Altered Intents

A faint warmth coursed through Demian's body as he stirred from his mana rotation. His breathing was steady, his mind clear. The technique was getting easier, more natural. He was improving.

Exhaling slowly, he opened his eyes to find the world changed.

The waters had receded, revealing more of the ruins beneath him. What had once been a vast, endless ocean was now a sprawling cityscape, divided into two sections. From his vantage point atop the watchtower, he could see a massive wall separating the city into two districts.

One side was grand, lined with larger estates and noble manors, though their once-glorious facades were now crumbling. The other side had smaller, more uniform homes, possibly a district for commoners. The structures, though worn and eroded, still hinted at purposeful design—a planned city, rather than chaotic ruins. This wasn't just a random settlement. It was a kingdom.

Yet, what caught his eye most was the castle at the city's heart.

It had been completely submerged before, but now that the waters had pulled back, its towering silhouette loomed above the ruins. Unlike the rest of the city, it stood remarkably intact, its stonework still holding against time. That didn't make sense.

If there were other examinees here, they would notice this too.

Demian made his decision.

He needed to reach the castle.

The watchtower had once been a vantage point, a structure built for overseeing the city. Now, it was a crumbling relic.

Demian traced his fingers along the stone, rough and brittle from centuries of water exposure. Deep grooves and fractures lined the surface, remnants of erosion. Salt crystals clung to the cracks, proof that this place had been dry long enough for deposits to form before being reclaimed by the ocean.

There had to be a way down.

His eyes scanned the base of the tower until he spotted what remained of a spiral staircase, half-broken, covered in algae and slick moss. The iron railings had rusted away, leaving only jagged remnants sticking out of the stone. The steps looked brittle, unreliable.

Testing the first step, he felt it shift beneath his weight.

"Not good."

If he moved too fast, the entire thing could collapse. Carefully, he descended, keeping his grip firm against the outer wall. Every step sent a small echo through the hollow structure. A reminder that he wasn't in a stable place.

By the time he reached the base, his hands were coated in grime. He flexed his fingers, shaking off the dampness, and looked at what lay ahead.

The city streets stretched before him—a skeleton of what was once a thriving civilization.

Cobblestone roads, once meticulously arranged, were now uneven and cracked, with gaps where the earth had shifted. Salt deposits clung to the edges of buildings, and patches of barnacles had latched onto the lower portions of the stone walls, a clear sign that this place had spent good amount of time underwater.

Some streets were still damp, the last remnants of water draining through the cracks. The air was thick with a strange scent—a mix of ocean brine, damp stone, and something... ancient.

Demian moved cautiously. Every step left a wet imprint on the uneven stone. His boots squelched against soft, damp silt that had settled in the lower sections of the roads. Some areas had thin pools of stagnant water, reflecting the dim twilight sky above.

As he walked, he let his thoughts wander.

"A kingdom once stood here."

He could picture it—the streets alive with movement, merchants shouting their wares, nobles riding in carriages through the grand roads. The planned structure of the city, the way the buildings followed a deliberate pattern, it all pointed to a civilization that had once flourished.

"How did it fall?"

There was no sign of fire, no collapsed siege weapons, no remnants of battle. Instead, the city had drowned.

"Was it natural? Or forced?"

The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Then—a sound.

A wet, slithering noise. A shift in the stagnant air.

Demian froze.

Somewhere, something moved.

His senses sharpened, his instincts kicking in.He followed the source of sound silently.

Slowly he reached an ally , he could hear it more clearly now something or someone was eating in there, the sound of chewing clear.

He crept his head in and there he saw it.

A creature not meant for land.

It had the grotesque form of an amphibian, its flesh slick with moisture, but its body warped, as if adapted to something beyond the natural order. It had elongated limbs, fingers that ended in webbed, claw-like appendages, and a gaping maw lined with needle-like teeth. Its eyes were bulbous, pale, blind—but aware.

It was chewing.

Slick, webbed fingers dug into raw, wet meat, peeling it apart as rows of needle-like teeth tore into the remains.

