The rain was a cold slap in the face, but Shadow barely noticed. He was used to the cold, the damp, the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. The alley reeked of stale beer and fear, a scent that always made his blood boil.
He clung to the fire escape, his knuckles white. Below, three figures huddled, their whispers like nails on a chalkboard. Cultists. Scum. He hated them. He'd been hunting them for years, ever since they took everything from him.
Tonight, they pay.
One kept fidgeting with a rusty pipe, his eyes darting nervously. Another nervously cracked his knuckles. The leader, a weaselly-looking man with a greasy smile, kept glancing at his watch.
He checked the crude harness he'd rigged for his daggers, his fingers trembling with a mixture of anger and adrenaline. The Shadow Web was his own creation, a desperate attempt to even the odds. He hadn't perfected it yet, but it was all he had.
He took a deep breath, trying to control the tremor in his hands. He wouldn't let them see his fear. He wouldn't let them win.
He dropped from the fire escape, landing with a thud that echoed in the alley. The three figures whirled around, their eyes widening in surprise.
"Where?" His voice was low and harsh, filled with barely suppressed rage.
The leader sneered, "Get lost, kid. This doesn't concern you."
Wrong answer.
Shadow lunged, his daggers flashing in the dim light. He hadn't planned it, hadn't thought it through. He just reacted, driven by instinct and hate.
The first cultist swung the pipe, but Shadow dodged, fueled by a surge of adrenaline. He slashed with his dagger, catching the cultist on the arm. The man screamed, dropping the pipe.
The second cultist charged with a knife, but Shadow was faster. He kicked out, catching the cultist in the stomach. The man doubled over, gasping for air.
The leader hesitated, his eyes widening in fear. Shadow turned to him, his face a mask of fury.
"Where is the ritual?" he snarled. "Tell me, or I swear, you'll regret it."
A searing image of his family, bound and gagged before a blood-soaked altar. The chanting, the laughter, the sickening stench of blood and incense. Their faces, pleading for help that never came.
Never again.
He forced the whimpering leader to lead him through the warehouse, his dagger a constant prod against the man's clammy skin. With each step, a fresh wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him, a visceral reaction to the stench of corruption that permeated the air.
The main chamber was a scene of profane devotion. The summoning circle pulsed with a sickly green light, casting grotesque shadows on the faces of the four cultists chanting in a guttural tongue that seemed to claw at Shadow's sanity. A gaunt woman, her eyes burning with fanatical zeal, raised her hands towards the swirling vortex above the circle.
"Stop them!" Shadow snarled, shoving the whimpering cult leader forward.
He surged into the chamber, daggers drawn. The cultists, startled by his sudden intrusion, faltered in their chant. One reached for a ceremonial dagger, its blade glinting wickedly in the flickering candlelight. Another lunged for a rusty chain, its links dripping with a viscous, black fluid.
Too slow.
Shadow was a whirlwind of motion, driven by a desperate cocktail of fury and adrenaline. He flicked his wrist, activating the Shadow Web. The thin wires hissed as they snaked out, entangling the limbs of the cultist reaching for the chain. The man stumbled, his weapon clattering to the floor.
Before Shadow could press his advantage, the woman completed the incantation. The summoning circle erupted in a blinding flash of light, and a tear ripped open in the fabric of reality, revealing a glimpse of a hellish landscape beyond.
A guttural roar echoed from the rift, and a hulking figure materialized, its form wreathed in shadow and flame.
The Imp was a nightmare made flesh, a grotesque parody of humanity. Its leathery skin was stretched taut over a frame of knotted muscle and bone, and its eyes burned with malevolent intelligence. Razor-sharp teeth lined its gaping maw, and its claws dripped with a venomous fluid that sizzled against the stone floor. The stench of sulfur and decay rolled off it in waves.
The cultists, their faces alight with triumph, prostrated themselves before the demon. "We offer you this world, great one!" the woman shrieked, "Destroy this intruder who dares to defy us!"
The Imp turned its baleful gaze upon Shadow, its eyes burning with predatory glee. It took a step forward, and the ground trembled beneath its weight.
Not good.
