Monster Evolution System: I became a Rat-Chapter 84: Rest for the day

"Am I dying?" Rosacer whispered, his eyelids sinking as Arcis blurred before him.

She reached toward him, her expression tightening, but the summoning limit had already been reached. Without a word, Arcis was pulled back, her form unraveling as she returned to the Nightmare Realm.

Darkness followed.

Hours passed.

Rosacer’s body lay motionless upon the broken stone as the sun drifted lower, painting the mountains in fading gold before slipping beyond the horizon.

Night claimed Mount Hermit.

Then, with a sudden jolt, Rosacer awoke.

He sucked in a sharp breath and forced himself upright, panic flaring as his gaze swept the surroundings.

There was no one around, and no movement either.

No lingering presence beyond the cold night air.

He exhaled slowly, relief washing over him.

"I should move," he muttered.

His body protested as he rose, every muscle aching, every breath heavy. He allowed himself a few more minutes of rest, leaning against the stone, gathering what little strength remained.

By the time he began to walk, the sun was gone entirely.

The moon had taken its place, pale and watchful in the darkened sky.

As he walked, Rosacer opened his inventory.

The doll was there.

He released a quiet sigh of relief. At least that much had not been lost. The knife, however, was gone. No matter how he searched, the Daken blade did not respond. He had failed to retrieve it.

Suppressing his frustration, Rosacer checked his status, then addressed the system directly.

"What is a Hermit Soul?" he asked.

He did not truly expect an answer. The system often withheld knowledge, or claimed ignorance when matters grew too obscure. He had already resolved to visit the library regardless. If nothing else, he could seek out Eren and pry answers from him instead.

This time, however, the system responded.

A shimmering window unfolded before his eyes.

[Hermit Soul. The wandering soul of an innocent hermit, one who once traveled the world in search of answers to the question every creation asks.]

Rosacer frowned.

That only deepened his confusion. "Then why would such a soul attack innocent adventurers?" he asked. "Why was it hostile?"

The system answered without delay.

[Corruption of souls through ritualistic magic can cause such entities to turn malignant.]

"So ritualistic magic," Rosacer murmured. "Again and again, I keep encountering traces of this particular art."

He turned his attention inward. "Tell me about ritualistic magic."

The system responded immediately. A new window shimmered into existence before his eyes.

[Ritualistic Magic. The magic of the common man. Before the concepts of mana and aura channeling existed, humanity relied on mediums to worship external entities in exchange for miracles.]

The text shifted, continuing.

[Over time, these external beings were reduced into symbols. By providing the required materials and conditions, these symbols could reproduce specific effects.]

Rosacer read carefully as the final line appeared.

[The probability of successfully performing ritualistic magic increases with repeated usage.]

Questions kept circling in Rosacer’s mind as he made his way toward the slope.

The path ahead was ruined.

The fight that had happened between the adventurers and the monster had torn the slope apart. Stone was gouged open, dirt churned and burned, fauna half uprooted and scattered like debris. The mountain looked badly thrashed.

Rosacer did not slow down and neither his thoughts.

Loose rocks moved beneath his boots. His legs throbbed with each step, but he pressed on, adjusting his balance without thinking, allowing the pain to be there without letting it take control.

Soon, he reached the ridge.

He stopped there and looked down.

The drop was worse than before. Steeper. Parts of the slope had collapsed inward, leaving long slanted sections with nothing to grip but broken stone. He checked his inventory again.

"Alright," he muttered.

He lowered himself to the ledge and began climbing down.

He remembered the assassin, and now he was going for it.

He could have used Oblivion and skipped all of this, appeared directly where the body lay. But he did not.

The exhaustion from Oblivion was different.

The fatigue he’d built up was toxic and corrosive. Rosacer, titled Foulborn, could neutralize the poison if it entered his veins, but it still couldn’t help easing the strange exhaustion Oblivion had left him with. For now, he decided to hold off on using it.

