Richter examined the new quill with a critical eye, rotating it slowly between his fingers. Compared to his clumsy, improvised version from the night before, this one was a masterpiece.

  The Quillshape skill hadn’t just fixed the obvious flaws—it had refined the very essence of the tool. Where his blade-carved prototype had left jagged edges and uneven strokes, this quill offered a seamless flow, like ink drawn from the air itself.

  He noted the consistent taper, the perfectly balanced spine, and the subtle curvature that guided the hand naturally. Every detail suggested not just craftsmanship, but an understanding of how form could channel intention. Richter couldn’t help but marvel—this was more than a tool; it was a conduit for expression.

  Richter held the parchment up to the light, analyzing it with the same precision he'd applied to the quill.

  The Parchmentbind skill had clearly done its job—transforming raw wood into a smooth, supple sheet—but he was more interested in what lingered beneath the surface. The faint striations running parallel along the grain, the whisper-thin grooves near the edges, and the subtle impressions of bark told a quiet story of transformation. He noted the warm yellow hue, just shy of true white, which spoke of natural oils still present in the fibers. This wasn't just paper—it was a preserved memory of the tree it had come from. To Richter, that connection between origin and function added value. The page retained a soul, something a factory-pressed sheet would never carry.

  The ink stirred something in him. The blood he had just poured into the inkwell had transformed—no longer truly blood, yet unmistakably retaining its deep, vivid crimson. It shimmered with a strange vitality, but it no longer clotted, no longer thickened with time. It had become something new: a medium of permanence, memory, and intent.

  And what was he using these finely crafted instruments for?

  To draw a tree—specifically, an aspen-like tree, the same species used to create the parchment he now held. It felt fitting, almost poetic.

  Before the System had changed everything, Richter had been an ecologist. Not a field biologist or a lab-bound academic, but a niche enthusiast obsessed with historical ecology. He’d devoured the works of Darwin, Humboldt, and Wallace—not just for their discoveries, but for the process behind them. The rigorous methodology, the meticulous journaling, the exhilaration of stepping into unknown ecosystems and documenting new species.

  Drawing this tree now wasn’t just art—it was data collection, observational practice, a quiet return to form. He couldn’t help himself; even here, in a new world, the thrill of cataloguing life had followed him.

  The tree stood slender and elegant, its trunk rising with minimal branching, giving it a stark, vertical silhouette. Its bark was an almost ghostly white, marked with irregular black scars that formed natural, calligraphic patterns along its length. The leaves, pale green and trembling with the slightest breeze, shimmered like flecks of sunlight through morning mist. Closer to the base, the bark flaked and peeled away in delicate curls, creating a ring of shed layers around the roots—like it had outgrown several skins and left them behind as quiet offerings to the forest floor.

  He had spent the better part of the morning meticulously recording every detail of this one tree, and he relished every second of it. Each line, each annotation had been a small act of reverence. As he stepped into the cave, he carefully slid the documents into the crevice where the cache had once been—a secure, concealed nook he now trusted to keep his observations safe.

  Now came the true centerpiece of his study—there was one more subject he needed to catalogue: the creature responsible for his quill. The Duskbeak Scavenger.

  Just the name thrilled him. He could already envision the entry: morphology sketches, behavioral notes, habitat cross-references. This wasn’t just about giving credit to the source of his writing tool—it was about understanding an ecosystem, a relationship between material and creature, form and function.

  He couldn’t wait to observe it properly, to document it with the same obsessive detail he had once reserved for rare species back on Earth.

  But now he had an edge he never possessed back on Earth: the blade. More specifically, what resided within it—the essences. It currently held three, each extracted from Duskbeak Scavengers.

  Their presence imbued the blade with a resonance, a kind of latent memory. Richter wasn't entirely sure what each essence did, not yet, but he could feel the potential humming beneath the metal. It was like holding a living hypothesis—one he was itching to test, dissect, and understand.

  He had no desire to relive another's memories—not after the last time—but the blade had suggested its essence could be used in crafting.

  That thought lingered like an itch at the edge of his curiosity. What if he introduced the essence into the ink? Would it change the ink’s behaviour, or imbue the writing with something more? Knowledge? Emotion? Memory encoded in pigment? The possibilities tugged at him, half thrilling, half terrifying.?

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  His ink was ready. He produced the first essence from the level 2 Duskbeak, and the red orb formed on the tip of the blade like a drop of molten ruby. He guided it over the inkwell and let it fall. As it touched the surface, waves rippled outward, distorting the reflection of the cave ceiling above. A distant bird call echoed faintly through the air, as though the creature's voice had been momentarily released. Then, just as quickly, the surface stilled and the ink returned to its prior state—serene, deep crimson.

  Encouraged, he retrieved the second level 2 essence. Again, the orb coalesced, slightly darker this time, as if the memory it carried was more burdened. He dropped it into the well. The waves returned—stronger now—and the bird call was louder, layered, almost mournful. The ink pulsed darker for a moment, turning a shade close to black, before fading back to its original hue. It felt as if the well itself had inhaled something wild and then swallowed it whole.

