Primordial Awakening: I Breathe Skill Points!-Chapter 70: The March (2)

The Wildlands lived up to their hostile reputation within the first kilometer of foot travel. The ground itself was treacherous—solid earth could give way to patches of destabilized reality without warning, and the vegetation seemed to lean toward the marching columns with predatory intent. More than once, Zeph watched participants stumble as seemingly solid ground rippled like water beneath their boots, only stabilizing moments later as if the earth itself was playing a particularly sadistic game of "the floor is lava." The twisted trees that bordered their route looked almost disappointed each time someone managed to avoid the reality-warped patches, their gnarled branches creaking in what could have been the wind or could have been frustration. One particularly ambitious vine had apparently decided to moonlight as a tripwire, stretching across

Zeph’s enhanced perception, honed by his optimized stats and sharpened by countless hours of cautious survival, picked up movement in the twisted forest surrounding their route. Creatures watched from the shadows—mutated animals that bore only passing resemblance to their pre-Awakening ancestors, their bodies warped by concentrated mana into forms that defied natural evolution. He could feel their eyes tracking the column, could sense their predatory calculation as they weighed risk versus reward. Some of the shapes moving through the darkness were vaguely wolf-like. Others defied easy categorization, as if evolution had gotten drunk on mana and decided to throw anatomical dice to see what happened. One shadow seemed to have too many legs. Another had what might have been wings, or possibly just really unfortunate tumor placement.

The column of expedition members stretched ahead and behind Zeph, a long line of awakened warriors, mages, scouts, and support specialists all marching in loose formation. The sound of several hundred people moving through hostile territory created a constant background noise of footfalls, equipment clinks, and muttered conversations. Zeph caught snippets of dialogue as he walked—someone complaining about the humidity, another person making a bet about how long until the first major attack, a third discussing lunch options as if they were on a casual hike rather than pushing into one of the most dangerous zones in the region.

"Contact left!" someone shouted from the forward columns, their voice cracking slightly with adrenaline and cutting through the ambient noise like a knife.

A pack of creatures burst from the treeline—six mutated wolves, each one the size of a small car, their fur crackling with visible electrical discharge that made them look like they’d stuck their paws in the world’s largest electrical socket and decided to make it their entire personality. They moved with coordinated precision that spoke of pack intelligence enhanced beyond normal animal cunning, their synchronized movements suggesting a hive-mind coordination that was frankly unsettling to witness. Arcs of electricity jumped between them as they charged, creating a web of crackling energy that would have been beautiful to watch if it wasn’t racing toward the column with obvious lethal intent. The lead wolf’s eyes glowed with electric blue light, and its snarl revealed teeth that sparked with each gnash.

The response from the expedition members was immediate and overwhelming. Awakened on the left flank unleashed a barrage of skills and abilities that turned the charging wolves into scorched meat before they could close even half the distance. Fire, ice, lightning, and pure kinetic force converged on the pack with the efficiency of people who had fought mutated creatures countless times before. The air itself seemed to scream as multiple elements collided, creating a light show that would have made any pre-Awakening fireworks display look pathetic by comparison. The concentrated firepower was honestly overkill—the kind of response you’d expect if someone used a rocket launcher to kill a mosquito, except the mosquito was the size of a car and could electrocute you.

The entire encounter lasted less than thirty seconds. Six mutated wolves reduced to smoking corpses without a single injury to the expedition members. The smell of charred fur and ozone hung heavy in the air, an olfactory reminder that the Wildlands didn’t appreciate visitors and had a really vindictive way of showing it. 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

"Maintain formation!" Tank’s voice boomed from somewhere in the command section, cutting through the post-combat chatter like a foghorn. "Stay alert. Where there’s one pack, there’s usually more. And trust me, the Wildlands have a really annoying habit of saving the worst for last!"

The march continued, stepping over the remains of the wolves. Zeph noticed several participants claiming pieces of the corpses—mutated creature parts could be valuable for crafting or sold to the right buyers who didn’t ask too many questions about provenance—but most simply wanted to keep moving, to put distance between themselves and the increasingly hostile environment.

Around him, the expedition members settled into their own rhythms. Some chatted to pass the time and settle their nerves. Others maintained alert silence, weapons ready. A few were clearly operating on autopilot, their bodies moving while their minds were elsewhere—a dangerous habit in the Wildlands, but one that Zeph noted without comment. Not his problem if they wanted to daydream their way into an early grave.

It was during the next encounter, fifteen minutes later and two kilometers deeper into the twisted landscape, that Zeph felt it for the first time since the expedition began.

