Rebecca returned to the part of the clearing where the bodies of the two men lay, the ground a chaotic tapestry of destruction under the midday sun. The once-smooth road was scarred with deep gouges from axes and boots, purple orc blood congealing in sticky pools that reflected the dappled light like dark mirrors. The air was thick with the acrid stench of spilled guts and sweat, mingled with the fresh, loamy smell of turned earth and splintered wood. Scattered limbs and weapons lay like forgotten relics, the forest edging in closer as if reclaiming the space, vines already creeping toward the fallen forms.
Gaara was slumped against a splintered tree trunk, his massive armor dented like crushed tin, blood crusting the edges of his gauntlets. His broken hands hung limp, fingers twisted and swollen, oozing red from shattered knuckles that looked like they had been hammered against unyielding stone. His breaths came in labored wheezes, chest heaving under the weight of his plate, eyes glazed but still flickering with a stubborn spark of life, clinging to existence like a flame in the wind.
Muel lay a few paces away, face-down in the dirt, his body limp and drained of all color, skin pale as parchment under a sheen of sweat. No deep wounds marred him—no gaping gashes or broken limbs—just the utter exhaustion of a man who had burned every ounce of energy in a desperate stand. His longsword lay discarded nearby, blade notched and slick with purple gore, his chest rising and falling in faint, uneven rhythms, as if even sleep was a battle he fought reluctantly.
Rebecca stood over them for a moment, the weight of Lirael's unconscious body in her arms a constant, grounding presence—the elf's shallow breaths warm against her neck, her face streaked with dirt and dried tears. The scythe recovered felt present in her other hand, its blade still humming with the echo of kills, purple blood drying in sticky rivulets along the edge.
Rebecca asked Ora quietly in her mind, "What should we do now?"
Ora didn't reply immediately. Instead, he extended his awareness through her, using
[Severing Edge]
A committed blade technique that concentrates the wielder's remaining strength and precision into a single decisive cut, capable of cleaving through even resilient targets.
––---
A clean, devastating skill that allowed a single, empowered cut to ignore defenses. He had been wondering how they managed to sever one of the orc commander's hands so cleanly—now he had his answer. It was quite an impressive skill, one that could turn the tide in a desperate fight.
He then detached a small piece of himself—a thin, purplish-red tendril that dropped silently to the ground and began slithering toward the bodies like a serpent through grass, leaving a faint, glistening trail in the blood-soaked dirt.
He replied, his voice fragmented but firm in her mind.
*They… have no... further uses. Serve better… assimilated.*
After listening to Ora, Rebecca couldn't help but ask herself what would happen to her if she was no longer useful. If that day ever came, she wondered if she would even see it coming. The question gnawed at her, a cold whisper in the back of her mind, imagining her own body reduced to dust and essence, her memories plucked like fruit from a tree. She pushed the thought away, focusing on the warmth of Lirael against her chest.
She stated aloud, her voice cutting through the heavy silence of the clearing, "We have to hurry. If we don't, the merchants might leave us."
Ora's response came without hesitation, a cool certainty in her thoughts.
*Not a problem. They won't.*
He then slowly assimilated them.
The tendril reached Muel first. It coiled around his ankle with a soft, wet slither, then split into dozens of finer filaments that burrowed beneath his skin like burrowing worms, piercing flesh with barely a ripple. Muel's body twitched once, a faint gasp escaping his lips as the tendril spread inward—dissolving muscle, bone, and organs from the inside with eerie efficiency, a low, humming vibration traveling through the air as biomass broke down. Flesh softened and collapsed inward, skin wrinkling and cracking like old parchment in the sun, every drop of blood, every neuron firing its last signal, drawn into the tendril. In moments, Muel was reduced to a dry, hollow shell that crumbled into fine gray dust when the wind touched it, scattering like ash from a forgotten fire.
