What happened here

I'm about two minutes of walking away from the clearing when I stop and unceremoniously drop the wolf corpse to the ground with a thud.

The body is still fresh—too fresh. Blood pools beneath it, seeping out from the two gaping holes I made with my own hands: one in its torso, ragged and wide, and another in its neck, where I willed its life to end. Its eyes are half-closed, glazed over in death, and its mouth hangs slightly open, exposing bloodstained teeth.

I wrinkle my nose. Gross.

It's not like I've gone soft or anything, but still... wolves. I like dogs, okay? There's something unsettling about this. Couldn't it have been goblins? They're annoying, ugly, and way easier to feel good about tearing apart.

I sigh and kneel down beside the corpse, placing my hands firmly on its matted fur. For a moment, nothing happens. The stillness stretches, as I try to remember the feeling from earlier in as much detail as possible.

The flesh starts to ripple under my palms, the motion subtle at first but growing stronger, like the surface of water disturbed by an unseen hand.

Fleshcrafting is... weird.

It's like flipping a switch in my mind, and suddenly I can move the flesh beneath my hands—not in a precise or detailed way, but enough to mold and shift it. I'm not sure if this taps into mana, stamina, or something else entirely, but I'm about to find out.

I focus on the wolf's paw first. Nothing too complicated—just a small, controlled action. With my hand resting over it, I push with my mind, willing the flesh to respond.

At first, the change is slow and hesitant. The paw twitches, then the muscle beneath my fingers shifts, distorting the natural contours. The fur ripples unnaturally, like a thin film of liquid is moving beneath it. I press harder with my thoughts, and the flesh bunches together, compacting into an almost deformed shape.

Weird. Definitely weird.

There's no heat, no surge of power that I'd associate with magic—just this vague sense of effort, like trying to manipulate dough that resists your every move. I release the pressure in my mind, and the paw returns to its original state, though the fur is slightly ruffled.

I close my eyes and try again, this time focusing on the wolf's abdomen. I want to know if Fleshcrafting provides any kind of sensory feedback, like feeling the internal structures or detecting temperature differences.

The result? Static.

It's like trying to hear whispers through a blaring radio, or staring at a blank canvas expecting an image to appear. I know something is happening—I can feel the faintest sense of motion, like distant vibrations—but it's muddled, incomprehensible.

It's impossible to tell if I'm getting too much feedback or not enough. My thoughts flit between annoyance, curiosity, and sheer fucking awe but I force myself to continue.

I keep my hands on the wolf's abdomen, mentally nudging the flesh. The muscle shifts beneath the surface, forming irregular bumps that settle and smooth out as I relax my focus. I try to "listen" to the changes, hoping for some clarity, but the sensation remains frustratingly dull. I try again and again and some minutes pass, but I feel so progress.

So I move on to the next test.

My hands flat on the wolf's chest, I press lightly, and will the flesh to move. It responds immediately, rippling beneath my fingers like a disturbed surface of water. So far, so good.

Next, I pull my hands back, hovering just above the surface. Nothing happens. I focus harder, willing the change to occur. Slowly, the fur begins to shift, and the flesh beneath it trembles—but it's weak and sluggish compared to direct contact.

I raise my hand higher, about an inch above the wolf's body, and try again. The response is even slower this time, the ripples almost imperceptible. Another inch, and the effect becomes so faint that it's practically nonexistent.

Frowning, I lean forward, closing the gap between my palm and the wolf's abdomen by just a few centimeters. The reaction returns immediately. It's stronger now, but still weaker than when I was touching it directly.

Conclusion: The further I am from the target, the weaker the effect. There seems to be an exponential drop-off for every centimeter of distance.

I pause, taking a moment to assess my body. My chest still aches from the gash I patched earlier, but the pain is manageable. I don't feel any mental strain, even after several minutes of Fleshcrafting. My thoughts remain sharp, unclouded by fatigue.

However, my stomach growls loudly, breaking the silence of the forest.

Great.

I try to connect the dots, but there are quite few of them. Is it hunger from the ability, or just the physical exertion of the day catching up with me? It's hard to tell. I haven't exactly eaten much since this whole ordeal began, so I can't rule out either possibility.

For now, I'll just note that Fleshcrafting doesn't seem to sap mental energy. Physically? Maybe. But I'll need more controlled tests before I can be sure.

Now for the fun—and by fun, I mean disgusting—part.

I already know Fleshcrafting works on living and dead flesh, but I want to be thorough. Kneeling beside the wolf corpse, I start with its fur and skin. My hands move across its matted coat, and the flesh yields beneath my touch like softened clay. It's gross, yes, but manageable.

Next, I cut into the muscle tissue. My hand seems to work as well as any knife, and I press my fingers against the exposed red fibers. Again, the texture ripples and shifts under my command, as if the tissue itself is waiting for my guidance.

