvin's core.
Power surged anew.
Knowledge. Combat techniques. Advanced spell theories. Military tactics. Political codes of the Elven Dominion.
He absorbed it all.
When the flood settled, he called up his Status Page, curious to see how far he had come.
[Status]
Race: Dark Parasyte (Awakening Stage)
Level: 46
HP: B+
MP: B
SP: B
Attributes:
STR: B-
END: B-
AGI: B-
INT: B-
WIS: B
LCK: B-
Magic Affinities:
Fire, Earth, Wind Magic: C
Water Magic: C+
Dark, Lightning, Psychic Magic: C-
Skills:
Shadow Siphon (Enhanced)
Telekinesis
Telepathy
Spore Limit: 50 Active Spores (Maximum per target: 3)
Corvin closed the window with a thought.
He felt it in his bones, the swelling strength, the racing precision of his mind, the subtle hum of magic at his fingertips.
Not just a scavenger anymore. He was becoming something else.
Something that would make even Magisters tremble.