Primal devourer a monste.., p.5
Primal Devourer: A Monster Evolution LitRPG, page 5
[Test Successful: [Acid Spit] on Skeletal Remnant (Level 2). Partial Dissolution - Biomass +2. XP +20.]
The ping was small, but it sparked that familiar thrill—numbers ticking, progress bar filling. The other two charged, bones clattering in unison, one swinging a jagged femur like a club. Revulsion hit again— these things weren’t alive, just echoes of the Cataclysm’s mess, but fusing with dead meat? Grinding’s grinding. Loot’s loot. I dodged the femur swing, pseudopod lashing out to trip the attacker—its legs buckled, splashing into the water where my earlier spit had tainted the pool. Acid bloomed wider, bubbling up around the bones. The third closed in, sword scraping my side—pain flared, Health dipping to 72/80, but [Iron Skin] blunted the edge, turning the cut to a shallow etch.
Close. Combo time. I extended a pseudopod toward the zombie-like one shambling from the shadows—fleshier, rotting strips clinging to bone, Level 3 maybe. Neurotoxin beaded at the tip, instincts from Nyxara guiding the injection. The pseudopod pierced its thigh, toxin flooding in like a bad IV drip. It jerked, moan turning to a gurgle, limbs locking as the paralysis spread. Slow effect kicked in, the thing grinding to a halt like a jammed gear. Perfect setup. I surged forward, mass enveloping its lower half, acid core bubbling against the decayed flesh. Dissolution accelerated—skin sloughing, bone cracking under the combo. Traits trickled in: faint necrotic resilience, a whisper of undeath endurance that made my slime tingle.
The synergy hit mid-devour, blue box flashing unbidden.
[Skill Synergy Unlocked: [Neurotoxin Synthesis] + [Acid Spit] = [Corrosive Venom] (Active: Inject corrosive paralytic; Damage +15%, Applies Slow Effect for 10 seconds). Proficiency: Beginner.]
Oh, hello. Now we’re talking. The rush amplified—venom glands in my pseudopods pulsing stronger, ready to lace every strike. The skeleton pair closed in, but the zombie’s fall bought time. I yanked free, the fusion complete.
[Devoured: Rotting Zombie (Level 3). Biomass +8. XP +60. Gained Minor Vitality Boost (+1 Endurance from Necrotic Traits).]
Biomass at 70/100. Vitality nudged up, the undead’s resilience patching my wounds faster—Health regenerating to 78/80 under the passive glow of the fungi. The skeletons lunged in tandem, one swinging high, the other low. I tested the new toy—pseudopod injecting [Corrosive Venom] into the first’s skull. It locked mid-swing, jaw frozen open, acid eating through the cranium like wet paper. The second clipped my side, bone jarring my mass—Health to 75/80—but I countered, enveloping its torso. Dissolution was quicker now, synergy making the acid bite deeper, bones crumbling to dust in seconds.
[Devoured: Skeletal Remnant (Level 2). Biomass +5. XP +30.]
The chamber fell quiet, save for the drip-drip of water and my own bubbling core. Four down—wait, three? A fourth shuffled from a side alcove, drawn by the noise, its outline bulkier, rusted armor scraping. Level 4, armored variant. Pack response. Figures. Revulsion crept back as it advanced, empty sockets seeming to fix on me, but the addiction overrode it. One more. Push the threshold. I circled, pseudopod coiling like a spring. It swung a corroded blade—close call, the edge whistling past, stirring the air. I struck low, venom injecting into a knee joint. Slow took hold, the thing grinding forward like a rusty robot.
The envelopment was messier this time—armor resisted the acid, grinding against my slime like sand in gears—but [Corrosive Venom] seeped through cracks, bubbling the joints. It clawed at me, metal fingers scraping furrows, Health dropping to 70/80. Pain, but tolerable. The fusion dragged, traits stubborn: faint holy resistance from some pre-Cataclysm ward, a whisper of endurance that layered onto my Vitality. Finally, it cracked—the armor dissolved into metallic flecks embedding in my mass, bones following.
[Devoured: Armored Skeletal Warrior (Level 4). Biomass +10. XP +80. Minor Vitality Boost (+1 from Armored Traits). Total Biomass: +20 from Undead Harvest.]
