I was standing in the middle of what used to be my room.
Now it looked like the aftermath of a small war.
The bedframe had splintered wood exposed where I had slammed into it. The wall bore shallow gouges, long claw marks carved through plaster and into brick. The floor was stained in several places, dark patches where blood had pooled before drying into something almost black.
If someone walked in right now, they would assume I had barely survived a brutal fight.
That would have been a reasonable conclusion.
It would also have been completely wrong.
I hadn't fought anyone.
I had fought myself.
More specifically, I needed to know exactly what I could endure. Guessing about durability is how you die. Assuming regeneration without testing it is how you lose something or someone important permanently.
So I tested.
For the past several hours, I had subjected myself to every form of damage my imagination could construct without being outright suicidal. I cut my skin repeatedly to measure resistance and depth thresholds. I timed how quickly the bleeding slowed and stopped. I observed clotting speed. I pushed further.
I tested regeneration.
Yes, that part required a certain degree of commitment.
I removed the tip of my finger.
Not the entire hand - I am reckless, not stupid - but enough to answer the important question: if I lost something in combat, would it come back?
The answer was yes.
Watching the flesh knit itself together was… fascinating. Muscle fibres crawled forward like living threads. Bone reformed with a faint internal pressure. Skin sealed last, smoothing over as if nothing had ever happened. It wasn't instant like in comic books, but it was fast. Disturbingly fast.
And the pain?
Manageable.
I also tested all three forms.
In human form, my skin is already comparable to a vampire's. A regular knife cannot pierce it. I tried. Multiple times. Kitchen knives bent slightly at the tip before I felt anything more than pressure. The only thing capable of slicing through my own skin with ease… are my claws.
That realisation was both reassuring and mildly concerning.
Regeneration is excellent. Deep cuts close in seconds. Surface burns fade before they properly register as injuries. If I hold my hand in open flame, it takes roughly twenty seconds before I develop even a minor burn, and that heals almost immediately after I withdraw.
I escalated.
In werelion form and full lion form, the difference is absurd.
My hide is significantly tougher than my human skin, layered with dense muscle and reinforced structure beneath. But the real surprise is the fur and mane. They are not just aesthetic. They function like insulation and armour. My fur is almost completely resistant to fire. It blackens slightly under prolonged exposure but refuses to ignite.
The hide beneath it takes even longer to sustain damage.
Based on what I tested, and yes, setting parts of yourself on fire indoors is inconvenient, it would likely take half an hour of sustained flame to cause anything more than superficial harm. And since the hide is covered by near fireproof fur, the combination makes me effectively resistant to fire in my beast forms.
Nearly immune, if we are being honest.
Electricity?
I braced myself for irony. It would have been amusing in a tragic way if I had become resistant to physical and fire damage only to be helpless against a power outlet.
But no. I felt nothing.
Not from household current. Not from improvised setups that would hospitalise a normal person instantly. The charge travelled across my surface and dispersed without meaningful penetration. At worst, there was mild warmth.
Which brings me to the amusing part.
My claws.
In human form, they slice through my own skin like it's butter. When I tested them against my werelion hide, they met resistance, real resistance, but still cut with effort and pressure. Against my fur and mane, however, they struggled significantly. The strands absorb force in a way that feels almost engineered.
Wings are also tough, comparable to the fur, which means they are not the fragile weakness mythology would suggest.
I tested those carefully. Wings are not something you experiment with recklessly. But their structure is dense, layered, and far more resilient than they appear. Cutting them was difficult. Burning them was nearly impossible.
"…So what you're telling me," I muttered to the empty air, flexing my claws once, "is that I'm basically a tank."
I stretched my wings slightly, grin widening.
"A highly mobile, regenerating, fire and electricity resistant, flying tank."
I paused, considering it.
"…That's ridiculous."
Then I snorted.
"I love it."
And standing there in the wreckage of my own room, covered in dried blood that was entirely mine, I realised something else.
I was smiling.
Not because I enjoy pain.
But because knowing, truly knowing, that you are this hard to kill changes something fundamental inside you.
Fear shifts.
Risk recalibrates.
I exhaled slowly and shook my head.
No.
That kind of thinking leads somewhere ugly.
Overconfidence is how predators become prey.
I am durable. I heal and regenerate.
But I am not immortal.
I can be killed.
There are things in this world I haven't encountered yet. Abilities I haven't seen. Vampire gifts that might be far more terrifying than the ones I've taken. Powers that don't rely on claws or flame or force.
Something that bypasses durability entirely.
So no, I don't get to relax just because I survived setting myself on fire in my own bedroom.
Better to assume there's always something worse out there.
Better to stay cautious.
Because the moment you believe you're untouchable…
That's usually when something proves you wrong.
The thought fades, the tension loosening as the world snaps back into focus. I blink and reality settles around me, my bedroom, or what's left of it. The air still smells faintly of smoke and copper. The carpet is dark with drying stains of blood. Furniture lies splintered and overturned, wood cracked, mattress half-burned, scorch marks crawling up the walls like black veins.
I look around at the devastation I apparently caused and let out a slow breath.
"Yeah," I mutter to myself, stepping over a broken chair leg. "I should probably fix this."
Because if the landlord decides to stop by to check the mail or inspect the property without notice, I'm absolutely fucked.