The geyser’s aftermath had turned the glade into a battlefield of char and splintered wood, and in the middle of it all lay the basilisk. Its once-massive form, so fluid and menacing in motion, was now a shuddering heap of muscle and bone. Steam curled off its ruined back, and the glow had dimmed from one of its eyes. It was still breathing—just barely—but each breath came ragged and uneven, like a bellows filled with gravel.

  Jack stood on the edge of the ruin he’d made, chest rising and falling as he sucked in air. His whole body ached. The impact from the basilisk’s swipe had left his shoulder throbbing with heat and sharp pulses of pain, but he ignored it. He didn’t even try to heal it. Not yet. His attention was fixed on the creature sprawled before him.

  It wasn’t dead. Not yet. It might still have most of its vitality locked away in its massive frame, but that meant little now. The geyser strike hadn’t killed the beast, but it had done something just as important—it had crippled it. Jack watched as the basilisk tried again to lift itself, its hind legs scraping weakly against the churned-up soil. One of them gave way completely, twitching and then falling limp.

  It was done fighting.

  Jack’s fingers tightened around the shaft of his spear. The weapon still pulsed faintly with residual heat, the crystal in its tip dull now after channeling the fire spell. He lifted it slowly, leveling it in both hands like a javelin.

  He stepped forward through the ruined glade, his boots crunching on charred twigs and shattered bark. The basilisk made a low, guttural sound—somewhere between a hiss and a growl—but there was no fight left in it. Its one working eye locked on him, unblinking. Acid dribbled from its jaws, fizzling quietly in the undergrowth. It was dying. But slowly.

  Jack came to a stop just a few strides from the beast’s flank. For a moment, he looked at it—not in anger, not in fear—but with a strange sense of understanding. It was a monster, yes. But it had fought with every ounce of power it had, right to the edge of death. It deserved a clean end. Jack drew back his arm, channeling what strength he had left into the throw. He let the spear fly.

  Aetherspire spun once, twice, before it struck home—right beneath the creature’s jaw, sinking deep into the soft flesh there. The basilisk jerked once, a final reflexive twitch, and then collapsed with a wheezing exhale. Blood—thick and dark—began to seep from the wound, soaking into the blackened earth beneath it.

  Jack didn’t move. He watched, carefully, as the minutes stretched on. He had wondered if it possessed any sort of hidden healing ability like the Sanguine Stag had. Apparently though, not all blood beasts were created equal. The creature wasn’t getting up. It wasn’t regenerating. Its body trembled from time to time, but the bleeding didn’t stop. Slowly, very slowly, it was slipping away.

  And that was enough.

  He sank down to one knee, his breath still shallow but slowing now. His shoulder burned, and his muscles screamed with fatigue, but his mind was clear. Focused.

  “A large health pool means nothing,” he muttered to himself, voice barely above a whisper. “Not if you can be brought down all the same. Not if you’re left helpless to bleed out.”

  In the past, he’d wondered if he was making a mistake by focusing on his offensive power over increasing his health. After all, more health should equate to greater survivability right? But here, now, looking at the mighty form of the basilisk—still dangerous in theory, but paralyzed and fading—he saw the flaw in that thinking. Health without enough power to kill your opponent,was a slow death waiting to happen. A long health bar didn’t matter if your limbs couldn’t move. If your mind couldn’t command your body. If your enemy had already taken the fight out of you.

  He sat back in the ash-stained undergrowth, watching the blood pool wider and wider beneath the basilisk’s still form. He would retrieve his spear soon. But not yet.

  For now, he would wait. Not for death—he knew that was coming—but for certainty. For stillness. For the quiet kind of victory that didn’t come with cheers or glory.

  Only breath. Only blood. And the knowledge that, this time, he’d been enough.

  The quiet after battle settled like mist—thin and still, as if the forest held its breath. Jack stood over the basilisk’s motionless body, his spear now resting against his shoulder, its tip slick with dark blood. The creature was not dead, not truly—it still drew breath, shallow and ragged—but the bleeding wounds across its body were doing their slow, cruel work. Jack had no need to strike again. He would not waste more strength on something already defeated.

  Instead, he turned his focus inward.

  He exhaled, hand brushing the front of his chestplate. The battle hadn’t been long, but it had been brutal. His breathing was tight—not from broken ribs, but from the stinging cuts etched into the skin beneath his armor. He hadn’t seen it at first, but he felt it now—the shallow but persistent pain, like a hot brand pressed against his chest. The basilisk’s Wounding Gaze hadn’t needed to pierce flesh with claws or fangs; it had carved through endurance, etching pain directly into the soul. The injuries weren’t life-threatening, but they bled stubbornly and burned like they’d never heal.

  Jack unclasped the top of the chestplate carefully, just enough to see beneath. There they were—four thin, jagged cuts across his chest, each oozing slow rivulets of blood. They weren’t deep, but they glowed faintly with a reddish shimmer, as if they rejected the idea of closing naturally.

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  Then there was the armor itself.

  Though the Earthblood Chestplate had absorbed most of the basilisk’s fury, it hadn’t emerged unscathed. Patches along the lower half were blackened and pitted, the leather bubbled and warped from exposure to acid. Faint scarring marred the surface—lines where the toxic saliva had seared through blood and mud and struck home. The antler inlays across the chest were dulled, and the Soul Gem embedded at the heart of the piece pulsed dully beneath grime and battle-scorch.

  Jack placed his palm over the Soul Gem as he donned the chestplate again and closed his eyes.

  “Let’s see what you’re really made of.”

  The gem responded instantly. A single pulse—deep, slow, and resonant—throbbed against his hand. Then another. With each beat, the magic spread, warm and weighty like spring sunlight through rich soil. The healing force surged outward from the core, threading through the armor, through Jack’s flesh, down into the bones and blood.

