He was already regretting it halfway up the cliff.
Not the falling part—he hadn't fallen yet. He was regretting the moment, three days ago, when he'd stood at the hunter board squinting at ink-smudged parchment and thought:
Easy money.
Now he was hanging off wet stone with sea spray stinging his eyes and his fingers screaming.
"Look at yourself," he muttered, hauling up another handhold. "You took a random contract off a board... and now you're climbing a cliff to 'save a village' from a 'so-called creature.'"
He shifted his weight and a pebble skittered down into the black below.
"...I hate my life choices."
The wind slapped him sideways. He grunted, pulled, and finally found the last ledge. With a harsh breath, he rolled onto the top like a drowned seal and lay there for a second, staring at the sky.
Then he pushed up onto his elbows and squinted.
There was supposed to be a guard up here. A "wall person," the contract had said—someone who stood at the cliff edge to haul visitors and fishermen up from the sea.
A rope post was there. A pulley beam.
No person.
He rose, wiped water off his face, and took a step.
Something dark on the stone caught the moonlight.
His foot stopped.
He leaned down.
Blood.
A smear dragged toward the rope post like someone had crawled, then stopped crawling.
He exhaled through his nose.
"...You've gotta be kidding me."
He glanced back over the cliff edge as if the sea below might offer him a refund.
"Okay. Bad sign already." He pointed at the blood like it had personally offended him. "Last chance to turn back."
He didn't turn back.
He never turned back once he'd complained about it. That was the curse.
He followed the smear.
The cliff top opened into a narrow, wind-scoured path that led toward the town—lamps should've been visible, voices, a watchfire, anything.
Instead, the only sound was the ocean far below and the hollow hush of a place that had forgotten how to breathe.
He took three more steps—
A scream split the night.
He snapped his head toward it.
Down the path, silhouetted against the cliff edge, a figure held a small boy by the throat with one hand, arm extended like the child weighed nothing.
The boy kicked and clawed, eyes wide, trying to grab air that wasn't there.
The figure's head twitched oddly, like it couldn't decide where to look. Foam glistened at the corners of its mouth.
The boy wheezed, "S—stop—!"
The figure didn't stop.
It lifted the boy higher.
Then moved the boy outward.
Over the edge.
Our hunter didn't think.
He moved.
One step became a blur of steps.
His arm flashed out.
Steel whispered once.
The figure's hand hit the ground before the boy did—still curled like it expected to be holding something.
The boy was suddenly gone from the cliff edge.
Then he was in the hunter's arms.
The boy stared at him, stunned, as if his brain hadn't caught up to the fact that he was still alive.
The figure's scream came a heartbeat later—high and raw and wrong.
It clutched its stump. Blood poured. Foam bubbled thicker from its mouth.
Our hunter lowered the boy to his feet and kept one hand on his shoulder. "Hey. Hey. You with me?"
The boy's breath shook. "I—I—"
"What's happening here?"
Before the boy could answer, the one-handed figure lunged.
Fast.
Our hunter's eyes widened slightly.
He's fast.
Not trained. Not clean. Just a savage burst of speed like something had yanked the man forward on a leash.
The hunter slipped sideways, letting the attack cut through empty air.
The figure slammed into the stone, spun, and came again. Foam ran down its chin. Its eyes were glassy, wide, furious.
Our hunter's mind clicked through the impossible details as he moved.
He's missing a hand. That should've dropped him. He should be screaming, rolling, dying. Why is he still fighting? Why does he look... hungry?
The figure lunged again, even faster, shoulder lowered like an animal.
Our hunter planted his heel and touched the ground with two fingers.
The stone under the attacker's feet softened, then gave.
Earth Muti — Sink Pit.
A deep hole opened like a mouth. The figure dropped with a shocked bark, flailing, stump spraying blood as it fell.
The hunter grabbed the boy and pulled him back from the edge of the pit.
They peered down into darkness.
The figure's breathing echoed from below—ragged, wet, furious.
The boy's voice came small. "He's... he's still moving."
"Yeah," the hunter muttered. "That's the part I don't like."
He looked at the boy again, more gently. "Alright. Now you're gonna tell me what's going on."
The boy swallowed hard. "It started with a coffin."