Biomass hit 90/100. The rush was electric, stats settling with a finality that chased the horror away. Vitality up another tick, the undead resilience making my form feel… denser, less prone to splatter. The chamber’s fungi pulsed brighter, almost mocking the decay around me—crumbled bones scattered like confetti, rusted scraps glinting in the glow. I probed the walls, pseudopod tracing faded runes that [Mana Sense] tingled against. Pre-Cataclysm etchings, half-eroded: symbols of gears and eyes, Architect motifs? Teasing lore, like hints of a bigger quest line. Church stuff? Or older. The System’s beta test, maybe. No full absorb, but the touch sparked a faint vision—flashes of mana storms, worlds fracturing. Cataclysm echoes. Gold for later theory-crafting.
Optimism flickered, reluctant but real. The gooey horror of my form still squicked—devouring dead meat, fusing with rot—but the pings? The progress? That was the hook, pulling me through the revulsion like a bad addiction. Grinding trash in a haunted starter zone. At least the XP’s real. But the vibrations outside stirred—more undead moans, drawn by the commotion? Or… human echoes? Torch heat flickered in my haze, distant but closing. Party time’s over. Evolve soon, or get farmed. I slithered out, pseudopods propelling with renewed vigor. The ruins’ depths called—more biomass, more growth. The underdog grind continued, but now? I was starting to like the meta. The ruins’ air grew thicker as I pushed deeper, the late afternoon light—or what passed for it in this perpetual swamp twilight—fading into a humid gloom that clung like a second skin. Mist rolled in from the Fen’s edges, carrying the faint, acrid tang of distant acid pools and something sharper: torch smoke. Human-made, steady and intrusive, piercing the haze like unwanted spotlights in a stealth run. My pseudopods sloshed over uneven stone slabs, the acidic blob form adapting a bit more with each step—[Minor Regeneration] ticking away the scratches from those skeletal scrappers, health creeping back to full. Biomass sat heavy in my core at 85/100, a warm pressure building like overcharged batteries, every devoured bone fragment and rotten tendon fueling the grind. The chamber behind me lay quiet now, crumbled remnants scattered like failed loot drops, but the thrill of the harvest lingered. Four undead down, small gains stacking into something real. Vitality nudged up from the necrotic scraps, making my mass feel less like a fragile puddle and more like a cohesive… well, blob with options.
Grinding’s paying off. But this place reeks of endgame trap. The sarcasm kept the revulsion at bay—the grotesque squelch of fusing with dead meat still turned my metaphorical stomach, but the blue boxes? They were the methadone, chasing away the horror with that addictive ping of progress. I probed a side alcove with a pseudopod, thermal haze picking up faint cold voids—more skeletons, dormant but stirring at the disturbance. Level 2 chaff, easy pickings for the buffer. One shambled out, jaw clacking in that mindless rattle, rusted dagger scraping the wall. I didn’t hesitate—[Acid Spit] globbed out, enhanced by the venom synergy, hitting its torso dead center. Sizzle-crack, the bones softened like overcooked pasta, collapsing into a heap before it could swing. Pseudopod lashed in, pulling the mess into my core. Dissolution was smoother now, the combo eating through faster, traits trickling in like weak stat potions: faint endurance from the old warrior’s frame, nothing flashy but stacking the deck.
[Scavenged: Skeletal Remnant (Level 2). Biomass +4. XP +25.]
Biomass ticked to 89/100. Close. Too close. The pressure in my core intensified, a throbbing hum that vibrated through my entire mass—like the System was revving up for something big. I flattened against the wall, slime seeping into cracks for cover, as the vibrations outside shifted. Not undead this time. Steady, bipedal thuds—boots on stone, muffled voices cutting the mist. Adventurers. Again. Their thermal outlines bloomed in my haze: three main signatures, torches flaring hot, with gear shadows suggesting mid-tier kit—swords, a bow, satchel weights for loot haulers. “Easy XP in these ruins,” one laughed, voice cocky and laced with that familiar guild banter. “Skeletons drop bones for crafting. Push deeper—heard the anomaly’s holed up here.”
My core clenched. Of course. Follow the bread crumbs I left. Optimism from the harvest soured quick— they’d cleared my trash mobs, now sniffing for the boss. The lead one paused at the chamber entrance, torch sweeping the scattered bones. “Fresh kills. Something’s farming ahead.” The archer nocked an arrow, mana-tinged tip glowing faintly—hunter class? My [Mana Sense] pinged it, a weak arcane enchant for undead piercing. Detection risk. Stay frosty. I oozed back, pseudopods silent, coiling into a crevice behind a toppled pillar. The banter continued, footsteps echoing closer: “Bounty’s 150 gold for the slime core. Tank up front—don’t let it engulf you.”
