The cavern was restless that night, its stone ribs echoing with the sound of recruits sparring, laughing, and whispering in the half-dark. Ten beast cores—Vajra's decree still burned in everyone's skull like a brand.
But to Jeet, those glowing crystals were not gifts. They were shackles.
"Ten," he muttered, pacing across the cavern ledge where his men gathered like carrion crows. His thick hands clenched and unclenched, knuckles popping. "What can a man do with ten? Ten soldiers, ten beasts… a leash, that's all it is. Vajra's leash."
In his mind, ten was not the number of weapons, but the number of limits. He didn't want ten soldiers. He wanted a hundred. He wanted a private army of fang and claw, an empire built from the marrow of the world itself.
He leaned over the cavern, watching the recruits wrestle, bleed, and laugh below. Fodder, he thought. All of them. Waiting to be eaten.
That was when the rat slithered up to him.
Kirin. Thin, nervous, eyes darting left and right as if shadows whispered his name. Jeet almost laughed. The man looked like he hadn't eaten in weeks.
"My commander," Kirin said, bowing low. His voice was eager, too eager. "I bring… something you may find useful."
Jeet raised one brow. "If this is another complaint about your rations, I'll feed you to the hounds myself."
Kirin shook his head quickly, sweat shining on his forehead. "Not rations. A secret. About Ajay."
That name caught Jeet's attention. He leaned in, his smile sharp as a blade.
"Go on."
Kirin licked his lips. "He disappears, commander. At night. He vanishes into the tunnels, always returning with that… strange aura clinging to him. You've seen it, haven't you? The way shadows bend around him. He is not what he pretends to be. He hides power, hides intent. A coward masking something greater."
Jeet studied him, amused. "And why bring this to me?"
"Because," Kirin whispered, "if you expose him, if you break him… then I can serve. I can be more. Just one beast core, commander. Give me one, and I will climb with you."
For a long moment, Jeet only watched him. The cavern torchlight glimmered in his eyes like sparks striking steel.
Finally, he chuckled. A low, rumbling sound. "You think to sell a man's blood for your own fangs? Bold, little Kirin. Very bold."
Kirin stiffened, unsure if he had overstepped.
Jeet leaned close, his voice dropping to a growl. "I'll make you a promise. If Ajay falls… if I tear his secrets out of him… you'll get what you want. But until then? You're nothing but a tool. Remember that."
Kirin nodded quickly, relief flashing across his face. He thought he had secured his chance. He thought he had made a bargain.
But Jeet's mind was already racing ahead.
A test, he thought. Let's see what this shadow-rat is really hiding.
The next day, Jeet moved like a storm through the camp. His men—brutal, loyal, scarred—followed with sharp attention.
He began weaving nets, both seen and unseen.
"Post scouts at the northern tunnel," he barked. "And the water cistern. If he leaves the cavern, I want to know."
He sent whispers through the recruits, little sparks of poison. "Ajay's hiding something," he told them, voice pitched just loud enough for the rumor to carry. "You've noticed, haven't you? He doesn't fight like the rest of you. He doesn't sweat, doesn't bleed in training. Cowards hide secrets."
Suspicion spread like wildfire in dry grass. Eyes lingered longer when Ajay entered the hall. Conversations broke when he walked by. The silence around him grew heavy, pressing.
Jeet savored it. Distrust was his favorite weapon. Break a man's place in the crowd, and you broke his shield.
Still, it wasn't enough. He wanted proof. He wanted Ajay cornered, stripped, exposed.
And when that happened—Jeet smiled at the thought—he would have a choice. Turn Ajay into his first beast soldier, or spill his blood on the stone to christen Jeet's rise.
Either way, Ajay was his stepping stone.
Ajay felt it before he saw it.
The air shifted around him. Eyes lingered too long. Laughter cut short when he walked near. Even silence had a shape now, heavy and sharp, wrapping him in invisible blades.
He stood at the edge of the firepit one night, listening. A recruit leaned close to another, murmuring: "He doesn't sweat, doesn't fight. You ever seen him bleed?"
Another voice answered, low: "Maybe he's waiting. Maybe he's… something else."
