The purchase flickered into reality with a soundless ding.
[Blueprint Purchased: Runewriter Mk. I]Materials Required: Enchanted Myrrhroot Resin, Silverweave Alloy Tip, Stabilized Ink Crystal (Grade I), Common Ashbark Pulp]
The interface blinked once more, then vanished into the corner of his vision, transparent and waiting.
Leonel leaned back in the chair, hand still loosely wrapped around the pouch of gold his father had given him.
Fifty coins gone in an instant. Not a single thing to show for it yet.
Outside, wind stirred the long grass that crept too close to the estate's eastern wing. The place looked like it had been forgotten by time and remembered only by bad weather. The stables had collapsed in on themselves last spring. The eastern shed housed more rot than tools. Even the fences had slumped sideways like they'd given up pretending to guard anything.
And now here he was—trying to craft a writing tool in a world that didn't even have plumbing.
He opened the old satchel he'd borrowed from the pantry and tucked in two flasks, a cloth-bound field knife, a small glass vial, and a notebook that was more thread than paper.
Then came the list.
The Myrrhroot was the main concern. The system's notes were clear: without its resin to stabilize the ink's magical charge, any inscriptions would either smudge or combust. Local inks were too acidic, too thick, or too volatile.
He needed fresh sap. From a living root. Harvested delicately.
Of course.
Which meant a walk into the woods alone.
The Elaris forest didn't welcome visitors.
That was the first thing Leonel realized when he stepped beyond the outer fence and felt the temperature drop. The trees here were tall, gnarled, and almost prehistoric in posture—arching toward one another like they whispered in secret. Moss crept up their trunks in thick, dark sheets. Every branch seemed to twitch slightly in the breeze, and even the light felt cautious when it filtered through the canopy.
Leonel kept his pace steady. One wrong step and he'd twist an ankle—or worse.
His boots squelched through damp soil, the kind that soaked through the soles and stayed cold no matter how far you walked. Every so often, he stopped to kneel beside a patch of roots or overturned leaves, checking for the thick gray-green tendrils of Myrrhroot.
Nothing.
Just moss. Dead bark. A spider the size of his hand, which he respectfully left alone.
His breath curled in front of him despite the hour. Birds chirped once or twice, then went silent. Somewhere in the distance, a crow screamed like a rusty hinge.
It wasn't fear that pushed his pulse higher—it was awareness. The sense that something was watching. Listening.
He adjusted the satchel and moved deeper.
According to the blueprint's notes, Myrrhroot liked damp shadows and grew near running water. If he could find a stream, he'd find the resin.
After another fifteen minutes of weaving between trees and hopping low-lying roots, he heard it—faint, like a whisper under leaves. Flowing water.
He pushed toward the sound, brushing past bramble and bending ferns out of his path. The stream revealed itself slowly: a narrow ribbon of clear water running over black stones, so quiet it barely made sound at all.
And there—just past a fallen log—he saw it.
Thick tendrils, coiled like vines, snaking across the mud. Grey-green, veined with silver. Glossy leaves shimmered with dew, and at the root cluster, a soft amber bulb pulsed faintly in rhythm with the flow of water nearby.
Leonel knelt beside it, brushing his fingers just above the soil.
Myrrhroot.
Fresh. Alive. Exactly what he needed.
He exhaled slowly and unsheathed the field knife. The trick would be carving out the resin bulb without damaging the veins or breaking the sap lines. It required delicacy—precision.
Just like back home, back in the lab, carving circuit pathways on field tech by hand before the 3D printer was up.
He pressed the blade in gently, just beneath the resin gland. The bulb resisted slightly, but his angle was good. A light twist, a careful pull—
A snap echoed through the trees.
Not from him.
He froze, knife still lodged in the root.
Another crack—closer now. Something moving through underbrush. Too heavy for a rabbit. Too rhythmic for wind.
Leaves rustled to his right. A low growl answered them.
Leonel stood fast, scanning the trees.
