The pattern comes together faster than I expect.
My Arc Lightning pulls scouting mobs. Raka draws them in, letting the Bushmen crash against her line, tendrils snapping heavy against her shield as she meets them early—already in position before the strike finishes forming. Her axe answers immediately—heavy, relentless, each blow forcing the next until whatever rushed her simply doesn’t get back up.
I move through the openings she creates without thinking. Thunderwave blasts past her shoulder, catching those clustered against her shield and driving them back to create space. Once they’re isolated, it’s simple—close the distance, Eldritch Strike driving through them before they can recover.
Kit thrives in the space between us. One moment she’s gone, the next she’s there—Echo Step carrying her through brush and shadow, her spirit-charged daggers flashing as Soulfire Veilstrike carves through whatever I’ve forced out of position. She doesn’t linger. She doesn’t need to. By the time anything turns to face her, she’s already gone.
We repeat it.
Again.
And again.
Each pull cleaner than the last.
The forest doesn’t get quieter the deeper we push. If anything, it feels more alive—leaves shifting, thorn-vines twitching, the air thick with sap and something watchful beneath it. But it doesn’t matter the way it did before.
We’re not reacting anymore.
Raka holds the line. I break the structure. Kit finishes what’s left.
By the time the last thorn-variant elite in this stretch drops, the motion barely slows. The ground is already shifting under our boots as we move forward, sap soaking into the roots, the faint trace of ozone and violet fire lingering in the air behind us.
We’re hunting.
And the XP is flowing.
Level 16.
The HUD chimes.
It hits early in the evening for Kit and Raka. Finally—all three of us on the same level. Hard-earned, each of us in our own way.
I couldn’t be prouder of them.
Raka plants her axe into the soil and exhales, fur matted with sap and sweat, silver light faint in her eyes. “This,” she says, voice low and steady, “feels like a pack.”
Kit smirks, flipping her dagger once. “Just don’t start howling when we win.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Raka rumbles, grin flashing.
The bond pulses—sharp, immediate. Not overwhelming this time. Just… there. Solid.
I glance between them, a small smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. “The victory howling comes later.”
“You both looked good out there. Real good.”
Raka’s ears flick at that, her grin widening as she rolls her shoulders and settles her stance again. “Good is an understatement. That was a massacre.”
Kit rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too. She twirls one dagger, the last trace of spectral edge fading. “Don’t get too cocky. They were just Bushmen. Let’s see how we handle the big ones before we get ahead of ourselves.”
Raka steps in, close enough to cast a shadow over her. “I don’t handle,” she murmurs. “I hunt.”
Kit lifts her chin, a playful, challenging smirk tugging at her lips, tail flicking once. “Then try to keep up.”
I watch them for a moment, spear resting against my shoulder, letting the energy between them play out. It’s not tension—not really. More like pressure finding its shape. A pack testing itself.
“Easy,” I say, a warm grin cutting through it. “You both looked incredible out there. That wasn’t luck.”
I step forward just enough to pull their attention back in.
“That was clean.” I let the word settle. “Keep that up, and nothing out here is going to slow us down.”
They hold my gaze for a beat, the edge between them easing as they fall back into step.
The bond follows—quiet now. Not loud. Not overwhelming.
Just aligned.
I let a faint smirk return. “And later… we’ll see about that howling.”
[Smoldering Gaze]
It takes three more days of hunting to push us all to Level 17.
Strength comes with it—quiet at first, then undeniable. It settles into our bones, sharpens our instincts, and makes each fight feel easier than the last.
It makes us bolder.
Bold enough to get reckless.
We push deeper into Bushman Forest, abandoning our plan to skirt the edges without ever really saying it out loud. By the time I realize it, we’re already committed.
The forest thickens around us, the air damp and heavy with the scent of earth and sap. Sunlight barely filters through the twisted canopy, everything washed in deep green shadow. This is Elder Bushman territory, and the signs are everywhere—gouges carved into bark, thorn-littered soil, and a low, constant hum that settles under the skin like the forest itself is breathing.
Raka takes point, her massive frame moving with a controlled, deliberate quiet that still surprises me. Her axe hangs low, shield ready, ears forward and tail steady as she tracks the slightest shift in the brush. Kit vanishes entirely. One moment she’s there, the next she’s gone—spectral armor dimming as she melts into the undergrowth, nothing left but the faintest hint of movement if you know where to look.
I hold center, spear in hand, feeling the mana hum low and steady through my veins. Not flaring. Not yet. Just waiting.
The bond stretches between us—tight, responsive, alive with the same shared edge.
We’re stronger. We know it.
And somewhere along the way, we stopped treating this place like it could kill us.
And then I hear it.
CRRRAAACK.
A sharp, splintering crack tears through the clearing ahead as a vine the size of a tree trunk whips across the ground, shattering a fallen log like driftwood. I don’t need a second look to know what we’ve found. The nest is here—and it’s not just one Elder.
It’s a grove.
