The demodogs didn't wait.
They rarely did.
With snarls that tore through the stale air, they charged from the fog—vicious shadows laced with claws and hunger. Their heads unfolded like rotten flowers, rows of jagged teeth glistening in the dim red sky.
Zero stood still, eyes calm. He didn't flinch.
"Again?" he sighed. "Didn't we do this yesterday?"
His voice was quiet, almost casual, like he was talking to annoying neighbors rather than monsters bred in the deepest pit of another world.
The first one lunged, fast and low.
Zero side-stepped with surgical precision, letting its claws slice through mist. His hand lashed out, catching it by the back of the neck. With a flick of his wrist and a pulse of pressure—crack—the creature collapsed with a twitch.
The others didn't care.
Three more came from the side, circling. Two from behind. He turned slowly, expression unreadable.
There are at least ten this time, he thought, eyes narrowing.Same formation. Same tactic. Different day. Only I'm more tired than yesterday, and they're not.
Another flash of lightning ripped across the sky.
He blinked slowly.
When his eyes opened again—everything changed.
The fog around him shifted, thickened, swallowed shapes and space. His enemies paused, confused. He could see their bodies tense, heads cocking, sniffing the air as if it had changed. It had.
"Let's try this again," he muttered. "Time to clean the slate."
He raised one hand.
Not in fear. Not in warning.
In command.
And with it, the battlefield bent to his will.
Absolute Hypnosis.
To most, it was impossible to understand.To him, it was simple.Control every sense. Sight. Sound. Touch. Smell. Even thought.
The moment they looked at him—really saw him—they were no longer in the real world.
They were in his.
The demodogs froze for a second too long.
That was all he needed.
He vanished—blurred, like a glitch in reality—and reappeared behind the pack. His movement wasn't speed—it was prediction. He knew their reactions, their paths, even their hesitation. He used their instincts against them.
One turned, too slow.
His hand sliced across its exposed side with a rusted pipe he'd picked up days ago. It wasn't sharp, but it didn't need to be. A pressure strike, combined with perfect timing, shattered its ribs.
The creature screamed—high and shrill—and the illusion collapsed.
But only for that one.
The others were still lost in the trap. Seeing dozens of him. Hearing footsteps that didn't exist. Fighting illusions while he picked them off one by one.
Another lunged at a fake image of him and found its throat exposed instead. A twist of Zero's fingers and it hit the ground, motionless.
Five down. Five to go.
But he wasn't untouched. One slashed him across the shoulder—a wild, blind swipe. Blood soaked into the sleeve of his ragged shirt.
He staggered.
"God damn it," he hissed, more annoyed than hurt. "Didn't even see that one break the effect."
The fog pulsed again.
This time, he didn't run. He stood firm.
"Fine," he growled. "You want real? Here's real."
He released the illusion entirely.
And the last five saw him—really saw him—for the first time.
He looked like a ghost. Pale, blood-streaked, eyes glowing faintly with a light that didn't belong in this world. Calm. Detached. Dangerous.
And the demodogs… hesitated.
Monsters didn't feel fear. Not like humans.
But they knew power. They recognized something older, something layered behind those eyes. Not rage. Not madness.
Control.
He moved again.
Not fast—precise.
A feint to the left. A sweep of debris to blind the middle one. A cracked vine used to trip the next.
Each motion was a calculation.
Each strike was final.
Each death… quiet.
When it ended, the world was still again.
He stood alone in a clearing littered with twitching bodies. His chest rose and fell with the weight of survival. His shoulder bled freely, dripping onto the dirt. The smell was awful. His limbs ached.
"I hate this place," he muttered.
Another lightning flash split the sky.
The 1,096th one, probably.
He let himself sit—half-falling—onto a rock. The blood clung to his fingers. The fog curled around him like a mourning shroud.
"Three years," he whispered to no one. "I don't even know if time works here."
But deep down, something was different.
The pattern had changed. The demodogs were more aggressive. Smarter.
Or maybe… something else is coming.
He didn't know.
But he felt it.
Something was watching.