Draven tilted his head slightly.
"Or you don't want to?"
The ghoul swallowed.
Hesitation flickered across his face for the first time.
But pride—and fear—forced compliance.
He snarled and released his mana.
It surged outward in a dark wave, unstable and feral, pressing toward Draven like heat from an open furnace.
Draven stepped forward instead of back.
The mana brushed against him—
And he moved inward.
Inside his body, the flow of his own mana shifted.
Folded.
Compressed.
Accelerated.
He tried to draw it in.
To seize it.
To absorb it.
The foreign mana resisted.
It slid around him like oil over stone.
He pushed harder.
Forced his internal flow to spiral, attempting to trap and consume the ghoul's energy—
But it would not take.
It would not integrate.
The external mana scattered instead, destabilizing in his grasp.
Draven stopped.
The folding of his own mana slowed.
He stood there, silent.
"It didn't work," he muttered.
The ghoul blinked, confused.
"It seems it isn't as I thought."
His gaze lowered slightly, thoughtful even now.
"If I can absorb others' mana and make it mine… I could grow quickly."
A faint narrowing of his eyes.
"But first… I need more control."
The ghoul's mana pressure faded as uncertainty crept in.
"I still need to create a pool," Draven continued quietly. "A true reservoir."
His red eyes lifted slowly.
They locked onto the ghoul.
The creature, sensing opportunity in Draven's brief stillness, roared and lunged.
One arm had regrown enough to function.
Mana coated his hand like a burning gauntlet as he charged.
"You think I'm your experiment?!"
He swung with everything he had—
Draven moved.
Not backward.
Forward.
His hand rose.
Mana condensed around it—thin and precise, shaped by control rather than brute force.
The ghoul's strike never landed.
Draven's palm slammed into the ghoul's face first.
There was no dramatic pause.
No struggle.
Just impact.
The skull collapsed inward under the force.
Bone shattered.
Flesh burst.
The head exploded into a violent spray of blood and fragments.
For a brief moment—
A crimson splash hung in the air.
Then—
The slime surged outward eagerly.
"Glurp."
The blood vanished before it could touch Draven's clothes.
The headless body remained upright for half a second.
Then crumpled.
Draven withdrew his hand slowly.
Calm.
Unmarked.
He glanced down at the corpse.
"…Inconclusive."
The slime rippled contentedly before retreating beneath his cloak.
The alley fell silent again.
Only the faint, weak breathing of the injured woman remained.
Draven looked at the headless corpse.
"…Next," he murmured, "I need to confirm something."
He crouched and grabbed the body by the collar, lifting it just enough to steady it upright.
Dark blood continued to spill from the ruined neck.
He leaned in.
His mouth opened slowly—
Then he bit down on the exposed flesh.
The sound was wet.
Brief.
He drank.
Not frenzied.
Not indulgent.
Measured.
Testing.
The alley remained silent except for the faint pull of liquid and the distant murmur of the town beyond.
After several seconds—
He stopped.
He released the corpse.
It collapsed heavily to the ground.
Draven remained crouched, motionless.
Processing.
The slime shifted slightly beneath his cloak but did not interfere.
A long moment passed.
Then—
"…Nothing."
He spat to the side, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
A faint disgust crossed his expression.
"From the taste of that filth…"
He stood slowly.
"The test is disgusting."
He glanced down at the body.
"If I hadn't already tasted human blood, I might assume this is simply how a ghoul's blood tastes."
He looked at the dark stain spreading across the cobblestones.
"But it isn't that."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"It comes from me."
A quiet exhale left him.
"All blood tastes like shit to me."
There was no humor in the statement.
Only cold observation.
The slime extended briefly, absorbing the remaining spilled blood with a soft—
"Glurp."
Draven straightened fully, expression composed once more.
"Noted."
His gaze shifted toward the injured woman.
The experiment had yielded information.
Unpleasant information.
But useful.
Draven did not move.
The alley remained still around him, yet his thoughts accelerated.
*Elira.*
The memory surfaced clearly.
Her voice.
Her fear.
Her final moments.
And the flood of memories that followed.
He had gained them.
Not fragments.
Not impressions.
Memories.
"I don't believe in coincidence," he muttered.
His mind traced every detail.
Every action.
He killed her.
Yes.
But killing alone had never granted memories before.
The difference—
He drank her blood.
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
"That's how I gained her memories."
It was the only clear link.
Yet—
He had just drunk the ghoul's blood.
And nothing happened.
No surge of foreign thoughts.
No intrusion of memories.
No visions.
"Which means that isn't the full condition."
He crouched again, staring at the headless corpse.
"So it isn't universal."
Unlikely.
"Or there are specific requirements."
He analyzed it methodically.
"Perhaps I can only gain memories from humans."
Possible.
Ghouls were corrupted beings—altered, twisted.
Or—
His gaze dropped to the ruined neck.
"The blood must come from the head."
When he had drunk Elira's blood—
It had come directly from near the source.
He stared at the remains.
"…I should not have destroyed the head."
A faint irritation crossed his expression.
"That was careless."
He exhaled slowly.
"Unfortunate."
Then—
His eyes shifted.
Toward the other end of the alley.
The woman still lay there.
Barely alive.
Blood pooling beneath her shoulder.
Breathing shallow.
Unconscious—or close to it.
Draven watched her for a long moment.
"…Fortunately," he murmured, voice calm and analytical, "there is another."
The night pressed in around the alley.
Cold.
Quiet.
Waiting.