Shadow knew he was outmatched, outgunned, and out of his depth. He had no formal training, no divine blessing, just two daggers, a makeshift web, and a burning desire for vengeance.
But he wasn't defenseless. Years of research and planning had led him to this moment, and he was prepared.
He reached inside his coat, his fingers brushing against the familiar contours of his demon kill kit. He pulled out a small vial filled with a clear liquid, its surface shimmering with a faint, silver sheen. Silvered acid.
He activated his Shadow Web, the wires snapping into place around his wrists. It was a clumsy system, far from perfect, but it was his best chance.
He threw his remaining dagger, aiming for the Imp's face. The demon snarled and swatted the dagger away with casual ease. The dagger clattered harmlessly against the stone floor. He retracted the wire, yanking the dagger back towards him.
As the dagger flew past the cowering cultists, Shadow flicked his wrist, spilling the silvered acid across their upturned faces. They shrieked in agony as the acid burned through their flesh, their eyes melting in their sockets.
Collateral damage.
The Imp roared in fury and charged. Shadow dodged, barely evading the demon's outstretched claws. He stumbled backward, frantically trying to put distance between himself and the monster.
He swung from the rafters, using the wires to propel himself through the air. The demon roared in frustration, smashing its claws against the stone pillars, sending debris raining down around him.
He noticed the remaining cultists cowering in the corner, their faces pale with terror. They were useless, pathetic, but they were also a liability.
He launched another dagger, sending it whizzing past the Imp's head. The demon turned, momentarily distracted, and Shadow seized the opportunity.
He swung down from the rafters, landing behind the remaining cultist. He wrapped the wire around the man's neck, tightening it with all his strength. The cultist choked and gasped, his face turning purple.
The Imp roared and turned back to Shadow, its eyes blazing with rage. It charged, but Shadow was ready. He yanked on the wire, sending the cultist flying into the demon's path.
The Imp roared in fury, swatting the cultist aside like a rag doll. The man's body slammed against the stone wall, his bones cracking with sickening finality.
Shadow used the distraction to drop a small, iron caltrop on the floor. The Imp didn't notice.
He launched himself at the demon, his daggers flashing.
He slashed at the Imp's legs, trying to cripple it. The demon roared and kicked out, sending Shadow flying across the room. He crashed against a stone wall, his head slamming against the stone.
He lay there for a moment, dazed and disoriented. He could hear the Imp approaching, its heavy footsteps shaking the ground. He felt a sharp pain in his foot. Looking down he sees he has stepped on his caltrop.
But then, something clicked. He remembered something he'd read in one of his old books, a weakness of Imps: salt.
He reached into his demon kill kit and pulled out a small pouch filled with coarse salt. He threw the pouch at the Imp, aiming for its face.
The salt burst open, showering the demon in a cloud of white. The Imp shrieked in agony, its skin blistering and smoking. It stumbled backward, its claws clutching at its face.
It worked.
He charged, his daggers raised high. He plunged the blades into the demon's chest, again and again, until it finally collapsed.
(Scene 6: The Aftermath)
He lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, his body aching in every muscle. He was alive, but barely.
He forced himself to his feet and staggered over to the Book of Hunts, lying open near the desecrated summoning circle. He flipped to a blank page and dipped his quill into the inkwell he also carried.
His hand shook as he began to write.
(2025-12-05)
(Blackwood. Dockside.)
(Summoning failure. Imp terminated. Silvered acid effective against cultists. Salt a potent weapon against Imps. Caltrops should be deployed more carefully.)
He paused, his mind racing. He needed to analyze everything that had happened, to learn from his mistakes.
(The Shadow Web, while useful, is still too clumsy. Needs refinement. Need to improve agility and speed. And never, ever underestimate the enemy.)
He closed the book, his mind still churning. He had a lot of work to do.
He limped out of the warehouse and stepped into the rain-soaked streets. The city stretched before him, a dark and dangerous labyrinth.
He was a shadow in the city, a hunter of monsters. And he wouldn't rest until every cultist paid for what they had done.
He clutched the Book of Hunts to his chest, his grip tight. He had a lot to learn, a lot to do. But he was ready.