There were no maps of this place.
No names, no markers—just whispers carried by scavengers and kinfolk who rarely returned sane.
The Grey Maw.
Not a creature. Not a ruin.
A wound.
A rift in the land beyond Mourndusk where fractured Genesis Pulse spiraled endlessly, devouring memory, identity, even soul-tether. It didn't kill—it unmade. And it had grown.
The man in Mourndusk had spoken its name with fear, but also awe. As if something deeper waited inside.
So Vrakon went.
Not because he wanted to.
Because the Pulse led him.
---
🜂 Approach
The cliffs leading to the Maw were cracked and veined with glowing marrow-stone. Genesis Pulse storms had long since reshaped the terrain—trees turned to skeletal frames, rocks to boneglass.
Each step Vrakon took closer, the world grew quieter.
Not silent.
But muted—as if the Maw didn't just devour sound, but intention.
The spiral inside him pulsed erratically, as if uncertain.
Still he walked.
---
🕳️ The Maw Revealed
The rift was not wide—but deep.
Like a throat split in the earth.
Pulse vapors coiled upward in wisps, carrying flickers of faces, voices, even half-finished memories. Soul echoes. Some ancient, some recent.
Here, even reality lost its footing.
No animals, no scavengers, not even Bonebeasts roamed here.
Only remnants.
Only Pulse.
---
> "Why are you here?"
The voice wasn't real.
Vrakon didn't flinch.
He stood at the edge of the Grey Maw and did not peer in. He felt it. The pull wasn't downward—it was inward. As if the Maw offered a reflection of something within.
He sat. Not to rest, but to listen.
The Spiral deepened.
---
🧬 Pulse Resonance: Spiral Meditation
Vrakon didn't cultivate like others. He didn't sit in lotus form, chant mantras, or draw Pulse from relics. He let it unfold. A rhythm. A pattern. Like unlocking an ancient gate buried in himself.
The world around him warped—but not chaotically.
The Pulse became readable. It didn't attack—it offered.
Visions surged.
Flashes of other lives—other selves.
> A boy bleeding beneath a shattered moon.
A warrior dragging a broken spear through an endless storm.
A flame-eyed stranger surrounded by gods in chains.
Each fragment echoed with Spiral Instinct.
And something cracked.
---
🌌 Ascension Begins — Essence Initiate
The Spiral's rhythm changed. No longer circular—now layered. He didn't just react to Pulse. He understood it. Could anticipate its currents, redirect it, shape it.
The transition was quiet, not thunderous.
But complete.
Level 2 — Essence Initiate.
Now he could begin drawing from external sources. Not just reacting—but wielding. Not merely instinct, but control.
The spear beside him vibrated. Not metal. Not deadwood.
Now a vessel.
---
🕷️ The Maw Moves
The cliffs cracked behind him.
A being emerged—not made of flesh, but of Pulse given form. It moved like dripping smoke shaped into a jagged centipede, hundreds of soul-faces writhing beneath its translucent skin.
A Mawling.
Not created by a Pulse-Eater, but birthed from the Maw itself. Born of those who had entered and never left.
Level 2.5. Borderline Soul-Shaped.
Not quite intelligent. But aware.
---
⚔️ Combat — Essence Initiate Skill: "Echo Bend"
As it attacked, Vrakon extended his hand—not in fear, but in rhythm.
His Pulse coiled outward, not as force, but as imprint—a subtle redirection.
The Mawling's lunge faltered mid-air, twisted. It struck the ground beside him, confused. Its Pulse had been bent—not blocked, just shifted. Misdirected.
That was his first Essence Initiate skill:
> Echo Bend — Redirecting an opponent's Genesis Pulse flow by subtly harmonizing with it, and reversing the rhythm.
The Mawling screeched and reared back, but it had already lost.
Vrakon struck once—with the new spear, now humming with aligned resonance. The Mawling shattered like a broken illusion, its soul flickering into dust.
---
🕯️ Aftermath
The Maw did not close.
But it pulsed now… slowly. As if recognizing the one who had touched its rhythm without being devoured.
Vrakon stood. Stronger now—not in muscle, but in soul.
The Spiral had shifted. The world had taken notice.