"Some things don't break you. They rebuild you differently." — Anonymous Hunter
I had no idea how long I had been out. Hours. Days. Weeks? Time had been meaningless in this world. The dungeon was never quiet, but this silence — this empty, dead silence — was different.
When my eyes finally did open, it wasn't with terror. Just fatigue. Then confusion. Then curiosity.
I sat up.
The wounds I had incurred in the previous battle had recovered.
Not merely scabbed over. Healed. As though they'd never existed. There were no marks, no scars, on my skin. My muscles, previously sore and exhausted, vibrated with power. I balled up my hand and sensed the thick, elegant current of mana run to my center like a steady, assured heartbeat.
It wasn't only restored.
It was different.
My body was. better. Sharper. I could feel every crack on the stone, every wobble of dust in the air, every far-off echo. Even the mana inside me was alive — not uncontrolled, but wound up, concentrated, almost intelligent. As if it sensed what I needed before I even gave it shape.
I shut my eyes and swept my body with a burst of mana.
No irregularities. No growths. No grotesque mutations.
Thank every damn god I ever prayed to.
I'd heard tales of survivors on potions such as the one I'd consumed. They improved, yes. But others emerged warped. Broken. No longer human. But me? I was whole. I was strong.
I stood up and approached the huge double doors that had filled the room since before my fight. Still closed. Quiet.
I place my hand on one.
Nothing.
Then —
A glint. A glimpse of motion in my peripheral vision.
Instinct screamed.
I whirled, right arm raised, left hand gathering mana — spell already forming. My heart thudded. Gravity drew the air about me in.
But no attempt was made.
Just sunlight.
One ray of clean light pouring out of a fissure in the rocky ceiling, having shattered the gloom for the first time since I'd entered this hell. It was not mana. It was not a trap.
But something was wrong with my arm.
It was. armored.
Shining white with jagged obsidian patterns that shone faintly as if they were soaking up the surrounding light. Sharp edges, angular plates — complicated but brutal in aesthetics. It wrapped me from the fingertips to the elbow.
I froze.
What the hell?
My heart pounded. I turned to flip it over, studied the texture, the feel, the way it curved as if it had grown from me — not something fitted, but something that had grown from me. Panic ignited. I stumbled backward, gazing at the armor.
Then, I focused.
I thought about removing it. The armor dissolved.
My arm was once more naked.
I stared.
Then I thought of calling it back.
The plates returned. Black, jagged, seamless.
I did it again.
Off.
On.
Off.
On.
"What in the actual hell."
It wasn't just on my arm, either. With a mere push of will, I felt the mana encase my whole body like liquid steel. In a matter of seconds, I was standing wrapped in full armor. Not heavy. Not clumsy. Balanced. The helmet, when it materialized, was streamlined — sharp edges and faceless with a subtle sheen across the visor.
It didn't suffocate. It breathed with me.
I dismissed it, panting.
This wasn't some artifact.
It became a part of me now.
Whatever it was that it was, whether it was the potion, the effects of the dungeon, or whatever — I didn't know. But that. that was not to be joked about. Not to boast about. Not to share.
Power like this came with attention.
And attention got you killed.
I moved back from the door and rested back against the frigid stone, pounding heart. I was different now. I needed to know what that meant — in a hurry. But first, I sought answers. And what lay behind those doors? That was where I'd start.