The Ashen Wastes reeked of blood.
Two thousand Hunters stood shoulder to shoulder, blades gleaming under the pale moon, spells ready to tear the colossal beast apart. Their chants roared like thunder, a war machine of flesh and steel. The monster bellowed back, its voice shaking the heavens.
But then another sound slithered into the chaos.
Hum.
A low vibration. Thin, sharp, cutting through the wind. Invisible to most, but undeniable to those who felt their blades snap in their hands, their throats suddenly closing.
The first Hunter to fall didn't even realize it. His eyes bulged, blood spraying as an unseen string cut clean across his neck. His body dropped, twitching, as his comrades turned in horror.
"An ambush?!"
"No… no, this isn't the beast—!"
The panic spread like wildfire.
Strings lashed unseen across the battlefield, dragging Hunters into the dirt. Some screamed as they were pulled apart limb by limb. Others hacked wildly at empty air, only for their own arms to be yanked behind them, bones snapping with sickening cracks.
Rayon walked into the fray slowly, calmly, hands buried in his cloak's pockets. His black hollow eyes gleamed with something between amusement and hunger. Each step he took was followed by a symphony of death.
"Two thousand…" he murmured, lips curving into a smile. "Let's see how many of you can scream before the silence takes you."
Hunters who weren't cut apart instantly fell into his hypnosis. Their pupils glazed, weapons raised against their own allies. Brothers screamed their names before being impaled on familiar steel. Spells meant for the beast erupted through their own ranks, reducing squads to ash.
"Stop—stop! It's him! It's the Forsaken!"
"No, no, this isn't possible—he's just one man!"
One man, but his strings turned the battlefield into a grotesque puppet show.
Daren Velric—the prideful glaive-wielder—charged forward, roaring above the slaughter. His glaive whistled down at Rayon's skull.
Rayon barely moved. One flick of his wrist and the strings coiled around Daren's limbs. The glaive clattered uselessly to the ground. Daren's eyes widened in horror as Rayon leaned close, whispering in his ear.
"Pride always kills faster than steel."
The next sound was bone snapping. Daren's body crumpled, strings tightening until his head twisted at an unnatural angle. His comrades watched in mute terror as the veteran fell like a broken doll.
The beast itself—towering, monstrous, scales glinting—turned toward Rayon, jaws opening to unleash a roar. Strings shot into its hide, piercing its muscles, wrapping around its throat. With an almost casual tug, Rayon yanked the creature's head down into the dirt, splitting stone with its fall. More strings burrowed deeper, slicing it apart from within until its roars turned into gurgling shrieks.
By the time the creature collapsed, nothing in the Wastes was left alive but Rayon.
He stood in the middle of it all, the ground painted red, the air heavy with the stench of iron. Hunters lay in heaps, bodies twisted, faces frozen in terror.
And he smiled.
When the Association received the report, the council chamber fell into stunned silence. A scout, trembling and pale, recited what he'd seen: two thousand Hunters, gone. A monster felled. And one boy walking away from it all with strings dancing behind him.
Lucien Kaelstrom, the Head of the Association, clenched the armrest of his chair until the wood cracked. His councilors whispered, some horrified, others in denial.
"He annihilated them."
"Two thousand… two thousand trained Hunters—"
"No man could do that."
Lucien finally stood, his voice like thunder.
"Rayon Veynar is no man. He is a calamity."
His gaze swept the council, burning with cold fire.
"From this day forward, no Hunter will engage him. No Hunter will speak his name in arrogance. No Hunter will pretend this is a fight we can win head-on."
He slammed his hand on the table, the decree echoing like a death knell.
FLEE ON SIGHT.
Any Hunter who sees Rayon Veynar will not engage. They will retreat. Report. Live.
To confront him is suicide. To underestimate him is treason.
The words carried like chains across the world. Hunters who once boasted of their hunts now lowered their eyes when his name surfaced. Tavern talk turned into whispers. Some called him a demon, others a god in flesh.
But Rayon was neither.
He was just a boy from the gutter, who learned that to survive, you must make the world itself kneel.
And now, with the Association trembling, he was only just beginning.