Exploration urge warred with stealth needs—scavenge that last undead in the alcove for the threshold? Or ghost before they aggro? The pressure built, biomass edging toward critical. Spec into survival. One more. I extended a pseudopod stealthily, probing the alcove’s void. A lone skeleton stirred, Level 3 variant with a cracked helm. Quick strike—venom injection locked it, acid glob following to dissolve the frame. It crumpled without a sound, essence pulling into me like a vacuum.
[Devoured: Armored Skeletal Remnant (Level 3). Biomass +11. XP +50. Threshold Reached.]
The world tilted. Biomass hit 100/100, and the System responded like a overloaded server—blue boxes cascading in my mind’s eye, sharp and insistent.
[Biomass Threshold Achieved. Level Up: 6 → 7. Adaptability +2. Evolution Pathway Unlocked: Gene-Tree Visualization Active.]
[Congratulations: First Major Milestone. Primal Path Dominant - Ironclad Behemoth Branch Available (Focus: Armored Physicality, Predation Enhancements). Arcane Hints Emerging (Mana-Infused Venom: Requires Additional Consumption for Full Unlock). Choose Wisely - Evolutions are Permanent.]
The visualization bloomed full, a branching web overlaying my thermal haze: roots from my slime core twisting into vivid paths. Primal glowed strongest—icons of reinforced shells, claw evolutions, bulkier mass for tanking the Fen’s worst. Ironclad Behemoth endgame? Sounded like a walking fortress, perfect for shrugging off adventurer aggro. The Arcane whisper flickered fainter, viper traits mixing with faint mana from the ruins’ runes: toxic spells, illusion webs? Hybrid potential, but locked behind more mage loot. Strategic. Primal for now—survive the party, then branch out. No point respeccing into glass cannon if you’re deleted first.
Optimism peaked, a rush hotter than the devour highs—visualizing the tree felt like peeking at the meta, theory-crafting my build in real time. Time to spec into survival. Blob no more—hello, armored nightmare. But the adventurers’ voices sharpened, boots scraping stone just beyond the alcove. “Heard that? Sizzle—another fresh one.” The archer’s outline swung toward my crevice, arrow nocked. Intruders closing. Retreat or fight? The tree’s glow urged push—evolve mid-grind?—but stealth won. I retracted fully, oozing into the muck behind the pillar, pseudopods pulling my mass silent and low. Their torches swept the chamber, lights dancing over the new skeleton heap.
“More kills. It’s close—spread out, but tight.” The tank’s shield clanked, footsteps fanning. One passed inches from my hiding spot, heat bleeding through the stone. My core thrummed, the threshold’s pressure demanding release—evolve now? But vulnerability screamed no. Balancing act. High from the reveal, but one wrong move and I’m XP. Sarcasm turned strategic, mind racing: lure them to the deeper ruins, let traps and undead soften ’em up. The archer paused near the alcove, bow creaking. “Got a ping—right here.” Arrow loosed, thunking into the wall above me. Close. Too close.
I surged back, away from the chamber, slime trailing minimal as [Minor Regeneration] patched the tension’s strain. The party’s shouts echoed behind—“Lost it! Fan out!”—but I was ghosting, weaving through fissures toward the Fen’s edge. The tree’s map lingered, branches teasing power just out of reach. Optimism warred with caution, the high from visualization clashing with the intruder threat. Deepening resolve. They’re the endgame mobs now. Evolve, then farm. The mist swallowed me, footsteps fading—but not for long. The inversion was on: predator turning prey, underdog ready to bite back. The grind sharpened, and I was all in.
Chapter 6: The First Raid
The fog in the Abyssal Fen never really lifted; it just shifted, thickening into curtains that muffled the world like a bad filter on a low-res stream. Late afternoon, and the bioluminescent fungi were already kicking in, their sickly green glow smearing everything into a hazy underwater vibe—roots twisting like veins, puddles bubbling with that constant acidic hiss. Humid didn’t cover it; the air pressed in, heavy and wet, carrying distant splashes and the endless drone of insects that sounded like static on a busted headset. I hunkered down in the muck at the Fen’s outskirts, my acidic blob form flattened against a cluster of gnarled roots, pseudopods tucked in tight to avoid any telltale ripples. Level 9 felt like a milestone after Draven’s haul—[Toxin Ward] keeping the swamp’s bite at bay, pheromone insights humming faintly in my core like an untapped side quest—but it didn’t make me invisible. Not yet. The vibrations from that guild beacon were still echoing, drawing these idiots like moths to a flame. And now, they were here.