A thick, unnatural clicking came from its throat-a grotesque rhythm, almost like a broken purr.

Demian tightened his grip. His pulse was steady, his breathing controlled. The creature hadn't noticed him yet.

It was injured. Deep gashes lined its slick, sinewy body, dark ichor oozing from wounds that had barely begun to clot. Whatever it had been devouring had fought back—hard.

Demian knew he couldn't slip away unseen. The alley was narrow, and his movements would make noise. That meant he had only one choice: strike first.

He inhaled sharply.

Mana surged through his body, reinforcing his limbs. His muscles coiled with newfound strength, his senses sharpening. The dampness of the air, the faint stench of brine and decay—it all became clearer.

He moved.

A single step—fast, precise. He aimed to cripple the creature before it could react. His foot pressed against the damp ground—

Squelch.

The moss beneath his boot compressed with a sickening wetness. His weight shifted slightly off balance. Not good.

The creature twitched. Its head jerked unnaturally, those blind, bulbous eyes snapping toward him. A guttural clicking sound tore from its throat.

Demian didn't stop.

He adjusted mid-motion, shifting his weight, and swung his arm in a downward strike. The force was enough to break bone—

Thud.

His attack connected. The impact sent a wet splatter of dark ichor against the alley wall. The creature shrieked—a sound so high-pitched and unnatural that it sent a shiver up his spine.

But—it wasn't dead.

Before Demian could pull back, something lashed out. A long, whip-like limb, unnaturally fast despite its injuries, slashed through the air.

Too fast.

He barely had time to shift. The blow struck his side—not a clean hit, but enough force to send him staggering backward. His feet skidded against the mossy stone, the silt making the ground treacherous.

Pain flared through his ribs. Not broken. But close.

He exhaled sharply, steadying himself.

The creature hunched lower, limbs twitching, maw opening wider. A deep, guttural hiss prumbled from its throat—a sound of rage. It hadn't expected a fight.

Demian flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders. His breath came slow, controlled.

He wasn't done yet.

The creature lunged.

Demian ducked, barely avoiding the razor-lined maw as it snapped shut with a sickening clack. He countered immediately, twisting his body and driving his reinforced fist into its wounded side.

Crunch.

The force sent the creature reeling, ichor spilling from the fresh wound. But even injured, it didn't stop. Its elongated limbs lashed out wildly, a frenzied barrage of swipes meant to tear him apart.

He dodged left—then right—then felt his foot slip.

The silt-covered stones beneath him gave way, sending him off balance. The creature took advantage.

A clawed hand raked across his shoulder, pain flaring as fabric tore, skin splitting beneath the force. He gritted his teeth, using the momentum to roll backward and regain his footing.

It was fast. Even wounded, even struggling, the thing was still faster than him.

He had to end this.

Drawing a sharp breath, he focused—pushing mana into his muscles, amplifying his speed. Then, he charged.

The creature screeched, sensing him. It lashed out, but this time, Demian was ready. He feinted left—then suddenly dropped low, sliding over the damp stone.

And then he saw it.

A soft patch beneath its jaw, where its pale, gelatinous skin was thinner. Exposed. Maybe due to the fight it had been in before.

Without hesitation, he struck.

His reinforced fist drove upward, piercing through the weak spot. The creature jerked violently, its entire body convulsing. A horrible, gurgling shriek tore from its throat as it thrashed, its elongated limbs slamming against the alley walls in a final, frenzied attempt to break free.

Demian gritted his teeth, holding firm as the creature's death throes sent tremors through his arm, its webbed claws scraping weakly against his forearm before finally going limp.

Then—it collapsed.

Its body twitched once, twice. Then, stillness.

Demian exhaled. His hands were slick with its blood—thick, dark, reeking of decay. He took a step back, steadying himself. His shoulder ached, his ribs throbbed, but he was alive.

He looked down at the corpse, then up at the towering silhouette of the castle in the distance.

This was just the beginning.