It was cold, a deep, chilling cold that felt like dreaded ice, but not quite a feeling that wanted to consume his soul; rather, one that slithered into his marrow, gnawing at a growing feeling of greed in his stomach.
'Do the dead hunger?' a man asked himself internally, but no matter how he tried to grasp the thread of reason, he could not find an answer.
And when he dared think deeper, truly think—a sensation struck him with violent suddenness.
His breath hitched.
'Do the dead breathe?' Again, he questioned, but the answer eluded him, as that dreadful feeling surged once more, greater now, more insistent.
What is this feeling?
Well, it was pain, not the pain of flesh, but a ruinous, disorienting agony that splintered the mind and rang like shattered bells in the hollows of the skull, making him grunt—no, groan—a sound not wholly human.
'Do the dead feel pain?' the question returned in his mind, bitter, desperate, he was certain they ought not to, for it was absurd.
Utterly—
But then amid his protest, he felt something, so vivid that his heavy lids parted and peered into the sky, or at least the remnants of the sky above.
'The sky is fractured,' a man thought as he saw no stars, no moon, no light.
What he did see was a sky draped in shrouds upon shrouds of pitch black clouds, drizzling not with rain but a liquid more corrupted, thin, and dirty.
He tried to think again, but it was a mistake.
The pain came like the toll of an iron bell within his skull, rattling his spine and stabbing into every nerve like white-hot needles.
The very act of thought drew blood from the sanctum of the mind, so he abandoned thinking, becoming still once more.
What does a man do when he cannot feel, cannot think cannot move?
He becomes less of a man and more of an object, one which remained unmoving, a husk, a corpse that refused to rot.
And so days passed, leaving the object mired in its faint agony, again, and again and again.
It was unknown how much time had passed but it was clear that there was no day in this world, only rain and no rain.
Until, one day, the moon rose, but it was not the moon he knew.
It was not a silver beacon, no—it was an obsidian green, an eerie sphere that bled its shade into the world below.
The clouds above, even in the presence of this moon, did not scatter.
They remained, like the lid to a coffin sky. But the light forced its way through the seams.
And as that cursed moonlight touched him, something ancient stirred, within him, within his body.
It was a wonderful feeling that many had described to be a resonance, first in the eyes, then in his bones, followed by a forceful jolt through his entire body.
It was warm, a powerful sensation that drove away the numbing cold, a feeling that sang of strength.
But with power came life, with life came feeling, and with feeling came torment.
His nerves ignited as though lightning danced through his veins.
His muscles tightened and spasmed, pulling against sinew that protested with raw screams of anguish.
His heart raced, pounding not from fear, but from battle, a war within his very tissue, a rebellion of cells forced to transform.
It was so sudden that he spasmed and contorted. But as he raised his head, he saw it: the cause.
Even he was shocked, as he gaped, the rain water in his mouth producing a wet strangling sound as he beheld the truth:
He was impaled, by something abyssal.
It was a long rib, twisted white bone stained with ancient rot and the blackness of his blood.
It pierced straight through his chest, entering from the back and bursting through his sternum like a grotesque flower.
It was the rib of a giant beast, half-buried in the mire behind him, its skeleton splayed across the swamp like the ruins of a fallen god.
Its skull, yawning open with fangs the size of small trees, lay motionless in the distance, also half-sunken in the mire.
The rib was as thick as a man's thigh, and by all logic, he should not be alive. Unbeknownst to him, he had been impaled the whole time.
"How did I even get into this position?" He was forced to ask himself while gathering resolve.
And then, he moved.
He grasped the white bone with his tremulous hands and pulled himself up, with much difficulty.
"Ahhhrgg!"
He moved despite the pain, each twitch of his muscles tearing his insides.
He screamed, his voice ragged and hoarse, as he lifted himself and continued to lift, inch by inch breath by breath.
His flesh tore, but he went on, his nerves flared, but he went on, his blood poured in black streams onto the wet, cursed earth, BUT HE DID NOT STOP!