Ajay's jaw tightened.
From the commanders' circle, the shift was clearer still. Jeet sat at the center, his loyalists clustered close like wolves around a carcass. Kirin hovered at the edge, desperate to be noticed. And Gyru—quiet Gyru—watched everything with hawk's eyes, saying nothing.
Ajay's instincts sharpened. He had been a hunter too long to miss the signs. The circle was closing.
And for the first time in months, he realized something chilling.
I'm not hunting. I'm being hunted.
He withdrew from the firelight, slipping into the cavern's darker veins. The whispers, the looks, Jeet's tightening grip—every thread pointed to a net being woven around him.
But Ajay was no fool. He had lived in shadows long before this gang was born.
He sat cross-legged in the hollow of a tunnel, breathing slow. His thoughts turned inward.
Hunter's mutation had shown him the system's brutality: claws that ripped, fangs that tore, strength that shattered stone. Power, yes—but crude power. Reckless power.
Ajay's own gifts were different. Shadows clung to him, soft and pliable. Blood answered his call, bending to still his pulse, mask his scent.
He experimented quietly: sinking deeper into the dark, letting it swallow him until even his reflection in a pool of water vanished. His blood affinity dulled his breathing, made his body's rhythm as silent as a corpse.
He moved, testing steps that left no echo. A hand pressed to the wall, merging shadow with stone.
He whispered to himself: "They think I'm cornered. But a corner is where shadows deepen."
Survival, he knew, would not come from brute force. It would come from patience. From control. From turning the net back on the hunters.
Gyru had seen it all. He had seen Kirin's desperate eyes, Jeet's hungry smile, the way whispers spread like rot.
And he had pieced together the truth. Ajay was marked.
In another life, Gyru might have looked away. It wasn't his business. But something in Jeet's arrogance sickened him. And something in Ajay's silence… reminded him of himself. A survivor, forced into corners.
When the night of the ambush came, Gyru made his choice.
Jeet's men moved into position, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. Kirin hovered close, eager to see Ajay fall.
But when Jeet gave the signal, Gyru moved first.
"North tunnel," he barked, pointing in the wrong direction. "That's where he went. Move!"
The scouts scattered like dogs chasing scent. Jeet frowned, suspicion flickering—but it was too late. Ajay had minutes. Precious minutes.
Jeet turned, fury igniting in his eyes. "What are you doing, Gyru?"
Gyru only smiled faintly. "Making sure the game stays fair."
The fight came fast and brutal. Jeet lunged at him, claws bared, the air thick with killing intent. Gyru met him, steel against fang, knowing full well he would not survive.
And as blood slicked the stone, Gyru whispered to himself: At least the boy has a chance.
The net snapped. Scouts poured through tunnels, their footsteps pounding, their shouts echoing.
But Ajay was ready.
He melted into shadow, slipping past the first wave like smoke. A knife flashed—one scout fell, throat opening in silence. Another reached for him, but Ajay's shadow-step flickered him behind, blade sliding between ribs.
The cavern reeked of blood, but Ajay moved like a phantom.
Yet even phantoms bleed. A claw raked his side, hot pain searing through flesh. He staggered, breath ragged. Blood seeped, mana thinned. His vision blurred at the edges.
Not here, he thought. Not like this.
He forced himself on, weaving through tunnels, burning ground behind him with shadow-fire to erase his trail. Every step was agony, every breath a fight.
But he did not falter. He slipped through their net, leaving bodies and silence in his wake.
When at last he collapsed in a hollow cavern far from the den, he pressed a hand to his wound, whispering through clenched teeth: "I'm not prey. Not yet."
In the dark, bleeding but alive, Ajay thought of names.
Gyru's sacrifice. Kirin's betrayal. Jeet's ambition. Hunter's monstrous power. Vajra's chains.
Each name etched itself into his mind, sharp as a blade.
He saw his path, narrow and dangerous. He would bide his time, level when the system allowed, unlock the class that would turn shadow against claw, blood against fang.
He whispered into the dark: "If they want to hunt me, let them. A hunter's shadow waits longest before it strikes."
And in that whisper was not just survival. It was promise.
It was revenge.