The hunter blinked. "Of course it did."
The boy's eyes darted toward the path to the town. "A fisherman was out one day—farther than he should've gone. His net snagged on something heavy. When he hauled it up... it wasn't driftwood."
The boy's hands trembled as he spoke, like he could still feel the weight.
"A black coffin. Gold trim. Covered in stones. Diamonds, gems—more riches than our whole town has ever seen. It had markings... writing... but none of us could read it."
The hunter's face tightened. "And you opened it."
The boy flinched like he'd been slapped. "...Yes."
"It took weeks," the boy said, rushing. "Axes. Picks. Fire. Nothing worked. The lid wouldn't move. Then the elder shaman said... said maybe it needed blood."
The hunter's expression went flat. "Ah."
The boy nodded rapidly, shame and fear mixing. "They smeared fresh blood on the seams—just a little—and the coffin opened like it had been waiting."
His voice dropped.
"It didn't open the way a coffin should."
The hunter crouched so he was eye level with the boy. "What was inside?"
The boy's breath hitched.
"Treasure," he whispered. "Gold. Silver. Stones. Enough to make men forget the gods."
He swallowed again.
"And a skeleton."
The hunter didn't move.
"A skeleton with crimson fangs," the boy said, eyes wide, fixed on the memory. "Armor... gold, but not like ours. Like... harder. Wrong. From a different time. And a sword."
He looked down at his own hands. "A black sword with gold trim. And the hilt had a name carved into it."
The boy mouthed it as if it still burned.
"Neck Biter."
The wind over the cliff sounded like a laugh.
The boy's voice grew brittle. "No one questioned it. They just... took. The fisherman got rich. The whole town did. People stopped arguing about winter. Stopped worrying about hunger."
He shook his head. "Then the fisherman started hearing voices. He got paranoid. He said the bones were watching him. We thought he was drunk on his own luck."
The hunter's jaw clenched.
"It got worse," the boy whispered. "He built the skeleton a throne. Like it was a lord. He started talking to it like it could answer. Then... women went missing."
His eyes flicked up, wet.
"Then children."
The hunter's hand tightened on the boy's shoulder.
"Then guards," the boy said. "Then hunters came from other places, like you. They went looking and didn't come back."
He swallowed hard, and something in him crumpled.
"By the time everyone believed the fisherman... it was too late."
The hunter stared down into the pit where the one-handed man still thrashed, faintly visible now—clawing at the walls like he had no pain at all.
"Turning people," the boy said quietly. "Some get... like him."
A wet, furious snarl rose from below.
The boy flinched and pressed into the hunter's side like he could disappear.
The hunter softened his voice. "Hey. You did good. You're alive. That matters."
The boy wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. "My name's Luke."
"Luke," the hunter repeated. "Okay."
Luke stared at him, searching. "Why are you out here?"
The hunter sighed like he'd been asked why the sky was up.
"I took the contract," he said. "Off the hunter board."
Luke's eyes went wide. "Then we need to run! We need to escape! We can—"
The hunter shook his head once. "We're not leaving anyone alive behind if we can help it."
Luke's mouth opened, then closed. Fear tried to argue; something else in him—anger, pride, grief—fought back.
"I need your help," the hunter said. "You know this place. You know where the fisherman lives."
Luke recoiled. "I don't want to go back."
"I know," the hunter said. "But this is your home. You don't let strangers ruin your home. Even when you're scared."
Luke's eyes trembled.
The hunter lowered his voice. "And I promised you."
Luke swallowed. "Promised what?"
"I'll protect you."
A rough scraping sounded from below.
Both of them looked down.
The one-handed man jumped.
Not climbed.
Jumped—raw force, like the pit was nothing, like gravity had stopped applying.
He rose out of the darkness with a guttural snarl, body twisting midair.
Luke gasped. "How—?!"
The hunter's eyes narrowed. "That's new."
He slapped one palm to the ground.
Earth Muti — Grave Seal.
The pit snapped shut like jaws.
Stone folded and packed, crushing the space back into solid earth. The man's scream cut off instantly, swallowed underground.
Luke stared at the sealed ground, mouth open. "...That was—"
"Cool?" the hunter offered, deadpan.