I peel back layers of flesh to expose the abdominal cavity, grimacing at the stench. The intestines are slick and coiled tightly, glistening in the faint light. With some reluctance, I prod them. They respond as expected, twisting and compressing beneath my touch. The smell, however, is atrocious.

I push past the wave of nausea and focus on the last test: the bones.

Placing a hand over the wolf's ribcage, I focus on the rigid structure beneath the skin. It takes more effort, but I feel the bone shift ever so slightly—a subtle crackling sensation as it responds to my command. It's not as malleable as the flesh, but it's not immune, either.

Finally, I glance at the surrounding plant matter: leaves, grass, a fallen branch. I touch them, focusing intently, but nothing happens. Not even the faintest twitch. As expected.

But when I inspect the wolf's stomach contents—half-digested flesh and bone—I find it's still moldable.

Conclusion: Fleshcrafting works on both living and dead tissue, including bone and organ matter. Plant matter? Useless. Where do the limits lie, exactly? I don't know yet, but I sure as hell will, eventually.

I lean back, wiping my hands on the grass as best I can, though the stench clings stubbornly to my skin.

"Life's shitty sometimes," I mutter, shaking my head. This was the grossest science experiment I've ever conducted, but discipline doesn't care. It has never been the type to mind small details when there is work to be done.

Twenty minutes in, and one thing is abundantly clear.

I, unfortunately, can not create matter from nothing.

I've tried every trick I could think of—focusing harder, visualizing growth, willing new tissue to sprout into existence—but nothing works. No matter how much I push, I can only manipulate the existing flesh and bones.

Apparently, while the laws of physics have taken a backseat in this "floor", some remnants of reality still linger. Like a ghost that refuses to pass on, the conservation of mass looms over my efforts. I suppose if I ever want to "grow" something new, I'll have to source it from somewhere else.

On the bright side, I now know my limits. And limits, inconvenient as they are, can be broken, or at least worked around. Perhaps one day I'll figure out how to transmute tissues or even rearrange molecular structures. For now, though, I'm stuck playing with what's already there.

Alas, since I can't create matter, I might as well see how finely I can shape it.

First attempt: muscle fibers.

I focus on the wolf's torn foreleg, trying to isolate a single muscle fiber and adjust it. The result? Mixed success.

Shitty as my feedback is, I can still somewhat, barely, almost sense the fibers as distinct threads in a larger bundle, but my control is clumsy. Moving one fiber shifts several others alongside it, like trying to pluck a single strand from a tangle of yarn.

Second attempt: separation.

I push harder, visualizing the individual threads pulling apart. Slowly, the fibers respond. A single strand wiggles free, stretching like a red piece of spaghetti under my mental command.

Encouraged, I repeat the process on another part of the leg. This time, the movements are smoother.

Observation: My precision is improving with every attempt, like learning to write with my non-dominant hand. It's awkward now, but I can already feel my control sharpening.

Now that I know my level of control, can I do cosmetic edits?

I start with the wolf's skin texture. Running my hands along its flank, I imagine the surface smoothing out, like polishing a rough stone. Sure enough, the fur retracts slightly, leaving a patch of eerily smooth, bare skin in its place.

Then I move on to shaping. With a little effort, I mold the skin around its snout into a lopsided lump. It's ugly, but the wolf doesn't complain since he wasn't a vain creature, of that I am sure.

Lastly, I attempt to change coloration. I focus on the pale gray of its coat, willing it to darken or shift hues. Nothing happens. No matter how hard I push, the color remains stubbornly the same.

Conclusion: I can alter the skin's texture and shape with relative ease, but coloration is a no-go for now. Does biology as I know it still live? Are melanocytes the last bastion of normalcy, refusing to bend to the whims of the system?

I laugh a bit, since the thought was quite funny, then I dig deeper—literally.

Muscle manipulation proves straightforward. The tissues are pliable, responding to my touch like warm clay. I twist and knot them into grotesque shapes, marveling at how effortlessly they bend to my will.

Blood vessels and nerves are trickier. They're finer, more fragile. Adjusting them feels like threading a needle with shaky hands. Still, after a few tries, I manage to reroute a cluster of vessels, redirecting them into a crude spiral pattern.

Bone, however, is a nightmare.

I press my hands against the wolf's ribcage, willing the rigid structure to shift. The bones resist, stubborn and unyielding, like trying to shape a rock with bare hands. But I persist, grinding my will against the resistance.

Minutes later, I succeed—barely.

Using some of the wolf's tail bones as raw material, I fashion a crude pair of antlers sprouting from its skull. They're uneven and jagged, but they hold their shape.

