Elias chose the place carefully.
The Underworld offered few environments that could be called safe, but some were less immediately hostile than others. He had learned to recognize them over time—regions where the flow of magicules was thin but stable, where pressure did not warp unpredictably, where the land bore scars of age rather than fresh violence.
This was one such place.
A shallow valley of broken stone stretched before him, its surface fractured into uneven plates like a shattered mirror. No towering ruins rose here, no dense forests of dead wood. Visibility was clear for hundreds of meters in every direction.
Elias stood at the valley's edge and observed.
Empathic Perception extended outward, thin and controlled. He filtered aggressively, ignoring distant residue and emotional echoes long since bled dry. He focused only on movement—on emotions that pulsed rather than lingered.
There.
Faint hunger. Restless aggression. A dull, instinct-driven awareness of territory.
A lesser daemon.
Alone.
Elias did not move immediately.
This was different from before. In past encounters, he had reacted—defended, endured, survived. This time, he had come with intent. That distinction mattered more than he liked to admit. His core felt tighter, his shadows more alert, responding not to fear but anticipation.
"I'm not running," he murmured.
The words were not a challenge. They were a reminder.
He stepped forward.
The lesser daemon emerged from between the stone plates as if summoned by his approach. Its form was misshapen—limbs uneven, body stretched too thin in places and too dense in others. Its surface shimmered with unstable magicules that leaked constantly, like blood from an open wound.
It hissed when it saw him.
Empathic Perception flared, delivering a rush of sensation—hunger, irritation, territorial instinct. No higher thought. No strategy.
Good.
Elias released a controlled pulse of pressure.
Not enough to provoke a frenzy. Just enough to announce himself.
The lesser daemon recoiled, then crouched low, claws scraping stone. It lunged without hesitation.
Elias moved.
Shadow condensed beneath his feet, anchoring him as he sidestepped rather than retreated. He raised one arm, forming a barrier instinctively—thinner than before, denser at the point of impact.
Claws struck.
The barrier cracked.
Pain flared along his forearm as pressure leaked through, but the construct held long enough. Elias twisted, shadows unraveling from the barrier and snapping outward like tendrils, lashing across the daemon's torso.
The impact sent it skidding across stone.
Elias exhaled sharply.
So far—acceptable.
He advanced, suppressing the urge to overcommit. The lesser daemon shrieked and surged forward again, magicules flaring wildly. Elias met it halfway, shadow wrapping around his arm as he drove a condensed strike into its shoulder.
The structure collapsed.
The daemon screamed—not in pain, but panic—as its form destabilized. Magicules spilled freely now, uncontrolled.
Elias hesitated.
Not from fear.
From memory.
In his first life, he had hesitated like this too—at moments where action mattered. Where discomfort could have been avoided, where kindness could have been chosen. He had always delayed. Always rationalized.
The Underworld did not reward that.
Elias clenched his claws and finished it.
Shadow compressed sharply, driving into the daemon's core. The structure ruptured completely. The body dissolved inward, collapsing into raw magicules that rushed toward Elias like a broken dam.
He staggered as they poured into him.
Not violently.
But fully.
The sensation was overwhelming—heat, pressure, expansion. His core strained, stabilizing instinctively as Regret Accumulation absorbed the emotional backlash that accompanied the kill. Guilt flickered briefly, then settled—not erased, but contained.
Elias dropped to one knee, breathing hard.
When the flow stopped, the valley fell silent.
He was shaking.
But he was alive.
More than that—he felt different.
He stood slowly and flexed his claws. Shadows responded faster than before, clinging more tightly, no longer sagging at the edges. His presence felt denser, more cohesive.
"It worked," he whispered.
The words carried disbelief.
He hadn't grown strong.
But he had grown stronger.
That mattered.
—
He did not hunt again immediately.
Elias retreated to the edge of the valley and sat in stillness, allowing his core to settle. He focused on regulation—containing excess magicules, redistributing pressure evenly. The process took time. He refused to rush it.
Overindulgence had killed many beings stronger than him.
When he rose again, the world felt slightly sharper. Empathic Perception reached farther with less strain. Shadows answered him more readily, forming and dispersing with improved efficiency.
Confidence stirred.
Carefully.
"I can do this," Elias said.
Not endlessly.
Not recklessly.
But again.
—
The second hunt was harder.
The lesser daemon was larger, more stable, its form reinforced by accumulated magicules. It did not charge mindlessly. It circled. Tested.
Elias adapted.
He baited it—released controlled pressure, then suppressed it abruptly, forcing the daemon to misjudge distance. When it struck, Elias redirected rather than blocked, shadows twisting to deflect momentum instead of absorbing it.
The fight lasted longer.
He took a blow to the side that sent pain lancing through his core, destabilizing his constructs. He nearly lost control when shadows flared instinctively in response.
He forced them down.
Discipline over impulse.
When the daemon fell, the absorption was rougher—but manageable. He learned to brace himself, to channel the influx rather than be overwhelmed by it.
By the third hunt, he was no longer trembling afterward.
By the fifth, he was choosing targets deliberately—those strong enough to provide meaningful growth, but not so strong they threatened annihilation.
Elias began to walk taller.
Not arrogantly.
But with intent.
He ventured farther from the valley, into regions where magicules flowed more densely, where daemons roamed in loose, shifting territories. He avoided groups. Challenged solitary ones. Occasionally, he retreated when Empathic Perception warned him of danger beyond his current limits.
Retreat no longer felt like failure.
It felt like strategy.
One encounter nearly ended him.
A lesser daemon—barely stronger than the others—managed to land a direct strike against his core when Elias misjudged its reach. Pain exploded through him, his vision fracturing as shadows unraveled violently.
He collapsed.
For a heartbeat, everything went cold.
Regretful Sage surfaced.
Core integrity compromised.
Survival probability declining.
Immediate stabilization required.
Elias gasped, forcing magicules inward, compressing them brutally despite the pain. Shadows coiled defensively, forming crude layers rather than refined constructs.
He lived.
Barely.
When it was over, he lay there for a long time, staring at the warped sky.
"I'm getting careless," he said quietly.
Regretful Sage did not respond.
It didn't need to.
The lesson was already carved into him.
—
By the time Elias returned to the valley where his first hunt had taken place, he was no longer the same being who had stood there weeks—or months—before.
His magicule capacity had increased modestly. His control had improved significantly. His presence, while still unrefined, no longer leaked constantly into the environment.
More importantly—he trusted himself.
Not blindly.
But honestly.
He stood atop a ridge and looked out over the land, Empathic Perception mapping faint presences in the distance. Lesser daemons moved there. Stronger ones too—still beyond him, but no longer unimaginable.
The Archdaemon's words resurfaced in his mind.
Struggle. Accumulate.
Elias clenched his claws.
"I will," he said.
This time, there was no hesitation.