Two of them tower in the clearing, massive, writhing structures of thorned vines wrapped around pulsing green cores. Around them, four thorn-variant elites shift and sway like sentinels, their bodies angled toward us, thorn-launchers already bristling. The air feels wrong here—thick, humming, like the forest itself is awake and watching.
We’ve pushed too far.
The thought barely finishes forming before the grove answers.
The first Thorn Volley comes screaming through the air, a storm of jagged growth tearing through brush and bark alike. I bring up my shield on instinct, the impact slamming through my arm hard enough to numb it, the force driving me half a step back as thorns splinter and skid across magic and steel. Even behind cover, I feel it—this isn’t like the ones near the edge.
Movement flashes past the rim of my shield.
Raka is already charging.
No call. No hesitation. Just instinct.
She hits the nearest Elder like a falling wall, her axe biting deep into its trunk with a wet, splintering crack—Savage driving the blow through—but the thing doesn’t give. Not even a little. It turns into her instead, one massive tendril snapping across her chest like a battering ram and launching her backward. She’s hit hard, shield ringing as thorns rake across her, momentum carrying her through root and brush before she forces herself upright again.
Too heavy. Too solid.
Not like the scouts.
Kit appears at the edge of it, already moving—Echo Step carrying her through the brush in a ripple of shadow as her daggers flash with spectral light. Soulfire Veilstrike carves across an elite’s tendrils, the strikes clean—but the grove answers immediately. Another volley tears through the clearing, faster this time, tighter. One thorn clips her shoulder, drawing blood, and she’s gone again before the follow-up lands.
I don’t need the bond to tell me what that means.
This isn’t a clean pull. We’ve pushed too deep, and now we’re in it.
I drive my spear into the ground and pull mana through it, Arc Lightning lashing outward into the Elder gripping Raka. The current crawls across its form, burning through vine and sap, forcing a shudder out of it—
—but it doesn’t break.
Not even close.
The second Elder moves.
It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t need to.
Roots tear free of the ground as it drags itself forward, each step pulling the forest with it, the weight of it pressing down before it even reaches us. When it slams into the clearing, the impact rattles through the earth and up into my bones, sharp enough to set my teeth on edge.
The bond spikes hard in response—pain, fear, pressure—but underneath it, something steadier holds. Kit is hurt, but moving. Raka is bleeding, but rising.
And both of them are still in it.
I tighten my grip on the spear, breath steadying despite the noise in my chest.
This is going to be ugly.
I don’t hesitate. “Raka—Rage.”
…her response is instant.
Rage
The bond ignites like wildfire, heat and instinct surging through it as Raka’s eyes flare molten gold. The roar she lets loose splits the canopy—raw, primal—and she drives forward into the Elder without slowing. Her axe comes down hard, Savage carrying the blow through thick vine and sap, forcing a shudder through the creature’s core. It answers immediately, a massive tendril slamming across her chest with a crack that echoes through the grove, but she doesn’t fall. She plants, shield braced, muscles locking as the force drives into her and stops. Blood seeps into her fur, but the rage holds it in place. She’s not breaking.
Holding. That’s enough.
I step forward just enough to keep the line, drawing mana through the bond instead of burning it off in bursts. It feels heavier here—slower—but still mine. “Stay in it,” I call, steady, controlled. “Don’t give it space.”
Raka answers with a snarl and drives in again, forcing the Elder to commit its weight to her, and that’s the opening I need.
Arc Lightning
I thrust and release, lightning snapping from the spear into its exposed core, the current crawling through its structure, locking movement just long enough to break its rhythm.
Across the clearing, Kit moves without needing the call. I don’t track her directly anymore—the bond carries the shift before the motion, a flicker at the edge of awareness as she positions along the grove’s flank. One of the elites overcommits, turning to fire instead of holding the line, and she’s there instantly—Echo Step slipping her through brush and shadow, Soulfire Veilstrike carving deep through its tendrils in a flash of violet fire. It recoils too late, and she’s already gone, not trading, not lingering—just pressure, clean and precise.
The grove tightens in response. I feel it before I see it, the air shifting as another volley builds—heavier, faster, the weight of it gathering across the clearing. “Brace,” I warn, tightening my grip. Raka doesn’t look back. She doesn’t need to. She sets her stance, shield rising—Lunar Bulwark answering as the forest erupts with a storm of razor thorns.
“Kit! Elites—now!”
A shimmer of violet and silver as Kit bursts from stealth behind the farthest elite, Spirit Blades flaring. Soulfire Veilstrike—spectral arcs carve through hardened bark. The Bushman recoils, the cut clean—and it drops.
But it’s not alone.
A second twists into her, thorns flaring outward in a tight burst that forces her off-line before she can finish it. She rolls through the follow-up, coming up low to strike again—but there’s no opening.
The other two elites pivot and fire, thorn barrages slicing the air like a storm of knives.
I duck behind my shield, grunting as one punches through and grazes my bicep, another slamming into the tree beside my head. The spacing is tighter now. Controlled. They’re covering each other.
