The stench of rotting mud and wet decay clung to the air, mixing with the icy chill that sank into Ren's bones. The Siphon Mire exhaled slowly beneath him, the soft vibrations beneath his feet echoing like distant drumbeats—each pulse carrying a sense of ancient intelligence, of awareness.
Before him, the faceless giant, The Dread Maw Rootbound, rose from the mud with deliberate, inexorable movements. Its sheer bulk distorted the swamp's surface, roots bowing under its weight, mud and water trembling with its emergence. Mist clung to the cavernous spaces between its limbs, shrouding Mira high among the skeletal roots, her small form barely visible against the vastness of the beast.
Ren took a single, careful step forward, mud sucking at his boots, threatening to pin him in place. Every movement was calculated, yet his mind buzzed with the uncontrollable surge of energy flowing through him. The Deep Mark, still dormant in most aspects, responded automatically, reacting to the trauma and fear suffusing the air. He did not command it—it simply moved. Like a shadow with a mind of its own, it pulsed and spread, echoing through the swamp like a heartbeat too vast for comprehension.
Mira's cry broke the oppressive silence, sharp and desperate. Ren did not flinch, though his heart, mechanical as it felt, registered the strain of her terror. He prepared to leap toward the roots where she clung, but the ground beneath him bulged and shifted unnaturally. Something was forcing its way up—something unseen, patient, and aware.
Another vibration cut through the swamp—a lighter, faster resonance than Rootbound's. The Tormented Husk emerged silently, its claws extending with perfect precision, moving as if drawn by the swamp's own pulse. Ren saw the creature before any warning could reach him.
"MIRA—!"
The warning was useless. The Husk's claws struck her stomach with horrifying accuracy. Time seemed to fracture as the movement unfolded in slow, brutal clarity. Mira's eyes sought Ren's, her breath cut short, the shock immediate and total. Blood erupted across her body and onto Ren's face, a visceral reminder that the Mire consumed without hesitation.
Ren froze. Not from fear, but from the overload of sensation flowing into him. This was not his own emotional response—it was Mira's, raw and unfiltered, translated through the dormant Deep Mark into tangible energy. Pain, desperation, terror—all surged through him as if he were a conduit for the Mire itself. His body trembled, not from weakness, but because something vast and ancient had awakened within him, without his permission or understanding.
The subtle vibrations from the Mire intensified. Husks halted mid-pursuit, sensing the presence of a force beyond their comprehension. Shadows shifted, roots trembled, and even the Dread Maw Rootbound let out a deep, resonating growl, acknowledging the emergence of energy that was not yet Ren's, but flowing through him.
Ren's shadow stretched unnaturally across the mud, black tendrils writhing like living ink, pulsating in sync with the faint, still-uncontrolled Echoes within him. Twenty-seven fragments—Mark shards he had not yet learned to name—stirred, responding instinctively to the trauma around him. And one more, freshest and most volatile, carried Mira's last emotions: fear, despair, and a fragile will to live.
He knelt beside her body, hands brushing mud and blood, yet did not feel grief. The Mark absorbed, the Echoes processed, the swamp observed. It was a confluence of energies, not a moment for human reaction. The last Echo streamed through him like electricity, raw and ungoverned:
"Don't… leave me…"
From the shadows, the Gloom Walker emerged. Sleek, black, a predator of emotion and identity. Its chest and back riddled with voids, sucking in air, pulsing with the essence of the Mire. It did not attack Ren—not yet. Its attention was on Mira's released trauma, which still lingered thick in the swamp's oppressive air.
Ren remained still, calculating. His eyes, black and empty, scanned the creature, yet his body remained a conduit, not a controller. The Deep Mark moved instinctively, processing Mira's trauma, pushing the Gloom Walker back without conscious effort from him. Energy pulsed through him, a force older than his understanding, responsive to need, yet indifferent to command.
The creature hesitated, recognizing a force beyond comprehension. Its massive frame shifted, cautiously, unaccustomed to encountering a Vessel capable of channeling such raw power—though still untrained.
Ren's shadow expanded across the mud, forming a dark, jagged blade that stretched unnaturally, separate from his conscious thought. The Husks sensed it; the Dread Maw Rootbound trembled. Vibrations, like the beating of a colossal, hidden heart, filled the Mire with a tension that whispered of inevitability.
Ren pressed forward, releasing fragments of Mira's Echoes in a silent, cold strike. The Gloom Walker screamed—not a physical scream, but a resonance, a psychic echo of pain as if the energy itself had torn at its very essence. Roots cracked, air shifted, and shadows writhed like living ink. The creature recoiled, assessing Ren not as human, but as a vessel, a conduit, a force it had never encountered before.
Ren's eyes remained empty. He did not exult, he did not rage. The power had passed through him, unbidden, and yet he understood—without comprehension—that it was his potential. Not fully realized, not yet honed, but terrifying in its raw magnitude.
The Mire shivered under this display. The Dread Maw Rootbound, massive and immovable, growled deeply, acknowledging the shift in energy without stepping closer. Even the very mud beneath them seemed to pulse in recognition.
Ren's shadow remained active, responding to unseen threats. Echoes shifted in their layers, marking the beginning of what would one day be mastery—but not today. He was a Vessel, nothing more, yet the Mire could not ignore him.
A low, rolling rumble surged through the swamp, stronger and more insistent than before. Something far larger than the Dread Maw Rootbound stirred in the deepest shadows, moving with patient inevitability.
Ren's pupils narrowed. His voice, calm and unwavering, whispered to Mira's still form:
"Get ready. It has begun."
The Siphon Mire had spoken. Not through sound, not through motion, but through the ripple of unbridled, sentient energy coursing through every root, stone, and shadow. And this time, it would consume, it would measure, and it would test—not just their bodies, but the latent potential within Ren Vallis himself.