I lean back, wiping sweat from my brow, and admire my handiwork. The wolf now looks like something out of a horror movie, with its smooth patches of skin, twisted muscles, and weird antlers.

A few more minutes pass, and the wolf corpse is now unrecognizable—a formless blob of muscle, sinew, and bone. It looks more like an art project than an animal. I can't help but smile at my progress.

The process feels oddly familiar, almost like coding or assembling a jigsaw puzzle. Each piece has its place, and it's my job to figure out how they fit together.

I focus on attaching a bundle of muscle directly to one of the ribs which now protrude from the blob like hedgehog spikes. The process works—kind of. The muscle adheres to the bone, but the connection is weak and flimsy. A gentle tug is enough to pull it apart.

Conclusion: The issue isn't the ability itself—it's me. I understand the structure of tissues in theory, but applying that knowledge in practice is harder than I expected. Without keeping the microscopic details of histology in mind, my creations lack the strength and cohesion they should have. This is something I'll need to work on.

To test whether my alterations are permanent, I leave the corpse alone for a few minutes.

While I wait, I drop to the ground and crank out a quick set of push-ups. Sweat beads on my forehead as I count each rep. It's oddly relaxing—almost meditative.

Five minutes pass, never to return unless I learn chronomancy or something.

When I check the wolf again, everything is exactly as I left it. No degradation, no reversion to its original state.

Observation: The alterations seem stable, at least for dead tissue. For living tissue? That's a test for another day. Preferably with a "volunteer" that isn't me.

Nah, just kidding.

Reason screams at me to stop, but the thrill of discovery drowns out its protests. Madness has been patient until now, quietly guiding me through each step, but it's grown restless. It demands more.

"Start small," I tell myself, though the words feel like a flimsy safety net.

Even so, I begin with something simple—my nails.

I focus on them, willing them to sharpen. The sensation is strange, like a tingling pressure building at the tips of my fingers. Slowly, my nails lengthen and taper into razor-sharp points. They look cool, but I quickly notice a problem: they're fragile. Without additional material, the same keratin has just been stretched thinner, leaving them far less durable than before.

But nails are just keratin for all mammals, right?

The thought sparks an idea. I glance at the wolf's dismembered paws and the claws still attached to them.

One by one, I pry the claws free. They feel unnervingly light in my hands, like brittle shards of bone, but they'll do. Carefully, I press each claw against my own nails on my left hand, willing them to merge.

The process is… unpleasant.

A sharp sting spreads through my fingertips as the foreign material sinks into my nails. Blood wells up around the edges, trickling down my hand in thin streams. I grit my teeth and push through the discomfort.

Finally, the sensation subsides, and I raise my hand to examine the results.

The nails on my left hand are now darker and thicker, with a faint, glossy sheen that catches the light. They seem much more solid, though I haven't anchored them to the bones of my fingers. The wolf claws have fused seamlessly with my own keratin, forming a hybrid that feels sturdier and sharper than before.

I hold my hand up to the light, flexing my fingers. The edges gleam wickedly.

"Not bad," I mutter.

To test their durability, I rake my claws against the nearest tree. The bark splinters beneath my touch, leaving thin scars etched into its surface. The sight sends a shiver of satisfaction down my spine.

Whoever said strength for the sake of strength is boring was certainly lacking in imagination.

Observation: The process is...almost painless, and the results are promising. With more practice, I might even be able to strengthen the nails further.

Testing healing is the next logical step, but... this is trickier.

I've been keeping an eye on the wound in my chest since the fight. It's still sore, but I've noticed something strange: the edges of the gash seem to be knitting together faster than they should.

Is it Constitution coming in clutch? Or did my stupid attempt actually work decently?

To test further, I'll need to see if I can accelerate the process consciously. For now, I'll keep monitoring it.

I glance at my sharpened nails and flex my fingers, feeling the latent potential buzzing beneath my skin.

"This is just the beginning," I murmur. "I'll do more, so much more..."

Alas, I suppose that can wait a bit. My stomach is becoming annoyingly loud, and it seems a visit back to the clearing is in order.

I glance at what remains of what was once a wolf. The soul bead that had been condensing above it wobbles slightly, less substantial than what I saw with the goblin from earlier, even though the wolf had an equal level. Odd. Wolves must have smaller or weaker souls, or perhaps all animals simply condense less soul essence compared to sapient beings.

Regardless, the moment I touch the small soul nugget, it vanishes like before, dissolving into my palm with a faint inward pull. The slight feeling of pressure, nearly imperceptible before, strengthens slightly.

I haven't even taken a dump yet, so the feeling is once again unreliable. My grin widens at the thought.

With my spear in hand, I begin walking back toward the clearing. My eyes dart from shadow to shadow, scanning for any signs of danger, but I let my thoughts wander—carefully, without losing track of my surroundings.

