Undead Wolf – Lvl 2
"Hmmm. Interesting."
The supposedly "undead" wolf keeps trying to gnaw through six layers of goblin leather, laced with bone shards and reinforced with a dozen plantaris tendons. The neck guard is overkill, really—my constitution is my highest stat. I'd be surprised if this thing's teeth could even dent my skin at this point.
"Who's a good doggo?" I coo, patting it on the head. "Not you. Definitely not you."
It doesn't react to my voice, just keeps chomping down with mindless persistence. Doesn't even look different from before—through the lens of my fleshcrafting at least—still as dead as it was five minutes ago. No heartbeat, no breath. So how the hell are its jaws moving? Muscle doesn't just contract on its own. Something is puppeting the corpse.
I pry its mouth open and push it away and—Ah. There it is.
Two green orbs burn in its skull, replacing the lifeless eyes.
I mean... That's cool and all, but how the fuck does it work? Even a blind man would know this is necromancy of some sort, but I want details. Nitty thrice-damned gritty details.
Since Fleshcrafting keeps insisting that everything is perfectly normal—feeding me false negatives like a broken diagnostic tool—I suppose a little invasive exploration is in order.
The tip of my whip hand peels back, exposing a sharp bone spike—hardened by my 18 points in constitution.
I drive it straight into the wolf's back, right where I shoved the soul pebble in earlier. Before the wolf can react, I try to pull—grabbing hold of whatever thread is tying the soul to the flesh and yanking it back toward the Well.
For a moment, something rattles. It's like pulling on a—
Nothing.
The wolf stays upright. And then it resumes snapping at my neck like a possessed chew toy. Wait, that's not right. I'm the chew toy. I mean...
"Alright. Research plan B."
My will snaps across my flesh mech, and my leg whips forward. The wolf soars through the air, flipping head over tail before crashing into the dirt. Its ribcage crumples inward on impact.
It doesn't react.
Why would it? It doesn't breathe. It doesn't bleed. It doesn't even flinch. The pain center of its brain has been liquefied by necrosis for hours.
I pace around the undead doggo, whip hand idly poking holes in its flesh. The soul is still inside, but I can't grab it. Would it be able to hide as easily inside bones as it does in a whole corpse?
It twitches, legs jerking in place as something inside struggles to move. My fleshcrafted reinforcements keep the tendons locked, preventing them from bending the way they should. But it doesn't stop trying.
Its mouth snaps uselessly, over and over, biting at nothing.
"Still no sounds, huh? Silent little bastard."
Fine. If it won't talk, it'll splat.
My whip hand lashes out, cutting through its middle. The torso detaches in a spray of rotten gore. Limbs twitch. Half a body lands in a heap. Finally, soul mist seeps from the wound, curling into the air like evaporating breath.
The wolf slows.
Stops biting.
And dies. Again.
I feel the exact moment the soul stops exerting power over the corpse. There's no kill notification.
And instantly, a wave of exhaustion hits me—like I just sprinted up a dozen flights of stairs with weights strapped to my legs. My muscles don't ache, but there's a dull, draining pull in my core, as if something inside me just burned through a chunk of fuel I didn't know I was using.
Could this be...the so-called mana? What a shitty sensation...I don't even know if I'm right.
Where's my MP bar, huh? System?
Predictably, it doesn't respond.
I wasn't doing anything when the wolf "died", so I don't really know what happened...I'll find out though.
I'll find it all out...
I kneel beside the corpse, watching the mist unravel from its body, thin tendrils curling into the air. And yet... as I reach out with my will, the wisps respond, slowly twisting together, threading into a shape—like pulling at the loose end of a ball of yarn, weaving it back into something whole.
I have so many things to test.
Theories—some eloquent, some insane—start stacking in my mind. Questions I need to answer. But then—
Something shifts.
A ping—a pulse of sensation.
Somewhere behind me.
I whip around.
Flesh Perception flashes.
There—between the greenery, about a hundred feet away—three figures, partially obscured. Armed with spears.
I recognize them.
From the bar.
The moment I turn, they bolt.
And honestly? I can't blame them.
I must look like something straight out of Outlast.
"Wait!" I call out. "I swear this isn't what it looks like!"
They run faster.
"…Alright. Fair enough."