The smell was putrid sweet, a blend of rotting algae, rusted blood, and something else: the burnt stench of mutation, of shifting organs, of bone being rewritten beneath skin.
And then, with a final gasp of agony, he did it; completely removing himself from the rib and falling into the water below.
"Splash!"
He crashed into the muddy water and noted that it was cold, welcoming him like a grave.
Thankfully, it reached only to his knees, allowing him to rise to his feet.
He looked down on himself and noticed that he was bare, naked beneath the mourning sky.
But his attention was then drawn to the rippling blackwater beneath, making known to him an amazing fact.
His eyes, they glowed green.
Yes green, like embers stolen from the moon above, a Wizard's eyes, the mark of the awakened.
He had become a Green-Eyed Wizard.
Simultaneously, his wounds healed fast, quickly reducing from a cavity the size of a man's thigh to nothing.
Mr. Valen noted and felt the way his flesh shrank, knitted, and sealed in ways that defied biology.
His blood ceased to flow—his breathing steadied, and for the first time in a while, he smiled—his smile quietly growing into a crackle then from a crackle to—
"Hahahahahaha!" A lively, low, pained, victorious laughter, that was accompanied by one truth:
Through not just his own ability but sheer luck, his experiment had succeeded.
He was meant to die an hour later, that had been the price.
He remembered what he did as the monster genome overtook his human DNA, the people he killed, the battles he had fought with both Luna and Vlad, and the monster that saved him and bought him time to escape.
But it was all in the past now as this cursed, soaked realm had welcomed him as its own, granted him the powers of a Wizard which, in turn, strengthened his human DNA.
Still chuckling, he winced, then his laughter turned into a grimace as a realization hit him.
He had thought too deeply again; it would appear that he had injured his brain by using his ability, and even with his healing factor, it would take time to heal.
Even now, the pain waited, like a dagger in the shadows, marking him, for the moment, as nothing more than an ordinary man. For that was all he was without his intellect.
"Which way should I go?" Mr. Valen muttered before picking a random direction and walking towards it.
His footsteps were as firm as they were hindered, the mudwater beneath him slowing his movements to a crawl.
And yet despite this, he continued and kept on moving.
Each thrust of his leg, created a "Shu" "shi" sound as he tore through the water.
But after walking for a while, he discovered that he could see something in the distance, so he hurried his steps, but as he got closer, he noticed that it was the carcass he had escaped from, evident by his blood on that single rib.
"Did I go in a circle?" He asked himself, but shook his head soon after and picked another direction.
The results were the same.
And yet he did not yield, his naked form growing accustomed to the cold of the swamp.
He walked, and walked, the green moon casting his shadow onto the water, a thin—long shadow with a neck longer than a human torso peering down.
It was then that Mr. Valen suddenly felt a chill overcoming him as he registered that shadow, for it was not his.
Without stopping, he looked closely at the water and found a pair of bulging eyes with horizontal slits locked on him.
Said eyes were situated on a smiling, skeletal head, perched atop a long spine.
"Shit," Mr. Valen cursed and took to his heels, kicking violently against the water as he moved.
"Shit, shit, shit," Mr. Valen cursed as he looked back at the abominations behind him, which stood still as though it was unconcerned by his escape.
Mr. Valen did not mind this, so he turned back and continued running.
But when he glanced back again, he discovered that the thing was only a foot away from him, its claws raised, poised, a smile on its small skeletal head.
"It's playing with me," Mr. Valen thought, noting, even without calculation, that the thing was extremely fast.
But for some reason, it refused to move when Mr. Valen stared at it and just stayed still.
Up close, it was even more horrifying, a small head, and a wiggling spine. For movement were four of the ribs from its open rib cage which extended beyond it and into the water.
From its sides, two human-like skeletal arms protruded outward, but replacing the finger bones were sharp bone blades.
Mr. Valen blinked, and "whoosh" he felt a warm feeling on his neck, causing him to step back, the small wound healing quickly.
'What is this thing?' Was the only question on Mr. Valen's mind at the moment, one without an answer that could satiate him.