The Frostpine wilderness was no place for the weak. Even before the Crimson Fang razed Kael's village, wild beasts and rogue cultivators prowled the region. Now, with winter settling in like a curse, death hung in the air like frost on a blade.
Kael moved like a wraith between trees, his breath slow, his presence erased. Days had passed since he left the cavern. Void Fang whispered constantly in the back of his mind, hungering, guiding. Its voice was clearer now, less cryptic.
"Kill. Feed. Grow."
Kael didn't argue. His body needed food, but the blade needed blood. He had yet to test its power.
That changed at dawn.
He spotted the camp from a rocky ledge—a lone mercenary tending a small fire in a half-dug shelter. Red armor. Crimson Fang. Kael's eyes narrowed.
The man was alone, blade within reach, but relaxed. A scout, maybe wounded. Easy prey.
Kael descended like falling ash.
No rustle. No warning. He moved low, shadows cloaking him. The Void Fang remained silent, its hunger mounting.
When Kael struck, it was fast and brutal. He drove his stolen sword into the man's side just below the ribs. The mercenary gasped, mouth opening to scream.
Kael clamped a hand over it.
He twisted the blade.
The scream died in a gurgle.
Blood spilled.
Void Fang pulsed.
It drank.
Kael felt it flow—essence siphoned from the dying man into the hilt of the black sword on his back. He felt stronger. Faster. Sharper.
"More." the voice whispered.
He searched the corpse. Food, a better blade, a half-finished map. Most importantly: proof. Crimson Fang scouts still moved through the region. Killing them would keep him alive.
But Kael wanted more than survival.
He wanted their fear.
He would become the shadow in their nightmares.
He cleaned the blood from his blade, then carved a single rune into the dead man's chest. The rune for "Void."
Let them know something worse was hunting them.