First raid party. Population: one pissed-off slime. The sarcasm was my go-to, a mental flex to shove down the knot of frustration twisting in my mass. Human brain screaming vulnerability—goo against geared adventurers?—while the monster body itched to lash out. I extended a pseudopod cautiously, thermal vision cutting through the haze like a glitchy night scope. Three signatures bloomed hot and clear: broad-shouldered tank up front, shield and hammer radiating steady warmth; slimmer mage outlines flanking, one with a staff pulsing faint mana blue; and a healer type trailing, robe flaring soft heat like a cozy campfire. Torches bobbed with their steps, flames flickering orange in my haze, banishing pockets of fog. They moved with that cocky efficiency—guild pros, no doubt—boots squelching through the shallows without a care for the acid undertow.
“Keep it tight, folks,” the tank rumbled, voice gravelly and overconfident, like he’d soloed this zone a hundred times. Kragthar Ironvein, from the echoes in Draven’s memories—guild vet, tank extraordinaire. His shield caught the light, etched with flame runes that my [Mana Sense] pinged as enchanted: +5 defense, fire ward maybe. Solid build, but sloppy formation—flanks too wide, healer lagging like she was window-shopping. Noob strats. They’re treating this like a tutorial farm, not realizing the tutorial’s about to tutorial them. The mage—Lirien Shadowweave, elven poise in her stance—swept her staff, a faint arcane hum scanning the muck. “Mana traces here. Recent kills—something’s been busy. Undead remnants, but twisted.” Her voice was sharp, superior, like she was dissecting a bug under glass. Thalia Vossren, the healer, chimed in with that pious lilt: “By the Architects’ light, we’ll purge it clean. Easy XP for the crusade fund.”
They pushed on, torches carving paths through the fog, banter flowing easy. “That slime anomaly’s trash tier,” Kragthar snorted, hammer tapping his shield like a drumbeat. “Level 10 at best. I’ll tank the aggro—you DPS the core. Thalia, keep us topped.” Lirien chuckled, staff glowing brighter. “My bolts will melt it. +3 mana weave—it’s no match for proper build.” Thalia murmured a prayer, her holy symbol flaring warm in my vision. “The System favors the faithful. We’ll claim the bounty and move on.” Underestimation dripped from every word, treating the Fen like a lowbie dungeon, me like a piñata with a gold sticker. Arrogant noobs. If they knew the ‘trash mob’ was theory-crafting counters…
Frustration boiled up, hot and powerless—me, a blob of slime, hiding while they strutted like raid bosses. The underdog itch scratched raw; back on Earth, I’d grind alts for fun, but here? This was permadeath, no respawn button. Fear gnawed at the edges—get spotted, engulfed in their AOE, and I’d be essence orbs for their pouches. But curiosity flickered too, that gamer spark analyzing their kit. Kragthar’s hammer? +3 impact enchant, from the heat signature—blunt force to smash shells, perfect for my [Iron Skin]. Lirien’s staff hummed with arcane circuits, mana pool deep enough for chain spells; devour that, and my Arcane whisper in the Gene-Tree might bloom. Thalia’s robes pulsed holy light—regeneration auras, the kind that’d patch their wipes. Loot table’s juicy. Turn their plot armor into my upgrade path.
Optimize. That’s the play. The shift hit like a lightbulb—frustration fueling resolve, sarcasm sharpening into a weapon. No charging in like a noob; set the stage, let them walk into it. The path ahead narrowed, a choke between roots and a shallow acid rivulet—perfect for a trap. I oozed forward stealthily, pseudopods extending to probe the water. [Acid Spit] built in my core, pressure mounting like a loaded slingshot. I spat a glob into the flow, letting it mix and spread, turning the trickle into a bubbling snare. Crude, but effective—venom residue from the synthesis would lace it, slowing anything that splashed through. Welcome mat. Step right in.
They were closing, banter turning to formation calls. “Eyes on the path—muck’s deep here,” Kragthar warned, shield raised. Lirien scanned ahead, her staff’s glow washing the roots. A straggler beast—low-tier swamp crab, scuttling from the underbrush—darted into their light. Kragthar swung casual, hammer crunching shell with a wet crack. The crab spasmed, legs twitching, but it wasn’t dead—thermal heat fading slow. Opportunity. As they pressed on, ignoring the crippled mob, I slithered parallel in the fog, pseudopod snaking out unseen. Engulfment was quick—mass flowing over the shell, acid core dissolving chitin in seconds. Traits trickled: minor claw resilience, a bump to Agility from the legs’ scuttle.
[Devoured: Wounded Swamp Crab (Level 4). Biomass +7. XP +40. Agility +1 (Enhanced Mobility from Leg Traits).]
