The Offshoot moved deeper into the dark forest, its form now fully adapted to the gloom. The glossy purplish-red had faded to a matte black that drank the sparse moonlight rather than reflected it, edges softening to blend with shadows between ancient trunks. Tendrils thinned and lengthened for silent passage, surface roughening to mimic moss and bark.
It glided over roots and fallen leaves without sound, the faintest rustle swallowed by the constant low drone of insects and wind through branches.
Exploration and resource gathering drove it now—instinct sharpened by separation. The hivemind's thin thread still linked it to the core, feeding faint pulses of its purpose.
The forest floor sloped gently downward, air growing cooler and heavier with the scent of damp earth and decaying wood. Moonlight filtered in thin silver needles through the canopy, catching briefly on the Offshoot's black surface before vanishing.
It remained there—silent, patient, black against black—still connected, still gathering.
The hivemind guided it tirelessly. Ora—possessing the Hivemind Skill—required no sleep. For the past few weeks he had shifted his focus to this detached fragment during the long night hours, hunting weak monsters, acquiring new skills, absorbing biomass, and gathering resources to strengthen the whole.
He moved across the forest floor with silent purpose, black form gliding over roots and moss without disturbing a single leaf. His heightened mana sensitivity—sharpened by repeated absorption—brushed against something unfamiliar. A pulse, faint but unmistakable, tugged at his core. He had never felt this signature since his arrival in this world: pure, dense, almost magnetic.
Instinctively attractive.
He raised his stealth, dimming his already invisible presence until he was little more than a ripple in the dark. Tendrils extended like feelers, probing the air as he moved closer.
He glided forward continuously—through underbrush, past gnarled trunks—drawn toward the source.
Until he realized he had been moving in circles.
The same crooked oak loomed ahead again, the same patch of moss underfoot. He paused, tendrils curling inward in silent frustration.
*Failure… to notice sooner,* his own voice echoed through the thread—fragmented, cold. *Senses… insufficient.*
He focused inward, drawing on two skills recently acquired from weak forest monsters.
From the Shadowsting Wasp—small, venomous insect with translucent wings—he had gained
From the Veilspider—a pale, web-weaving arachnid that spun near-invisible deceptions—he had taken
He activated both at once.
Mana Echo Trace lit the forest in ghostly overlays—faint blue trails curling through the air, looping back on themselves in perfect circles. The path he had followed was artificial, a deliberate illusion.
Enhanced Mana Perception sharpened his senses further. A thin, shimmering veil hung between trees—almost invisible, a mana membrane woven like spider silk to deceive and redirect perception. It pulsed softly, cloaking the true path and gently nudging intruders into loops. There was no physical gap to slip through; the veil had no edges or flaws in the traditional sense—it simply... existed, a deceptive layer over reality.
He extended his appendages, needle-thin tendril, brushing the veil's area of influence. Enhanced Mana Perception immediately revealed the truth: the veil was not a solid barrier but a looping suggestion, a gentle redirection of intent and perception. He followed one of the faint blue trails from Mana Echo Trace—ignoring the illusion's pull, trusting only the lingering echoes of mana left by whatever had passed through before.
The trail led straight forward.
The veil did not resist. It simply parted like mist before his focused will, the deception dissolving as he refused to be misled.
After navigating through the forest, he broke through the last line of dense foliage and arrived at a small clearing bathed in faint moonlight. In the center lay the source of that attractive, refined mana—something large and shadowed, about two metres high and one meter wide, pulsing softly with a gentle, unblossomed presence. Surrounding it floated large, bright dots of light—dozens of them—hovering in slow, lazy orbits like distant stars caught in a dream, their glow soft and steady, casting shifting silver patterns across the clearing grass.
The flower bloom itself was a striking blend of orange and yellow—deep, fiery orange at the base and core, fading upward into vivid, sunlit yellow at the tips of its tightly closed petals. The colors seemed to glow from within, as if the mana itself was the light source, warm and living, shifting subtly with each slow pulse. The unopened flower-head dominated the clearing, massive yet graceful, its surface smooth and slightly glossy, veined with faint golden lines that caught the moonlight and shimmered like molten metal. The surrounding bright dots orbited it in perfect, silent harmony, each one a tiny sphere of pure light that never quite touched the bloom, yet seemed drawn to it like moths to flame.
The mana emanating from the center was pure and dense, almost musical—cleaner and more structured than anything he had encountered since arriving in this world. It called to him like a distant song, pulling at his core with quiet, irresistible force.
He did not move forward. Not yet.
Elsewhere, in Eldige village, night had just fallen.
Rebecca lay in her bed at home, sleeping deeply, her breathing slow and even.
At the inn run by Nadia and Madi, the first floor common room was lit only by a single low lantern hanging above the scarred wooden table. The mercenary group had gathered there after the day's work, voices low, the air thick with the smell of ale and woodsmoke from the dying hearth. Muel sat at the head, arms crossed, chair creaking under his weight. Gaara—the armored giant—nursed a tankard, the metal rim clinking softly against his gauntlet every time he set it down. Lirael leaned against the wall near the stairs, arms folded, longbow resting against her shoulder, her sharp eyes flicking upward now and then as if listening for footsteps on the floorboards.
Lirael broke the silence first, voice low but tight, her fingers tapping an uneven rhythm on her bow.
"Gaara, Muel—I told you I don't trust that woman. There's something off about her. I can't explain it. It's just… a feeling. Something's wrong. Like my gut's telling me to stay away. I want to trust that feeling."
Muel leaned back, rubbing his jaw with a calloused thumb, glancing at Gaara before answering. His tone was tired but patient, the kind of voice a man uses when he's heard this before.
"I asked around when we stopped for supplies earlier. Talked to a few of the villagers myself. Turns out she's a recent widow. Her husband died a short while ago—strange circumstances, they say. After that she started going into the forest alone. A lot." He paused, hesitating, then added quieter, almost reluctant, "Some folks call her a witch because of it."
"She's quiet, sure. Keeps to herself. But she paid her share and hasn't caused trouble. Tobin didn't seem bothered by her haggling, either. Just a helpless widow, right?"
Gaara grunted, setting his tankard down with a soft thud that made the table rattle.
"That bundle she was carrying looked heavy. Didn't even flinch when she walked with it. I don't distrust her… but I'm not sure either. Elves have a nose for these things, Lirael. If you say something's off, we watch her. That's all. No jumping at shadows—we need the coin from this run."
Lirael's ears twitched slightly, her expression tightening as she pushed off the wall a little, voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper.
"I know it's not much to go on. It's just a feeling—hard to put into words. But I've learned to trust it. We can't afford to ignore it completely. Please. Just… be careful around her."
Muel exhaled through his nose, the lantern light casting long shadows across his face as he rubbed the back of his neck.
"Alright. We'll keep an eye on her. Gaara, you take the first watch over the wagon tonight. Lirael, on a walk around if you feel the need. Better than being restless."
Lirael gave a small, tight nod, eyes still narrowed.
"Watch her closely."
Unseen, under the table in the room, a thin black tendril lay coiled in the shadows—motionless, silent, listening. Ora watched through it, absorbing every word.
He felt a flicker of surprise ripple through his awareness.
*She noticed me… easily. Elf sensitivity to monsters or evil-aligned beings. Is far stronger than I expected.*
The realization settled, calm and measured.
*If an elf can sense me this clearly, other races might too. Situations like this could happen again. I need to be more careful. Not just with people—equipment, artifacts, wards, anything that could detect or disrupt me. I can't afford to be caught off guard again. Caution in every step would be best.*
The tendril withdrew further into darkness, vanishing completely.