Luke blinked. "Yeah."
The hunter stood and tugged his cloak tighter. "Stay close."
They moved off the cliff top and into the trees.
The main road to the town cut through a forest of dark pines, branches thick enough to block the moon. The air smelled of sap and salt and something faintly rotten underneath it all.
They walked in silence for a few minutes.
The hunter's eyes kept sweeping left and right.
Luke whispered, "It's too quiet."
"Yeah," the hunter muttered. "That usually means something wants us to notice it."
A rustle came from the bushes.
The hunter stiffened, hand sliding under his cloak. "Don't move."
Luke froze so hard he barely breathed.
The bushes shook.
Something hopped out.
A bunny.
It stared at them, chewing like it owned the road.
Luke's face twisted. "What kind of hero are you?"
The hunter didn't take his eyes off the rabbit. "The kind that doesn't like creepy sounds."
The bunny hopped away into the dark like it had just delivered a message.
Luke exhaled a shaky laugh—
Then stopped.
His whole body went rigid.
The hunter noticed instantly. "Why'd you stop talking?"
Luke didn't answer.
He pointed down the road with a trembling finger.
The hunter followed the line of that finger.
A woman stood in the middle of the path.
Barefoot. Dress torn and stained dark with old blood. Her hair hung in wet ropes around her face.
Her eyes were red.
Not "angry red." Not "crying red."
Red like a wound that never closed.
Blood ran from the corner of her mouth in a slow drip.
A single fang caught moonlight when she smiled.
Luke's breath hitched. "M...Marna?"
The woman's head tilted, too smooth, too eager.
"We were looking for you," she said softly.
Her voice sounded like someone trying to remember how to sound human.
"Luke," she cooed. "We thought you went missing."
She stepped closer.
Luke stepped back.
The hunter moved in front of him automatically. "Behind me."
Luke pressed into his back like a shadow.
The hunter pulled a dagger from under his cloak.
The woman's smile widened, and then she vanished forward.
Fast—faster than the foaming man, faster than any normal person had a right to be.
No technique. No stance. Just speed and strength and hunger.
Claws raked at his throat.
He caught her wrist with his free hand, Martial Muti locking his grip like iron, dagger flashing to keep her face back. Her nails scraped against the blade and sparked.
She's keeping up, his mind noted, cold and focused.
They traded a blur of close-range impacts: claws against steel, her lunges against his pivots, the dagger tracing shallow lines that didn't slow her the way they should.
Luke watched, shaking.
The hunter shifted his weight and touched the road.
The earth softened.
Earth Muti — Mire Snare.
The ground under her feet turned to hungry mud.
Her step sank half a leg deep.
Her eyes flashed with fury—then she tried to leap.
The hunter didn't let her.
He moved once.
The dagger drew a clean line.
Her head left her shoulders before her brain understood it.
Her body folded backward into the mire with a wet, limp collapse.
The mud swallowed it.
The ground hardened again, smooth as if nothing had happened.
Luke stared at the spot, shaking. "...You— you just—"
The hunter wiped the dagger on his sleeve like he was annoyed at the mess. "Yeah."
Luke's eyes went huge. "That was... that was my aunt."
The hunter's jaw tightened. He glanced at Luke, softer now.
"I'm sorry."
Luke swallowed hard, eyes glassy.
The hunter put the dagger away and rested a hand on Luke's shoulder again. "We keep moving. We find where this started. We end it."
Luke nodded, scared but steadying.
They stepped forward into the road leading to the town.
And somewhere deeper ahead—past the trees, past the silence, past the dark houses—something listened.
Something old.
The trees finally thinned.
One more step and the forest let them go like it had been holding its breath the whole time.
The town sat on the cliff like a carved-out nest of wood and stone. Houses stacked in tight rows, roofs dark and slick with sea mist. A watchtower leaned toward the edge. Fishing nets hung frozen mid-dry, swaying gently like someone had stopped the world halfway through a normal day.
No voices.
No dogs.
No smoke from cookfires.
Our hunter stared at the empty street and muttered the first honest thought that hit him.
"Damn... it's a freaky ghost town. Where's everyone?"
Luke hugged himself, eyes bouncing from doorway to doorway. "Most people... ran to the hall at first. The ones who could. The ones who didn't..."