Movement. Shadows shifted behind a fallen trunk—then split.
Two beasts padded into view, fur bristling. Grey bodies, lean and feral, with glowing yellow eyes and gnarled fangs slick with saliva.
Wild canines. Half-starved. Bone-jointed. Predators.
One growled, low and guttural, ears pinned back. The other began to circle.
Leonel took a step back, breath caught in his throat. He glanced toward the Myrrhroot, still half-carved and bleeding sap.
Too far to grab.
Too late to run.
A third sound sliced through the trees—sharper, pained.
Another growl—but this one smaller. Choked.
One of the wild canines turned, lips curling.
A shape limped into view from the left brush. Smaller than the others, hunched and dragging a paw. Blood dripped from its ribs in steady lines. Jet-black fur streaked with silver. A pup.
Not a wild dog. Shadowfur.
Leonel recognized it instantly—one of the rare nocturnal beasts used by forest scouts. Fast, clever, impossible to tame once feral. But this one wasn't feral.
It was wounded. Bleeding. Cornered.
And the two larger canines now had it surrounded.
Leonel didn't move.
The pup's body trembled. It growled, weakly, snapping toward the closest predator. A flash of fangs. It was brave—but it wouldn't last a minute.
His pulse hammered in his ears.
He should leave. He should take the opportunity, grab the root, and slip away while they were distracted.
But something anchored him in place.
Maybe it was the way the pup refused to whimper. Maybe it was the way it bared its fangs even when its legs shook. Or maybe it was something older—buried deep. That same gut-pull that made him jump into a frozen lake as a teen to save a drowning kid.
He reached slowly into his satchel.
Fingers wrapped around the flask.
The first predator lunged.
Leonel hurled the flask as hard as he could.
It shattered against the trunk with a sharp pop, water and glass spraying. The dogs snarled in surprise, one skidding sideways. The pup scrambled back, barely dodging a snap to the throat.
Leonel yelled—loud, wild, teeth bared.
"HEY!"
He grabbed a stick and swung it overhead. Not a weapon. A warning.
The two predators paused—snarling, crouched low. Eyes darted between him and the pup.
Then, one took a slow step forward.
"Come on," Leonel whispered, backing away, arms wide. "I've got nothing left to lose."
It worked.
Barely.
The dogs gave up, turning toward the treeline. The bigger one growled again before slinking into the woods, its mate following close behind.
Silence crept back in.
Leonel stood there, breath ragged, arms trembling.
The shadowfur pup watched him, body tense, ears flicking. Blood soaked the fur along its ribs.
He knelt slowly.
"You gonna bite me?"
No answer, of course.
The pup limped toward him—then stopped, panting, eyes narrowed. Leonel didn't move.
Then it stepped closer.
Closer still.
And collapsed at his feet.
Leonel stared down at the creature, its flank rising and falling in slow, labored rhythm. Blood soaked the fur along its ribs, matted down with dirt and sap. Every breath it took sounded like it might be the last.
He knelt beside it, no plan, no hesitation.
His hands moved without permission—ripping the hem of his shirt, folding it twice, pressing it to the wound. The pup didn't resist. No growl. No flinch. Just that eerie, silent endurance.
"Damn thing," he muttered, tying the makeshift bandage tight. "Why'd you follow me?"
The pup blinked, barely conscious, but it didn't crawl away.
Wind stirred through the trees again, softer this time. The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was waiting.
Leonel exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. He could leave it. He should. This world was cruel enough without dragging more weight behind him. Especially wounded, blood-soaked weight.
But even as he thought it, he was already slipping the pup into his satchel, careful to fold the flap low enough so it could breathe.
There was no logic behind it.
No blueprint for this choice.
Only instinct.
Only something deep and quiet that whispered—not everything worth saving needs to be useful.
He stood, adjusting the strap across his shoulder.
"Come on, then," he muttered. "Let's see if either of us can make it back alive."
And the forest, this time, let him go without a fight.