  The cuts on his chest were the first to react. A pressure welled up beneath the wounds, like water rising under cracked earth, and then—release. The pain in his shoulder faded. The bleeding on his torso ceased. The flesh sealed itself slowly but surely, the faint red shimmer of the basilisk’s strikes fading like a dream. The skin was left raw, pink, and tender—but whole.

  And then came the armor.

  Beneath his hand, the Earthblood Chestplate began to hum. The acid-scarred leather smoothed, the warped sections flexing and reforming as if the hide remembered what it had once been. Scar tissue of burnt leather and blistered antler receded, the plates regaining their luster, their surface now unmarred and strong once more.

  The Soul Gem’s light flared bright for a moment—like a final exhale—then dimmed, returning to its slow, steady rhythm. The magic faded, its work done.

  Jack breathed in deeply and fastened the chestplate again. No pain. No weakness. Only strength.

  He rolled his shoulders, testing the fit. The armor clung with the same perfect weight as before, perhaps even more so now—bonded anew, reforged in the magic that flowed from the earth’s own blood.

  He glanced at the basilisk again, unmoving but not yet gone.

  “A big health pool means nothing if you’re helpless,” he muttered to himself. “All that Constitution… and not a thing it could do about bleeding out .”

  He had disabled it. Outmaneuvered it. The armor hadn’t saved him in the moment—that had been instinct, tactics, and risk. But the armor had ensured he walked away from it, whole and ready for whatever came next.

  He ran a thumb across the now-pristine antler plate above his heart and let the silence stretch a little longer. Then, without a word, he retrieved his spear and turned back toward the clearing.

  The woods were still. Only the quiet hiss of wind through broken leaves marked the passage of time, carrying with it the smell of blood and acid. The basilisk’s body, though massive and coiled like a dying storm, had gone still. Its breath no longer stirred the soil. Its wide, lidless eyes stared blankly ahead, the fury and madness behind them extinguished. Jack’s spear remained planted in its hide like a banner of victory.

  He stood near the corpse, wiping sweat from his brow, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath the newly-restored armor. No pain now. No burning. Only the faint soreness of healed wounds, as though the battle had happened to someone else. The Earthblood Chestplate had done its work well.

  A low huff broke the silence behind him.

  Goldeyes stepped into the clearing, padding over the churned earth with careful, deliberate steps. His white fur was matted with blood—not his own, but some from earlier in the fight, spattered by proximity. The wolf’s gaze locked on the basilisk’s corpse. He sniffed once, then again, deeper. His muscles rippled with tension—a tension Jack could sense could sense came not from fear, but hunger.

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “You waited long enough.”

  Goldeyes flicked an ear and moved closer, nose now pressed to the creature’s side. He gave a short grunt and looked up at Jack expectantly. It wasn’t the first time the wolf had craved a kill.

  Jack didn’t speak immediately. He studied the basilisk, its scales glinting like rusted metal in the fading light. Acid still bubbled faintly from its jaws. Blood oozed thickly from the wounds along its belly where the spear had struck deep and true.

  “Think it’s safe?” Jack asked, mostly to himself. He didn’t want his Companion to injure himself.

  Goldeyes gave no answer. He simply sat, posture poised and patient, but his eyes remained fixed on the corpse. Focused. Intense.

  Jack sighed and nodded once. He needed no telepathy for this. “Alright. Go on. Eat.”

  The wolf surged forward with the suddenness of a loosed arrow. His teeth sank into the basilisk’s flesh, just behind the base of its skull, tearing free a massive chunk with a wet rip. He didn’t hesitate. He chewed quickly and swallowed, then went in for another bite, and another. He avoided the jaw, mouth and throat area, seemingly able to sense which parts of the acidic monster could be harmful.

  Jack took a few steps back and sat on a nearby fallen log, resting his spear across his knees. He watched as Goldeyes feasted.

  The white wolf wasn’t just eating. He was consuming, devouring with primal purpose. His jaws worked through sinew and scale, tearing through muscle like parchment. And yet there was a strange grace to it—no frenzy, no waste. Just deliberate, focused hunger.

  Chunks of red, glistening muscle vanished down his gullet, his stomach swelling slightly with each massive bite. The basilisk’s blood slicked his muzzle, but Goldeyes didn’t falter. He tore through the thick hide with effort, panting between mouthfuls, driven by instinct older than language.

  Jack rested his chin on one hand, watching with a detached curiosity. His thoughts drifted as he observed. The wolf had grown stronger since their first meeting—quieter, more deliberate. He no longer lunged at threats with reckless abandon. He had started choosing when to act, when to wait.

  There was something else, too. The way Goldeyes looked at the basilisk before eating. The understanding that this was simply prey.

  Jack remembered the Ramkin then. He remembered the way Goldeyes had felt as they killed his pack. How their scent had become burned into his mind. To him the Ramkin were not prey, they were an enemy that must be destroyed. Jack sympathized, but he also had a Quest from the Dungeon Avatar. Maybe now was a good time to talk it over with his Companion.

  When the wolf finally pulled away from the basilisk’s remains, his belly round and his muzzle drenched red, Jack stood and approached. Goldeyes licked his chops and sat down beside the half-eaten corpse, tongue dragging along his bloodied paw.

  “You alright?” Jack asked.

  The wolf gave a single, slow nod of his head—something between a canine motion and a very human gesture. His eyes met Jack’s, and in them there was no wildness, only awareness.

  Jack knelt beside him, placing a hand on his thick fur. “We need to talk.”

  Goldeyes stilled.

  “About the Ramkin.”