The tendril, now thicker and pulsing with absorbed biomass, moved to Gaara next. It wrapped around his broken hands first, filaments delving into the wounds with a slick sound, then spread across his chest and neck like veins on a leaf. Gaara's eyes fluttered open for a brief moment—wide with silent horror—before the process accelerated. His massive frame convulsed subtly as muscle and bone dissolved, the heavy armor clanking hollowly as the body inside shrank, echoing like empty tin in the quiet clearing. The tendril throbbed rhythmically, drawing in the warrior's essence until nothing remained but a pile of dented armor and dust that danced on the breeze, the metallic clang fading into silence.
[Skills Acquired]
Provoking Shout
Brace
Basic Swordsmanship
Severing Edge
––---
Ora said simply, *Done.*
Rebecca prepared herself to leave, slinging the sickle onto her back and adjusting Lirael in her arms, the elf's limp form a warm, steady weight against her chest, until Ora told her to wait, his voice a faint echo in her mind.
*Cut off… the right ears... Of orcs. Take the... whole head... Of commander.*
Having read the memories of the two adventurers during assimilation, he knew this would fetch a large sum at any adventurers' guild—proof of kills for bounties, the commander's head a valuable trophy that could mean gold enough for months of supplies.
Rebecca proceeded to take the cloth she had used to wrap her weapons, spreading it out on the ground like a makeshift sack, the fabric still stained with faint purple smears from earlier. She moved methodically from corpse to corpse, the sun warming her back as she knelt, her sickle flashing in quick, precise cuts that echoed softly in the clearing. The right ears came off with wet, tearing sounds, purple blood dripping onto the cloth in thick drops, the orcs' pig-like features frozen in grotesque death masks, tusks glistening like wet bone. When she reached the commander, she gripped its coarse hair, the skin still warm under her fingers, and swung the scythe in a powerful arc—the neck resisting at first, thick with muscle, but yielding with a crunch of bone and sinew. The head came free with a heavy thud, rolling once in the dirt, eyes staring blankly upward. She bundled everything together, the sack now bulging and heavy with the macabre harvest, tying it tight with a knot that bit into her palms. She hurled it over her shoulder, where it thumped against her back like a grim trophy.
With Lirael still held securely in her arms, Rebecca sprinted down the road, legs pumping with renewed strength, cloak billowing like dark wings behind her, the forest blurring into a green haze on either side.
But among the corpses left behind, something moved. Ora had left a single tendril behind—a small, independent piece that had detached during the assimilation, slithering unseen across the blood-soaked ground. It expanded as it reached the first orc body, filaments spreading over the skin like a web of veins, dissolving flesh, muscle, and bone in a silent, pulsing wave that made the air hum faintly. One by one the corpses withered—round stomachs deflating with wet sighs, green skin cracking and crumbling to dust like old leaves, weapons clattering to the empty ground with hollow clangs. The tendril grew fatter, darker, its surface rippling as it absorbed the horde's essence, the clearing gradually emptying until only dark stains and scattered armor remained, the wind whispering through the now-silent space.
[Skills Acquired]
Warband Dominance
Thickened Hide
War Frenzy
Savage Rush
[Traits]
Greater Libido
Orcish Tongue
––---
Of all the gains of this encounter, this trait was the most intriguing.
**Orcish Tongue (Passive)**
Through devouring and assimilating the memories of orcs, the wielder gains understanding of the Orcish language, allowing them to comprehend and speak it.
It seems devouring the memories while assimilating led to the acquisition of this trait. But if so, I should possess Goblin tongue. It seems there is a requirement.
After assimilating everything, the tendril, having completed its task, began to shrivel and proceeded to turn to dust, scattering on the wind like ash.
Rebecca was sprinting on the road, the path winding through dense trees, sunlight dappled on the dirt ahead. She then took a look at the notification of her status.
[Level up 19 >> 27]
She couldn't help but smile, acknowledging her growth—the surge of power coursing through her veins, muscles feeling stronger, senses sharper, the world around her clearer than ever before. It was a reminder of how far she had come, and how much further she could go.