He would rather strain his body than invite that feeling again.

The descent was worse than he expected.

The collapse had turned the slope into a steep, uneven slide, forcing him to cling to whatever protrusions he could find. His fingers slipped more than once. Gravel poured down beneath him, rattling into the darkness below.

He clicked his tongue and activated the Grafted Sigil.

Spikes pushed through the skin of his palms, biting into the stone. Along his torso, suction like growths formed, flattening against the rock and holding fast. It hurt, but it worked.

He picked up the pace.

The sigil would take its toll soon. He could already feel the dull pressure building in his chest, the faint tremor in his limbs. He could not afford to linger.

Finally, after hours of climbing down, he reached the foothill of Mount Hermit. He glanced around; the trail of the body was faint, with Foxtail left behind near a dark depression, perhaps from the fall.

Whatever had dragged the body away might still be nearby, he thought.

The cohort had been lucky not to run into monsters during the climb. That luck would not hold forever. The forest below was alive with things that moved when people were careless.

The spot where the assassin had fallen was before him.

He let out a sigh as he glanced at the Foxtail left behind.

Foxtail lay scattered nearby, some crushed, some intact. The pale glow was faint now, dulled by dirt and blood, but it was unmistakable. Rosacer crouched and gathered what he could, inspecting each strand quickly.

He muttered to himself, "Alright this is enough."

Then tucked the herb away and stood.

Without lingering, he turned back toward the mountain. He was not going deeper into the forest now. Not at night.

He planned to cross the forest in daylight.

For now, Mount Hermit still loomed above him, broken and silent, and Rosacer began the climb again, body aching, mind heavy, but steps steady.

Slowly, as he climbed with caution, he glanced back several times, searching for the creature that might be nearby, the one that had taken the assassin’s body, but he never caught sight of it.

He had hoped to retrieve some items from the body, for the mages and warriors’ weapons and artifacts were already damaged beyond use.

"Damn it..." Rosacer cursed inwardly as he kept climbing.

He planned to reach the guild by noon the next day, quickly become a full-fledged adventurer, and then, with the guild’s help, search for clues about this Hermit Soul and creature.

As he was making his plans, he realized he should ask the system, so he called to it inwardly. The system came alive once more. It responded:

[Bookabong: A mystical creature from the mythical tales of the Masquerades of Augustus. Some say it was born on the night of the conceived moon, but the legends deny any specific date or origin of its birth. A creature without origin and unbound by time.]

The window shimmered again.

[Resistant to both magic and physical attacks. Can only be subdued by psychological assaults or soul-tearing attacks.]

"Why do I always end up in this kind of trouble?" Rosacer muttered, cursing his luck.

He continued climbing.

The Grafted Sigil had already been pushed too far. His skin still ached where it had reshaped itself earlier, and his body felt unstable. He had stopped using it. Forcing it again would only cripple him.

Climbing down had been manageable.

Climbing back up was far worse.

Each pull strained his arms, his breathing turning shallow as fatigue set in. Loose stones slipped beneath his boots, forcing him to slow down despite the urge to rush.

"I just need a safe spot," he told himself. He was not planning to climb all the way up. Just high enough to stay out of reach of the monsters below.

After several exhausting minutes, the slope eased.

Rosacer pulled himself onto a narrow rocky shelf and stopped.

He recognized the place immediately.

This was where the adventurer group had rested a few hours earlier before confronting the beast.

Rosacer leaned against the rock and sat down, letting his weight drop.

This spot was defensible.

"For now, it would do."

Slowly, he let himself drift off to sleep.

Ever since leaving the mist city, he had cherished every slumber, even the nightmares, for they still brought rest.

He sometimes dreamed of Elizabeth and himself running through the mist as a goblin chased them, and in those dreams, he abandoned her.

"Why do I always recall her?" he grunted. No matter how hard he tried to forget, his regrets kept surfacing. "I am trying. I will liberate the mist city," he cried out before finally falling asleep.