He didn't finish.
They walked deeper.
The main road split around a low stone well. On the left, a line of small shops and a fishmonger stall. On the right, the path climbed toward the shaman's hut and the old meeting hall where the town kept its nets, its oaths, and its arguments.
Luke pointed with a shaking hand, trying to turn terror into usefulness.
"That's the fisher row—those are the houses closest to the cliff lift. Over there is the market strip. And... up that road is the hall. The fisherman's place is—"
His finger drifted toward the far end of the street, toward a house that sat a little apart, as if it had decided it didn't need neighbors anymore.
The hunter was about to answer when his eyes caught something on the cobbles.
Dark smears.
Dragging marks.
Then the first body.
A man sprawled on his back, eyes open to the sky, throat torn so wide it looked like someone had tried to drink him and gotten impatient. Two more bodies lay ahead, then another—like breadcrumbs.
Luke stopped breathing for a second.
The hunter stepped in front of him immediately.
"Don't look," he said, voice sharp but controlled. "Eyes on me. Stay close."
Luke's chin trembled, but he nodded and stared at the hunter's cloak instead of the dead.
The hunter's gaze swept rooftops, windows, alleys.
He felt it before he fully saw it.
A presence behind them. Not a sound. A shape that didn't belong.
A silhouette on a rooftop edge, barely darker than the night, tracking them.
The hunter's jaw tightened.
I see why the other hunters had trouble.
He kept walking like he hadn't noticed, like he was just another lost traveler in an empty town.
If this whole place is turned... I'm fighting a town. Not a creature.
Luke whispered, "They... they started piling up like that the closer you got to his house."
"I can tell," the hunter muttered.
They followed the trail.
Bodies became more frequent. Broken doors. A child's toy half-crushed in mud. A soup pot abandoned on a doorstep, lid still on, like someone had stepped away and never came back.
Then Luke tugged the hunter's sleeve and pointed.
"There."
The fisherman's house.
Not grand. Not a castle. But it sat with a wrong kind of confidence—two stories, thick beams, a newer roof than its neighbors. As if money had arrived and the wood had gotten proud.
The closer they got, the heavier the air felt.
Luke swallowed. "That's where he built it. The throne."
The hunter exhaled slowly through his nose. "Great."
They slipped between two houses, using the shadow of a collapsed fence for cover.
That's when the hunter saw him.
Bare feet on stone.
No shirt.
Skin flushed red like it had been cooked from the inside. Ripped muscle stacked on muscle, chest and shoulders corded like rope. He stood in the middle of the street like a guard dog left behind.
Six feet. Maybe more.
Eyes glowing red.
Foam bubbling at the mouth.
The hunter stared at the thing, then leaned down toward Luke and whispered, dead serious:
"Hell no."
Luke blinked. "What?"
"Maybe we should turn back," the hunter said.
Luke's eyebrows shot up. "Why are you chicken? You got cool Muti!"
The hunter opened his mouth to argue—
—and Luke's elbow clipped a stack of old pans resting on a barrel.
They went off like a bell tower.
CLANG—CLANG—CLANG.
Luke froze, horrified, hands still in the air like he could catch the sound and stuff it back into the barrel.
The hunter stared at him.
Luke whispered, "I... I don't know why I did that."
The red-eyed man's head snapped toward them.
And then he moved.
He didn't run like a fighter.
He ran like a thrown boulder.
The street blurred.
The hunter's eyes widened. "Oh—"
He grabbed Luke by the collar and yanked him sideways, hauling him out of the line of death.
The strike missed by inches.
The red-eyed man slammed into the corner of a house instead.
Wood and stone exploded outward in a violent burst. Dust and splinters geysered into the air. The whole wall caved like it had been punched by a siege ram.
Luke coughed, eyes watering. "H—how—"
The hunter dragged him behind a low cart and shoved him down.
"Hide," he hissed. "Do not move. Do not scream. If you scream, I swear I'll come back just to haunt you."
Luke nodded rapidly, terrified.
The red-eyed man stepped out of the collapsing dust cloud, shoulders rising and falling. He growled. Not a human sound. A wet, hungry rumble.
The hunter straightened, cloak shifting in the wind.
