Nyxaria lay on her bed, staring up at the uneven stone ceiling, her arms folded beneath her head. Though the village had long since settled into sleep, her eyes remained sharp and alert.
She couldn't sleep.
Her body, honed through years of midnight missions and blood-drenched battles, rejected rest. Sleep was a luxury—one she never truly had. And now, in a world filled with unknown threats and mysterious system, it felt even more foolish to lower her guard.
"This city is just a broken piece of a larger puzzle," she mused silently. "What is the world like beyond this forsaken place? What dangers wait?"
After all, The nightmare city is just the abandoned part of this beastmen world. What is the outside world like.
A sudden muffled sound snapped her thoughts.
It wasn't a regular night sound.
Faint, but unmistakably human—distressed.
Nyxaria sat up instantly, every muscle tense. Her hand reached for the dagger on her waist as she slipped from bed, soundless like a shadow. The sound faded but hadn't vanished entirely. A muffled cry, followed by rustling leaves.
She crept toward the door, opened it slightly, and listened.
The faint rustle of leaves… another muffled cry.
Something was wrong.
Nyxaria stepped outside into the cool night air, eyes narrowing. Her sharp hearing caught the rustling coming from the edge of the village—near the thickets to the west. She moved without hesitation, blending into the night like a predator.
As she approached the source, her instincts screamed.
She slowed her steps, hand hovering over her weapon.
Bushes trembled ahead.
Her steps were silent. Shadows swallowed her form as she moved with practiced grace toward the bushes. Her fingers brushed her dagger. She parted the thick foliage cautiously.
What she saw made her blood freeze—then boil.
Four beastmen, rough and rugged, surrounded a small, trembling female. Her torn clothes barely clung to her frame. A deep red handprint bloomed across her cheek, and her limbs were pinned—one man holding her arms, another her legs. The third stood back, covering her mouth, while the fourth leaned in close with perverse hunger in his eyes. His hand reached toward the girl's chest, saliva dribbling from his lips.
The girl was struggling—weakly—but her eyes were wild with terror. Tears poured silently down her cheeks.
Nyxaria's dagger gleamed in the moonlight as she gripped it tightly.
Before the fourth man could lay a hand on the girl, he froze—an icy instinct prickled down his spine. Something was behind him. Something cold… and deadly.
He turned his head, confusion creasing his brow.
"Who's th—?"
He never finished.
A flash of silver arced through the moonlight. One clean stroke.
Nyxaria's dagger slid across his throat. Silence followed the sound—then the thud of a body collapsing. Blood splattered against the grass as he shifted mid-fall into a wolf-like beast, lifeless before he hit the ground.
The other three recoiled, first in terror—then in disbelief.
The moonlight illuminated her figure. Her silver hair shimmered like moonlight, Her face was calm—eerily so. Blood dripped from the edge of her blade, but not a flicker of emotion marred her expression. She stood like a ghost carved from the night, her presence suffocating. She was like a statue carved in ice. Her aura radiated a cold, suffocating pressure—an executioner's promise.
Her star-flecked violet eyes were fixed on them like a devil looking down at its preys.
Black Fox.
That's her true self.
The flower of death, nurtured in blood, blooming only where corpses lay. The one raised in darkness, trained where screams echoed louder than lullabies. Death followed wherever she stepped.
When Nyxaria's eyes fell upon the victim's face, everything inside her snapped.
It was Sira.
Tears stained her cheeks. Her lips were bleeding because of the hard slap. Her clothes, ragged.
Something inside Nyxaria shattered and roared all at once.
And in the next breath, everything turned to ice.
The wind seemed to vanish. The air grew cold—deathly still.
The three remaining men took an unconscious step back.
But one—a taller one with a scar slicing through his scalp—snarled. "She's just a female," he spat, beast eyes glowing. "Think you can scare us?"
He bared his teeth. "You bitch, how dare you kill someone from the east. You're courting death."
He charged.
Nyxaria didn't move until the last second.
Then she sidestepped fluidly, grabbed his arm mid-swing, and twisted it until bone cracked. Then, without emotion, she plunged her blade into his gut then with a sharp kick, she sent him tumbling back.
Another rushed at her angrily, beastly fists swinging. She ducked low, slashing across his knee tendons, and he collapsed screaming. Before he could reach for her, she stomped on his throat with deadly precision.
The third tried to run.
He didn't make it two steps.
Her knife flew, a gleam of death through the darkness.
It pierced clean through the back of his neck. His body dropped mid-shift, a beast's twitch marking his last moment.
Three more corpses joined the first.
All of them reverted to beast form—silent and unmoving under the moon.
Four lifeless wolfs.
Nyxaria exhaled, steadying her breath.
Sira was curled on the ground, hands covering her head, shoulders shaking violently. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out—only trembling gasps.
Nyxaria sheathed her blade.
She crouched beside the girl, fingers brushing aside a few strands of hair. Her voice came soft—low, like wind through leaves. "It's alright now."
"You're safe."
Sira peeked through her fingers.
Her eyes widened.
Recognition. Relief. Grief.
She tried to speak—her mouth moved, but no voice came.
Tears streamed down.
Nyxaria didn't hesitate. She wrapped the cloak which she took out from the system space gently around the girl's trembling form. Sira clutched it tightly, as if her life depended on it. Her hands rose—shaky fingers forming gestures.
"I'm sorry… I couldn't fight them…"
Nyxaria caught the meaning and shook her head.
"You have nothing to apologize for."
Sira's tears spilled anew, but her body leaned forward, resting against Nyxaria's chest, clinging tightly, as if holding onto the last warmth in a cold world.
Nyxaria didn't pull away.
Sira's hands moved again, slower this time.
"I just wanted to help… bring herbs to the healer. They followed me," she signed between sobs.
Nyxaria didn't respond.
Her expression remained unreadable as she slowly straightened, starlit violet eyes sweeping over the fallen bodies.
They lay still—shifted back into their beast forms, faces slack in death. The stench of blood mingled with the night air, heavy and bitter.
She shouldn't have given them such easy deaths.
Not after what they'd done.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the hilt of her dagger before she slid it back into its sheath, the motion smooth and silent.
Then, she turned back to the girl.
Sira was still on her knees, clutching the cloak tightly to her chest like it was her last defense against the world.
Nyxaria extended a hand.
"Come."
Sira hesitated, then took it.
Nyxaria helped her up slowly, carefully—like she might break. The girl swayed slightly, but leaned into her, small fingers gripping Nyxaria's sleeve with desperate familiarity.
The sobs hadn't stopped. But they were quieter now. Softer. As if the worst of the storm had passed, leaving behind a raw, aching calm.
A strange peace had returned to Sira's eyes, even as they shimmered with tears.
Not because she had forgotten.
But because someone had come.
Someone had answered the silent scream.
And for now… that was enough.