In the woods near the Village of the Tarnished, subtle changes had begun to take hold—so gradual that no one in the village had yet noticed. The animals that once roamed freely, hunted by those who relied on them for food, were growing scarce. The familiar sounds of rustling leaves, chirping birds, and scurrying creatures had faded into an eerie, unnatural silence. It was as if the forest itself were holding its breath.
Something was scarring them.
Deep within the forest, perched high in the massive branches of an ancient tree, crouched a creature no villager had ever seen—and none would want to. It was bipedal, with the snarling face of a Rottweiler, its muzzle lined with protruding fangs. Its body shimmered in hues of black and violet, its limbs grotesquely long and muscular. Seven-fingered hands ended in black, thirty-centimeter blades that glinted when the dappled sunlight caught them. Short but powerful legs gave it a coiled, predatory stance.
Though nearly imperceptible, its presence radiated dread. It didn't hunt for pleasure, nor did it stalk prey unnecessarily. It killed to feed—and then vanished. Occasionally, it would open its pale blue eyes, slit horizontally by black pupils, and gaze north with the intensity of something waiting.
Then, like mist, it would disappear.
If any scholar or historian had seen it, they would have fled in horror. This was a Doomblade, one of the three apex predators of the forbidden forest, a living nightmare etched into the bloodstained pages of history. Its appearance was not mere misfortune—it was prophecy. Death followed where it tread.
For reasons even it did not fully comprehend, the Doomblade had wandered to this side of the woods. At first, it merely claimed the area as part of its territory, emerging from the shadows only to hunt when hunger demanded it. But lately, something had shifted.
It no longer stalked prey as it once did. Instead, it began using its uncanny stealth to slip closer to the forest's edge, where the trees thinned and the world of humans began. There, hidden beneath a veil of branches and silence, it would watch.
Today, its glowing blue eyes were locked on a lone figure—a young boy with tousled blond hair, crouched beside a bush as he carefully gathered fruit into a weathered sack. The creature's gaze lingered. It felt something stir within—a vague, foreign emotion. Not hunger. Not bloodlust.
Kinship—or was it something more unsettling, like friendship?
That was the strange part.
The Doomblade was not meant to feel. It was forged to be a perfect hunter: silent, ruthless, mindless. And yet, as its piercing blue eyes tracked the boy's gentle movements among the bushes, there was a glint—faint, but unmistakable—in its gaze. A flicker of awareness. Of thought. Of something watching not as a beast watches prey, but as a person watches... another.
That single glint, brief as it was, hinted at a terrible truth.
This was no longer a mindless monster.
It was becoming something else.
And whatever it was becoming—kin, shadow, friend, or something far more dangerous—it had fixed its attention on the boy.
It didn't know why. It couldn't name the feeling or explain it. But something about the boy struck a chord buried deep in whatever fragment of soul the Doomblade still possessed.
Ethan moved through the woods with practiced caution, filling his sack with fruit. He didn't know the monster that studied him from the trees above, nor did he understand why the usual sense of unease had grown sharper in recent days. The silence of the forest pressed on his ears like a physical weight.
His hands moved quickly. Pick, inspect, store. Repeat. When he picked everything, he didn't linger.
The sense of being watched clawed at him with every step. But still if he didn't come here he would starve so he had no choice.
Only once he passed the tree line did the tension begin to lift. He made for his hideout—an abandoned shack at the village's edge—and sat to eat a few of the fruits, trying to calm his nerves. But there was little time to rest.
They were coming.
As promised, the thugs returned—three of them, along with a fourth: their leader.
He was massive. Broad shoulders, thick muscles under ragged cloth, and skin the color of smoldering iron. His black hair was shoulder-length—braided tightly on one side, loose and wild on the other. His face was nearly square: thick lips, a blunt nose like a boar's snout, and eyes sharp enough to peel flesh from bone. He carried himself like a man used to taking what he wanted.
As they approached the shack, the scar-faced thug leaned in and whispered something. The leader nodded once.
Ethan sat waiting, feigning calm, though his fingers gripped the edge of his seat with tension. He wasn't sure he could trust these men. But what other option did he have?
The leader spoke first, wasting no time on pleasantries. "My boys say you've got information," he growled. "I'm not one for games, kid. Let's get something straight: I want to take this village for myself. It's quiet, hidden, and the nobles couldn't care less. A perfect base. But I don't like surprises, and I don't want trouble in my backyard."
His eyes drilled into Ethan's. "So tell me—are you worth my time?"
Ethan opened his mouth to speak, but the leader raised a hand, cutting him off.
"Before you say anything—if what you tell me turns out to be worthless, our deal is off. No second chances.
"There it was. A gamble.
Ethan shut his eyes for a moment, bracing himself. Even if these men didn't destroy Stanley, they might weaken him—and that alone could give Ethan the window he needed to escape. He didn't expect pity, and he doubted they cared about a street rat like him.
But it was a start.
"I'll tell you everything I know," he said quietly, then lifted his chin. "At least I'll have tried."
And so he spoke—about the villagers, their secrets, their grudges. He described Stanley and Wayla, their underhanded dealings, their alliances with smugglers and thugs. He told them who to trust, who to avoid, and who might turn traitor for the right price.
The leader listened without interrupting, his eyes narrowing, unreadable.
For Ethan, this wasn't just information—it was currency. His first true transaction in a world that had given him nothing but suffering. A spark of control. A sliver of leverage.
A step toward freedom.