They unfastened the overhand knot with brutal efficiency, the elastic snapping into place between two dead oaks like a drawn bowstring of pure malice. Twenty meters of taut, coiled death stretched across the clearing, each tree trunk notched, cord doubled, the tension palpable.
Mikayle's tunic was twisted into a sling—rough, ugly, and mercilessly tight. It held him like a coffin, shoulders pinned, knees curled. A test launch with a log had sent it flying like a meteor. This time, he would be the projectile.
Yuhan anchored himself to the easternmost oak, foot wedged in roots. Ivan gripped Mikayle's wrist, muscles knotted, backs arched. The wind cut through dead branches, carrying the metallic tang of blood and soil.
"You better be alive, or I'll kill you myself," Ivan growled.
Mikayle's eyes were an unflinching void. He nodded.
Ivan let go.
The world tore itself apart. Mikayle shot forward like a living spear, air whistling in his ears, every second stretched into eternity. Ahead, the predator loomed: monstrous, pallid, eye like bone-white fire, claws gouging the earth in angry crescents.
Impact. The dagger met flesh and bone with a wet, echoing crack. The predator shrieked, a sound that would haunt nightmares, and swung. Mikayle rolled with the blow, momentum carrying him over the beast's armored shoulder. Another strike, dagger plunging into eye and cheekbone, tearing sinew, drawing a river of dark, steaming blood.
It slammed him into a gnarled oak. Wood splintered, ribs screamed. Pain blossomed, but rage ignited hotter. Mikayle twisted, drove the dagger deep, twisting again. The predator roared, a seismic tremor in the forest, swiping with claws that could split stone. Mikayle dodged, ducked, rolled beneath the swing, dagger flashing, red staining the leaves like fire.
Time slowed. Every heartbeat a drum, every strike a lightning bolt. Mikayle vaulted onto the beast's back, dagger slicing through muscle, clawing bone, his own body slick with blood—his and the predator's. The creature thrashed, spinning, flinging him against jagged roots, snapping branches like brittle toys.
He held on. Rolled with it. Struck again. Eye, neck, shoulder—dagger biting deeper. The forest around them blurred in a violent haze: branches shattered, leaves raining like crimson confetti, earth gouged and ripped.
Finally, the predator staggered. Its massive limbs collapsed like broken towers. Mikayle pinned it, straddling the skull, dagger embedded in the eye socket. Each thrust was a scream, a purge of grief and fury. The creature's last roar cracked the night, then silence swallowed it whole.
Mikayle rose, chest heaving, coated in blood, dagger slick and dripping. The forest exhaled—birds gone silent, wind hesitant among dead branches.
Ivan stumbled forward, tears streaking his grime-smeared face. Yuhan wrapped an arm around Mikayle's shoulders, trembling, careful.
No joy. No relief. Only the heavy, suffocating truth: the predator was dead.
Moonlight spilled through green-tinted clouds, cold and eerie, casting their forms in spectral relief. Pain was irrelevant. The wounds inside were deeper than anything flesh could hold.
And somewhere beyond the trees, the air shifted. A faint whisper, a warning that darker things waited. The hunt was over—but the reckoning was far from done.
Mikayle's chest heaved as he finally released the dagger, but his muscles didn't relax. A cold prickle ran along his spine. The air felt… different, electric, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
Yuhan's fingers tightened around Ivan's arm, a subtle tremor betraying the calm he tried to show. His eyes flicked to the shadows, noticing shapes moving where nothing should be.
Ivan froze mid-step, a strange weight pressing against his chest. His jaw clenched instinctively, and for the first time since the predator, a sharp, unfamiliar pulse of fear threaded through him.
The green light of the Galmoon cast everything in surreal relief, and for a heartbeat, all three of them felt the world shift beneath them. Something was coming. Something not of this forest—or of this world.
From the far shadows, five figures appeared. Their arrival was almost theatrical—each standing or perched on a dead tree, their outlines backlit by the glowing green sky. From Mikayle's perspective, they looked like dark silhouettes carved into the moonlight.
The one on the far right tilted his head. His eyes began to glow—bone-white, like the predator's, but human-shaped. His deep voice rumbled across the clearing:
"Did that predator's eyes… look like mine?"
Yuhan hesitated, then gave a slow, silent nod.
From above, on the high branches, a girl's voice followed—steady, emotionless. Her eyes burned pitch-pink, her hair reflecting the moonlight in ripples of faint green.
"They've got awakening souls," she said.
Yuhan froze. The words struck something deep—something familiar. Master had spoken them once, long ago.
All three of them thought the same thing at once:
'Awakening soul…'
The five figures' eyes flared—each a different color, burning like jewels against the cosmic dark. Without a word, they moved.
They leapt—blinding streaks of color against the Galmoon sky.
The night cracked open with their descent.
Mikayle's instincts screamed. His muscles tensed, fingers brushing the hilt of his dagger, every nerve alight. Yuhan's breath caught, Ivan's heart slammed, and for one suspended heartbeat, the three of them knew the world had shifted—irreversibly, dangerously.
And in that heartbeat, the three broken souls faced what came next.