He drew his dagger.
The blade caught moonlight.
He slid into his stance—feet light, shoulders loose, dagger held forward in a calm line that made his whole body look smaller than it was and more dangerous than it should be.
His aura thickened, not loud, not crushing—just a focused pressure that told the street: I'm here.
Luke's eyes widened from behind the cart.
"...Cool," he whispered, like he forgot to be scared for a second.
The red-eyed man lunged.
The hunter moved.
Their first clash wasn't "punches." It was impact rhythm—short, sharp bursts of contact like your world's fights: footwork, angle, timing, a blade line that never fully committed until it could end something.
The monster swung like a wrecking ball.
The hunter slipped inside the swing and cut across the ribs—one clean slice.
Blood sprayed.
But the monster didn't flinch.
It backhanded.
The hunter blocked with forearm and dagger together—Martial Muti bracing the body like steel.
The hit still sent him sliding.
He pivoted off a wall, snapped in again, cut the shoulder.
More blood.
The monster snarled and drove forward, pure force, forcing the hunter to give ground. The hunter's mind stayed cold.
No technique. No skill. Just speed and power.
The monster caught him mid-step.
A fist like stone hammered into the hunter's ribs.
The hunter flew.
He crashed through a doorframe and into a building, splintering a table and taking half the wall with him.
Luke screamed. "NOOO!"
The monster turned its head.
It saw Luke.
Its foam-frothed mouth peeled back like it could smell fear.
It started walking toward the cart.
Slow now.
Like it wanted Luke to understand what was coming.
Luke tried to crawl backward but his body wouldn't work.
Then—out of the dust cloud where the hunter had disappeared—
A hand punched through broken boards.
Fingers curled into the street like claws.
The monster paused.
A voice came out of the smoke, low and flat.
"Where are you going?"
Luke's eyes went huge.
"I didn't say I was done with you."
The hunter stepped out.
His cloak flapped in the wind, dust rolling off his shoulders. A thin line of blood ran from his forehead, trailing down the side of his face. His eyes looked different—still human, but sharper, colder. Like the joke had died in the building behind him.
Aura fumed off him in a visible heat-waver, the air around his body trembling like it didn't want to touch him.
Luke whispered, stunned, "His whole vibe changed..."
The Hunter adjusted his stance and breathed once, deep.
Then he said, almost casually:
"Alright. Let's do this seriously."
He vanished.
Luke blinked—and the hunter wasn't where he'd been.
The monster blinked—and the hunter wasn't there either.
Then a shadow appeared above.
The hunter dropped from the sky like a blade.
The dagger flashed.
It opened the monster's neck in a clean diagonal slice.
Blood sprayed in a thick arc across the street.
Luke's mouth fell open.
"WOAH—"
The monster staggered—
And the cut started knitting.
Skin crawling back together like something inside it was angry at being opened.
The hunter's brows lifted a fraction.
"...That's new."
The monster lunged again, faster, wilder.
The hunter met it with Martial Muti and pure rhythm.
To Luke it became a blur—boots scraping, cloak snapping, steel glinting, impact sounds like stone on bone, the hunter slip, step, cut, shoulder check, pivot, cut again, never wasting motion.
The monster missed a grab by inches and the hunter touched the ground.
Earth Muti — Sink Pit.
The street opened under the monster and swallowed it.
The hunter stepped to the edge and slammed his palm down.
Earth Muti — Grave Seal.
The ground closed hard.
Luke stared, breathless. "Cool!"
For half a second, it looked like it worked.
Then—
The earth bulged.
A red hand punched through stone like it was wet clay.
Fingers clawed.
The monster tore itself out of the ground with a roar, half-buried, shoulder scraping stone off like it was shedding skin.
The hunter's expression changed from confident to mildly surprised.
"...Okay."
The monster lunged again.
The hunter's chest lifted, breath drawing.
He just spat.
A jet of fire ripped from his mouth in a hard line, like a thrown torch turned into a blade.
Fire Muti — Cinder Spit.
It painted the monster's path in flame.
The monster ran into it and lit up.
It screamed, a horrible sound, flailing and backing away while fire crawled across its skin.
It didn't die.