Another pack attacked—this time mutated bears, massive creatures with crystalline growths erupting from their flesh like geological formations that had gotten very confused about appropriate places to form. Their eyes glowed with concentrated mana, giving them an almost demonic appearance that suggested the Wildlands had been watching too many horror films for inspiration. The largest bear had to be three meters tall at the shoulder, its crystalline growths refracting light in ways that hurt to look at directly, creating rainbow patterns that would have been pretty if they weren’t attached to a murder machine. The crystals clinked together as the bears moved, creating an eerie wind-chime sound that was deeply at odds with the creatures’ violent intent.

"Oh, come on," someone groaned. "Crystal bears? What’s next, diamond-encrusted rabbits?"

"Don’t give the Wildlands ideas!" another voice shot back.

The expedition’s response was the same overwhelming force, a testament to the brutal efficiency of organized awakened combat, but Zeph decided to participate this time, to test his capabilities and begin the process he knew was coming and perhaps most importantly, he needed to establish himself as competent enough to avoid unwanted attention while not so competent that he attracted the wrong kind of attention. It was a delicate balance, the kind that required careful calibration.

He activated Calamity Strike at 15 CP and targeted the largest bear charging toward his section of the column. The skill channeled through his crude goblin axe, transforming the inferior weapon into a conduit for catastrophic force.

The strike hit the bear’s skull with 150% damage amplification, and the creature’s head simply ceased to exist, obliterated by force that exceeded what his visible level and equipment suggested he should be capable of delivering. The headless body collapsed mid-charge, momentum carrying it forward to slide to a stop mere meters from the column, leaving a trail of disturbed earth and crystal fragments in its wake that glittered in the filtered light. The body twitched once, as if the bear’s nervous system hadn’t quite gotten the memo that the command center had been forcibly decommissioned and was no longer accepting instructions.

And then Zeph felt it—CP generation from the kill. Confirmation that monster kills during the expedition would contribute to his CP accumulation, giving him another path to build power if opportunities presented themselves.

’Useful,’ Zeph thought, careful to keep his expression neutral as other participants glanced at the bear he’d killed, their eyes calculating the force required to achieve such complete obliteration. ’Not enough to rely on, but every bit helps. And at least it confirms the system isn’t arbitrarily restricting CP generation during the expedition.’

The encounters continued as the march progressed deeper into the Wildlands, the twisted landscape becoming progressively more hostile with each kilometer. Small packs of mutated creatures testing the expedition’s defenses, easily repelled by the overwhelming concentration of combat-capable awakened. Each encounter served as a demonstration of participant competence, letting people assess their fellow expedition members while also establishing an informal hierarchy of capability. The Wildlands, it seemed, were providing a convenient testing ground for everyone to measure themselves against each other—a trial by fire that separated the competent from the lucky.

Zeph used the opportunities to observe with clinical detachment, his analytical mind cataloging information with the efficiency of a database. He noted which participants were genuinely competent—the ones who fought with efficiency and experience, wasting no movement or energy, their skills flowing together with practiced ease that spoke of real combat experience rather than training dummy practice. He noted which ones were merely lucky—the people who survived through others’ efforts or by avoiding the actual fighting, always somehow positioned where the dangers were minimal and the credit-claiming opportunities were maximum. And he noted which ones were overconfident—the awakened who took unnecessary risks or showed off, the kind who would get themselves or others killed when the stakes became real and the margin for error disappeared entirely.

Kira, the scouting specialist from his transport, fought with the precision of genuine experience. Her movements were economical and purposeful, each skill activation timed for maximum efficiency rather than maximum flash. She moved through combat zones like someone who understood that style points didn’t matter if you were dead. Tank lived up to his name with almost comedic reliability, his massive shield absorbing hits that would have killed lesser awakened while he coordinated defensive responses with the calm authority of someone who’d seen worse and lived to complain about it. His shield work was art—positioning, angle, timing all perfect. Whisper moved through combat like a ghost, their strikes surgical and lethal without wasted flourish, appearing in one location to deliver a killing blow before vanishing back into the formation like they’d never been there.

And then there were the others—the ones who would likely become statistics before the expedition ended, cautionary tales whispered around campfires about what not to do in the Wildlands. The Level 36 warrior who charged ahead of formation to claim the "best" kills, leaving gaps in the defensive line that others had to scramble to fill while he shouted about his kill count. The Level 42 mage who cast flashy, inefficient spells when simpler solutions would suffice, apparently more concerned with looking impressive than staying alive or conserving mana. The ones who treated this like a game rather than survival, who seemed to think their levels made them invincible rather than just slightly less likely to die horribly.

Zeph made mental notes about all of them, categorizing threats and potential allies with the same dispassionate assessment he applied to everything. Information was survival, and knowing who to trust—or more accurately, who not to trust—could mean the difference between completing this expedition and becoming another unmarked grave in the Wildlands.

Four hours into the march, as the twisted canopy above them began to block out even more of the daylight and the temperature dropped noticeably, the first real casualty occurred.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​