Some questions will have to wait. For instance, does temperature, humidity, or other conditions impact my ability? Could I still mold burnt flesh, or does it lose whatever magical essence this power relies on? More experiments are needed.

I chew over what I've observed so far, trying to piece together a working theory.

The ability feels... biological. Cellular, even. The tingling sensation when I mold flesh reminds me of neural feedback, almost like my nerves are "communicating" with the tissue. Maybe the ability works by hijacking cellular signals—rewriting them, in a way. This would explain the proximity requirements.

Could it be akin to epigenetic manipulation? A process that overrides normal gene expression to force rapid tissue remodeling? Or maybe it works on a deeper level—down to the cytoskeletal structures of cells. Microtubules and actin filaments rearranged at my command. The skill itself could be akin to a user interface for my puny human brain that can't process that kind of data. That would explain the static feedback but there are many other holes to patch.

Energy-wise, there's no visible mana glow, no spell circles, nothing. The process feels a bit raw, as though my body itself is fueling the changes. This makes sense, given the mounting hunger.

I am 80% sure it increased unnaturally the more experiments I did. It could mean the ability relies on ATP consumption, burning through my caloric reserves at an accelerated rate. That would explain the lack of mental strain but increased physical exhaustion.

As for scale, I seem limited to parts of an organism rather than its entirety. I suspect this might be tied to the density of nervous connections. The more complex and interconnected the system—like an entire living body—the harder it becomes to control cohesively.

There are also potential risks which Madness would rather ignore, but my Reason isn't quite that weak. While I haven't noticed any immediate signs of infection, it doesn't mean it's impossible to happen. Open wounds, especially those I've tampered with, could become breeding grounds for bacteria.

But do bacteria still exist? They should, there are many more bacteria in the human body than there are human cells, but I can't rely on assumptions from earth, so who knows? Maybe a high constitution makes them irrelevant.

My lack of precision is also concerning. If I accidentally disrupt key cellular pathways—like apoptosis or immune responses—I could end up with uncontrolled growths or necrosis, but this should be easier to manage than sepsis.

The hunger could also be a warning sign. My body clearly has limits, and I have no idea what happens if I push beyond them. Organ failure? Auto-cannibalism? Best not to find out, eh?

As I trudge back toward the clearing, I make a mental note to document all of this.

A pen and paper would be ideal, but for now, my memory will have to suffice.

My thoughts stray toward the tantalizing possibilities of more advanced experiments. If I survive long enough—and if this ability continues to evolve—there's so much more I could achieve.

First on the list? Microscopic observation. I'd literally kill for a microscope right now. The changes I make are palpable, visible on a macro scale, but what about cellular-level transformations? Are the cells dividing, rearranging, or simply merging? Without a way to see the finer details, I'm fumbling in the dark.

The nails were a success—a crude but promising proof of concept. But what about other tissues? Eyes, glands, even internal organs like kidneys? Could I graft a wolf's adrenal gland onto myself for a natural boost of adrenaline? The implications are mind-boggling.

What's especially intriguing is the question of tissue rejection. Normally, the major histocompatibility complex (MHC) would ensure that foreign tissue is attacked by the immune system. Does this ability bypass MHC entirely? Or am I simply ignorant of subtle, delayed consequences? That's gotta be fucking tested before I try it on myself. There's a difference between madness and stupidity, after all.

And then there's movement. Could I force the tissue to function even when it should not? For example, could I reanimate a severed muscle and make it twitch on command? If so, what are the limits to coordination and control? Could I build... something more?

I don't know, but now my short-term goal is clear.

Practice until every alteration is consistent, precise, and predictable. Flesh would become a medium, a canvas, as natural to manipulate as clay to a sculptor. Also, find out how the fuck Soul Well actually works.

A sharp, acrid sting fills my nostrils, and my nose twitches instinctively. My stride slows, confusion creeping in.

Smoke. A lot of smoke.

My pulse spikes as I sprint the last few dozen meters toward the clearing. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flicker of red—a flash of hair, barely visible through the trees. It's there for an instant, then gone, leaving me questioning whether I saw it at all.

When I burst into the clearing, the sight makes me stumble to a halt.

The half-built bar is a charred ruin, its skeletal frame crackling as flames consume what remains. Blackened planks crumble inward, the structure collapsing on itself. The air is thick with smoke and the cloying stench of burnt flesh.

Bodies lie strewn across the clearing, some piled near the burning bar, others crumpled where they fell. Blood pools beneath them, soaking into the dirt and grass. Some are burned beyond recognition, others are riddled with bullet holes.

No in-betweens.

I stand there, frozen, spear gripped tightly in my hand, and I suppress the urge to burst out laughing.

What the fuck happened here?