It fled—stumbling, burning, roaring, crashing between houses.
The hunter didn't chase.
He stood still for a beat, breathing through his nose, aura settling back down.
Luke crawled out from behind the cart, eyes wide like he'd just watched a legend get born.
"Are you okay, mister?"
The hunter looked over his shoulder, and like a switch, the goofy edge returned—just enough to make Luke breathe again.
"Yeah," he said. "This is another day for me."
He paused, then corrected himself with a sigh.
"More like... another month."
Luke let out a shaky laugh that sounded like a sob.
The hunter wiped the blood from his forehead with his sleeve and glanced toward the fisherman's house.
"Hopefully that was enough to finish him," he muttered, half to himself.
They started walking again, slower now, threading between broken doors and scattered bodies.
The house loomed closer.
And with every step, the air thickened.
A pressure sat over the place like a storm cloud pinned to a roof.
The hunter stopped at the edge of its yard, eyes narrowing at the dark windows, the too-still doorway.
He breathed out.
"Last chance to turn back," he said.
Luke swallowed, then stepped closer to the hunter instead of away.
"No," he whispered. "We gotta help."
The hunter nodded once, dagger low at his side.
And they walked toward the door where the town's greed had opened something that should never have been touched.
The fisherman's house looked normal from the road.
That was the worst part.
No claw marks on the door. No smoke. No screams. Just a two story home with a porch, a newer roof, and money in the woodwork. It sat there like it had nothing to hide.
The hunter slowed at the yard fence and squinted.
The front door was barely open.
Not kicked in. Not broken.
Just... not closed.
He lifted his dagger. Shoulders relaxed but ready. He nudged Luke behind him with an elbow.
"Alright," he whispered. "If you see anything weird, you scream and I—"
Luke stared at him. "And you what?"
The hunter cleared his throat, offended. "I heroically protect you. Obviously."
He stepped onto the porch and put his palm on the door.
Pushed.
It creaked inward like it had been waiting.
He leaned in and called, deadpan, to the empty house:
"Is anybody home?"
Silence answered.
Luke's grip tightened on his sleeve. "Maybe they're all... gone."
"Yeah," the hunter muttered, stepping inside. "No kidding."
The air was stale. Not dusty—stale like it hadn't been breathed for days. The room was too clean for a place that was supposed to be panicking. A table set with cups. A half folded blanket on a chair. A coat hanging by the door like someone was coming back any minute.
No one came.
The hunter moved room to room quickly. Kitchen. Back room. Stairs. Every corner empty.
He frowned to himself.
Where could everyone have gone?
Then he saw it.
A thin line of blood trailing from the back room toward the center of the floor. It disappeared beneath a woven carpet.
The hunter crouched and peeled the carpet back.
A dark opening yawned under it—wooden trapdoor pulled aside, leading down into a cellar or basement crawl.
Luke swallowed loudly. "That's... down."
"Yup," the hunter said, like he was thrilled.
He reached up and grabbed a wall torch hanging by the hearth. It was unlit.
He snapped his fingers, then looked at the torch like it was supposed to cooperate.
It didn't.
He sighed. "Fine."
He touched the torch head with two fingers and breathed out.
A small flame licked from his fingertips—steady, controlled—and the torch caught with a soft whuff.
Luke's eyes went huge. "How did you do that?"
The hunter glanced back, almost proud, like he'd been waiting his whole life to explain this to someone who wasn't tired of his mouth.
"By utilizing Fire Muti," he said, stepping toward the hatch. "I can use fire in different ways. The one I just did was me generating aura, aligning it to a spoke—Elemental, specifically fire—then combusting the air to light the torch. Simple."
Luke blinked. "That's... not simple."
The hunter shrugged. "Or I can spit superheated air that ignites molecules in the air. That's how I spit flames like earlier—my Fire Muti, Cinder Spit. The more you spit, the harder you push it, the stronger the flame and the longer it lasts."
Luke looked like he'd just seen the ocean for the first time. "That's... insane."
"Thank you," the hunter said, fully satisfied.
He started down first.
The steps creaked. The wood groaned. The darkness below swallowed light like it was hungry.
He handed Luke the torch. "You hold this. Stay close. Don't fall. If you fall, I'm not carrying you. I already did the heroic rescue today."