Kit slips out with Echo Step, but not clean—a line of red marks her side where a thorn clipped through as she moved.
Raka drives forward to reassert the line, Savage hammering into the nearest Elder—but the second is already there. It slams into her flank as the first holds, the combined weight forcing her back a full step, boots carving through soil.
Not breaking.
But not holding fast.
I shift to compensate, but the grove closes around us. No gaps. No overextensions.
The rhythm we had—is gone.
I pull mana hard, not just my own, some of theirs as well, and drive the spear forward.
Arc Lightning
A bolt snaps into the flanking Elder, slowing it just enough to blunt the push—but not stop it.
Nothing is stopping them cleanly anymore.
The grove has adjusted.
And now it’s pushing back.
I slam my spear into the earth, teeth clenched as I force the chant through, pulling more mana through the bond. Thunderwave detonates into the bunched Elders, splintering their core trunks, sap bursting like boiling tar.
“YES!” Kit shouts from somewhere in the shadows—cut short as an elite clips her thigh with a thorn spray. She hisses, but turns it into momentum, Soulfire Veilstrike flaring back into her daggers as she drives in for a second kill.
The second Elder surges into the fray, roots heaving the earth like a living quake. It lashes out with twin vine-whips—one wrenching Raka’s shield arm down, the other snapping across her back hard enough to crack through the grove. Blood sprays. The bond spikes with it, pain biting through my teeth.
“Raka—HOLD!”
She answers with a low, feral sound and lunges into the strike instead of away from it, catching the vine in her teeth as her axe comes down with Savage, cleaving halfway through the Elder’s trunk. The plant-beast shudders, vines thrashing wild.
With Raka entangled, the thorn-variants press their advantage. A triple volley of thorns tears through the clearing. My Shield catches two, but the third slams into my shoulder, punching through my mail with brutal force. I drop to one knee, growling as mana sputters in my veins.
Kit materializes beside me with an Echo Step, blood running down her leg, breath ragged—but her daggers are ready.
“Master,” she breathes, eyes blazing, “we need to finish this, now.”
I nod, rage and mana coiling in my chest like a thunderstorm ready to break. “Raka! GIVE ME SPACE!”
She rips her axe free and shoves the first Elder back, vines snapping and writhing as she turns to intercept the second, holding them both like a wall of silver fury.
I plant my spear, channeling everything—every last drop of mana, every ounce of will—into the spell that will end this. The air hums. Sparks snap along my arms as I push it higher.
“Arc Lightning—Chain Form!”
The storm hits like a god’s wrath. A pillar of white-blue fire erupts from the spear tip, forking across both Elders and the remaining elites in a blinding explosion. Sap boils. Vines ignite. The grove trembles as the smell of ozone and burning greenery floods my lungs.
When the light fades, the first Elder lies in smoking ruin. The second staggers, half its body charred to cinders—just enough for Raka to bury her war axe deep into its core, splitting it clean in two.
Silence falls—except for my ragged breathing and the slow drip of sap onto moss.
I collapse to one knee, my body trembling, vision blurred from the mana drain.
Kit crouches beside me, bloody and shaking. Raka limps over, fur scorched and streaked with sap and blood, and the three of us end up in a heap.
Behind the smoking ruin of the Elders, something glitters in the debris.
A drop. Not just any drop—a rare chest, carved from twisted root and glowing faintly silver. The smell of magic rolls off it like heat.
The grove tilts in my vision—blurred green and silver, streaked with smoke from the charred husks.
My HUD burns across my sight:
[Health—low]
[Mana—Dangerously low]
Kit’s silhouette flickers at the edge of it, her lips moving fast, her voice distant—warped like an echo underwater.
Raka’s breathing is ragged, her towering frame unsteady. Her shield is split, her hide armor shredded, white fur streaked with red and black sap. Kit doesn’t look much better—spectral armor flickering like a candle in the wind, blood matting her hair where a thorn cut deep.
My pulse hammers in my ears.
Logic screams stop.
But the bond—the bond won’t let me.
Not when they’re mine.
Not when they’re bleeding.
Not when I can save them.
My grip tightens on the spear.
A cracked, blood-flecked whisper slips free as I drain the last of my mana—pulling from them as well, dangerously low.
Cure Light Wounds—Twinned.
The spell ignites like molten gold through my veins. Threads of light lash out from my chest, racing to them like living vines—literal lifelines.
Kit gasps as her spectral armor collapses from the mana loss, but the worst of her wounds seal over smooth skin. Raka grunts low in her throat as torn muscle knits, dozens of bloody cuts closing across her colossal frame.
My HUD flashes:
[Bonded Companions — Health Restored (Critical → Moderate)]
Their health bars steady—in the green.
Mine?
[Health — Low]
[Mana — Severely Depleted]
[Condition — Mana Burn Imminent]
The HUD’s warning alarms scream as if from far away.
And then—
Black.