Night did not fall.

  It gathered.

  Light thinned as if a veil were drawn across the sky one careful inch at a time.

  Warmth faded first.

  Then color.

  Then distance.

  The forest shifted from layered space into suggestion.

  Movement mattered more than shape.

  Sound more than sight.

  He felt it before he understood it.

  A vibration at ground level.

  Soft.

  Deliberate.

  Slow.

  Something brushing through grass.

  Not hopping like the bird.

  Not shaking earth like the human.

  Gliding.

  He stiffened instinctively.

  “I would prefer,” he thought carefully, “to not participate in whatever this is.”

  The vibration paused.

  Then resumed.

  Closer.

  Segmented.

  Long.

  Low to the soil.

  It brushed a nearby grass blade.

  Testing.

  Methodical.

  Searching.

  Darkness deepened.

  Without sunlight, his energy intake slowed to a faint trickle.

  Reserves were limited.

  He had already spent much pushing through stone.

  The vibration reached him.

  Cool contact brushed his stem.

  Slightly damp.

  It lingered.

  Then slid toward the base where stem met soil.

  Alarm surged — sharp and absolute.

  Cutworm.

  Certainty without sound.

  The creature coiled around his base.

  Mandibles opened.

  He redirected energy instantly.

  Harden the outer layer.

  Concentrate density.

  The flow resisted precision.

  He was clumsy.

  The worm bit.

  Not pain.

  Structural failure.

  Fibers tearing.

  Sap pressure dropping.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  His stem shuddered.

  “Absolutely not,” he snapped internally.

  Energy surged toward the wound.

  Cells divided frantically.

  The base thickened unevenly.

  The worm bit again.

  Lower.

  Closer to soil.

  A deeper cut.

  His upper stem swayed dangerously.

  Connection weakening.

  He tried altering composition — redirecting minerals through the channel, attempting bitterness.

  Minimal change.

  The worm chewed.

  Unimpressed.

  “You have no standards,” he told it. “This is barely developed tissue.”

  Another bite.

  The base narrowed.

  He was nearly severed.

  He poured energy downward.

  Not into the dying upper section.

  Into the lowest intact point near soil.

  Reinforce the root.

  The worm bit again.

  The final strand snapped.

  The upper third of his stem fell sideways.

  Disconnected.

  The loss registered instantly.

  A phantom where growth had been.

  Gone.

  The worm paused.

  Investigated the fallen piece.

  Chewed experimentally.

  Then focused on it instead of him.

  He did not move.

  Energy reserves were nearly empty.

  He felt hollow.

  Each chew vibrated through the soil — the sound of his former self being consumed.

  He wanted to rage.

  He settled for dryness.

  “Fine,” he thought faintly. “Take it.”

  The forest hummed.

  Predation as routine.

  Not cruelty.

  Continuation.

  The worm eventually lost interest in his thickened base.

  Too dense.

  Too costly.

  It withdrew into the grass.

  Gone.

  He remained.

  Half of what he had been.

  Crooked.

  Emergency growth had bulged one side grotesquely.

  The other thinned.

  Uneven.

  Irreversible.

  He attempted instinctively to reconnect with the severed portion.

  Impossible.

  The vascular link was gone.

  Dead tissue.

  Abandon.

  The word lodged heavily.

  He redirected what moisture he could still draw into stabilizing the surviving base.

  Enough to stand.

  Barely.

  The night dragged on.

  Small movements passed around him.

  He remained alert.

  Tense.

  Every vibration a potential return.

  “You don’t get to finish the job,” he murmured inwardly.

  Hours stretched.

  The sky lightened.

  Shapes returned.

  Weak sunlight touched him.

  Energy resumed.

  Slow.

  Gentle.

  He had survived.

  Not intact.

  Alive.

  He assessed clinically.

  One-third lost.

  Structural imbalance permanent.

  Base reinforced asymmetrically.

  Damage visible.

  He hated it.

  He could not fix it.

  Not yet.

  Understanding settled coldly.

  He had nearly died not from weakness—

  But from lack of control.

  He had flailed.

  Reacted.

  Wasted energy.

  His hardening was imprecise.

  His chemical alteration crude.

  His growth uncontrolled.

  He did not lack will.

  He lacked mastery.

  Sunlight strengthened.

  Energy flowed steadily again.

  He did not feel victorious.

  He felt sharpened.

  The asymmetry would remain.

  A record carved into his form.

  The forest did not care.

  The worm would hunt again.

  Humans would walk like gods again.

  He was still fragile.

  Still tiny.

  Still breakable.

  But he was no longer naive.

  He would learn control.

  Not just growth.

  Not just survival.

  Control.

  And next time—

  He would not be so easy to cut.