  And now, the final piece: the level 3 essence. He hesitated, blade hovering above the ink. This essence vibrated with intensity, its orb darker and more erratic, flickering like it couldn’t hold its shape. He released it.

  The ink flared, rippling violently. A full flock's call burst forth, layered and chaotic—a soundscape of Duskbeaks in motion. Shapes seemed to shimmer inside the well, like wings beating against the glassy surface. For a heartbeat, the ink turned wild, storm-dark, as if the flock had taken refuge inside. Then, in a breath, it quieted, settled. The ink returned to stillness, but something had changed. The essence of the flock now lived within it—feral, alert, and waiting.

  You have crafted [Resonant Ink of Duskbeak Scavenger (Unique)]: A rare blood-based ink imbued with the collective essence of a Duskbeak flock. Though still and calm to the eye, it hums with latent memory and wild instinct.

  Richter stared at the ink, heart thudding, a part of him unnerved—and yet utterly fascinated. He leaned closer, watching the liquid shift ever so subtly, as if unseen feathers stirred just beneath its surface. This wasn’t just ink anymore. It felt alive.

  His mind raced. What would happen when it touched parchment? Would the flock reveal itself in script or sketch? Would the essence influence his hand, or speak through it? He could barely contain the urge to test it, to see.

  He jotted a small mark, a curve, a line. The moment the quill met the ink, it glided with eerie ease—silk on glass. But then, the ink surged. His hand stiffened—not from resistance, but as if guided. The quill danced, scribbling, sketching, faster than he could consciously control.

  Lines bloomed into shapes, curves into feathers. The image of a Duskbeak Scavenger emerged on the page—poised mid-hop, its eyes alert and beak slightly ajar. Notes spiralled around it in meticulous script: habitat ranges, foraging behaviours, feeding adaptations, and subtle plumage variations among individuals. The annotations came unbidden, drawn from memory, instinct, perhaps even the flock itself.

  He stared; breath caught. This wasn't just drawing. This was data transcription at a level beyond human capacity—guided not by intellect alone, but by the living echo within the ink.

  He whispered, "Incredible." This wasn’t just science or craftsmanship anymore. This was communion, collaboration—a merging of mind, magic, and memory.

  Then, something changed. Ink surged upward from the well with unnatural force, spilling onto the page like a living tide. The parchment drank it in hungrily, more and more, but it wasn’t satisfied.

  A sudden, searing pain lanced across Richter’s palm as a wound tore itself open—clean, precise, ritualistic. Blood welled up, pulled toward the quill as if summoned. He gasped, staggered, the shock making his breath hitch.

  The ink and page were no longer passive tools. They were hungry.

  His health plummeted, mana draining in waves that left him lightheaded. The pain bloomed hot and ragged through his arm, and panic clutched his chest. He gritted his teeth, eyes wide, heart hammering. Fear licked the edges of his mind—but so did awe.

  It stopped as abruptly as it had begun. His mana was gone—drained to the last drop—and his health had plummeted to a perilous sliver, barely a tenth remaining. His vision swam, heart pounding in his ears. Then, a soft chime broke through the haze, and a notification shimmered into view, cold and clinical against the backdrop of chaos.

  Skill removed [Unstable Mana Lance (Uncommon)]- Soulbound

  Item Crafted [Scroll of the Unstable Duskbeak Tri-Lance (Unique)]: A spell scroll infused with the coordinated predatory instincts of the Duskbeak Scavenger. Upon activation, summons up to three spectral mana lances in avian formation. Each lance moves with piercing speed and flock-like synchronization, capable of striking multiple targets or concentrating on one for overwhelming impact. Scales with Intellect and Dexterity.

  Born from chaos, refined by instinct—unstable, but never aimless.

  Uses: ∞

  If damaged this scroll will repair.

  For what felt like the hundredth time in the past few days, Richter collapsed. His legs gave out with practiced familiarity, and he hit the ground with the resigned groan of someone who was beginning to treat this as a normal part of his process. He wasn’t even surprised anymore—just mildly annoyed, like a scholar too absorbed in discovery to notice the toll it took. This was becoming routine. Dangerous, exhausting, but disturbingly routine.

  Cain's eyes narrowed, his usual smirk absent. Nadu scrambled to examine the scroll, his fingers twitching with urgency.

  "How is that even possible? A soulbound scroll—with infinite uses?" Cain asked, his voice low and sharp, stripped of its usual levity. "Nadu, any theories? What's going on here?"

  There was no teasing now. Just focused intensity. Cain wanted answers—and fast.

  "No records... not possible... not just essences—something else." The blue god's voice fractured, his thoughts spilling out in jagged, incomplete fragments. His eyes darted with frantic calculation, as if searching through some invisible archive. He wasn’t making sense—his sentences short, broken, like static from a divine mind overwhelmed.

  “This is the second time,” Cain muttered. “Essences behaving outside system rules. Something’s rewriting the laws, and we’re letting it happen.”