Luke hugged the torch like it was a lifeline and followed.
The hunter lit a flame in his own palm, brighter than the torch, throwing bigger light across the walls.
Two sources now—torchlight trembling, his palm flame steady.
They walked deeper.
The cellar became a tunnel. Then another tunnel. Old stone, damp wood supports, salt in the air from the sea above. The floor was packed dirt, stained here and there with blackened smears that were too old to be fresh but too fresh to be ancient.
Luke whispered, "Why would they build this under the house?"
"Smugglers. Storage. Secret drunk spots." The hunter glanced around. "Or... whatever this is."
The deeper they went, the colder it got. The air turned thick. The flame in the hunter's palm flickered like it didn't like being here.
Then they heard it.
Chanting.
Low voices layered together, repeating a rhythm that crawled under the skin.
Luke's face drained. "That's... them."
The hunter nodded, jaw tight. "We must be getting closer."
As soon as he said it—
Something slammed into him from the darkness.
Not from ahead. From the side.
A body hit him like a tackle. They crashed into a black pocket of the tunnel where the light didn't reach properly—like the shadows were deeper than they should be.
The hunter grunted as they hit the dirt.
Luke yelped and swung the torch wildly. "Mister?!"
The torchlight caught nothing.
Then a flash—movement—gone.
The hunter's flame-hand extinguished as he rolled, smothered, grabbed, struck.
Luke stumbled, trying to aim the torch where the sound was.
All he heard was—
"Get—off—"
a grunt
a curse
a scrape of boots
then a wet, close snarl near his ear that made Luke jerk back so hard he almost dropped the torch.
"Shine over!" the hunter snapped.
Luke whipped the torch toward the voice.
Empty.
A heartbeat later, a crash on the opposite side of the tunnel.
Luke spun again.
All he caught was a blur: cloak, dagger, a pale face for half a second—then darkness swallowed it again.
The fight was moving in pieces Luke couldn't track.
He only heard it.
Hard breathing. Nails on stone. The hunter cursing under his breath.
Then—"Ahhh—!"
Luke's blood froze. "Mister?!"
"Still alive!" the hunter barked. "Stop panicking and—"
A shape darted past the torchlight.
Luke screamed and shoved the flame toward it with both hands.
The torch finally caught them.
For a split second Luke saw it: a person-shaped thing with eyes too red, mouth wet, and skin stretched tight like it didn't fit right.
The hunter's dagger flashed through that moment.
Steel cut across the throat.
The creature's hands flew up. It tried to breathe and couldn't.
The hunter shoved it away.
It hit the dirt, twitched, then went still.
The hunter sat back on one knee, chest heaving.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, very casually:
"That fucker almost had me."
Luke stared, shaking, shocked he'd even said that out loud.
The hunter noticed Luke's face and waved a hand like it was fine. "Relax. I had it under control."
Internally he was thinking something else entirely.
We almost just died.
But he didn't say that part.
He stood, rolling his shoulder like it wasn't screaming.
"You good?" he asked Luke.
Luke nodded too fast. "Y-yeah."
"Cool. Then we keep moving."
They followed the chanting deeper.
The tunnel opened into a stone passage where the air warmed again—not normal warm. Warm like breath from something big.
Ahead, light glowed.
Not torchlight.
Candlelight. Lots of it.
They stepped through—
And the room revealed itself.
A low chamber carved wider than the tunnels, with stone pillars and melted wax puddled everywhere. A ring of candles burned around a raised platform.
And on that platform—
A throne.
Wood and iron dragged down here piece by piece. Roughly built. Obsessively polished. Like a child's idea of worship turned into carpentry.
But it was empty.
Kneeling before it were villagers.
Dozens.
Heads bowed. Foreheads pressed to stone. Bodies swaying gently.
They chanted in unison, eyes glassy, mouths moving like they weren't the ones speaking.
Luke grabbed the hunter's sleeve, whispering, "They're... alive."
The hunter's eyes narrowed. "Yeah."
They walked down the middle aisle between kneeling people who didn't react.
The chanting didn't stop.
Luke lifted a trembling finger and pointed.
"There—him."
The fisherman.
He knelt closest to the platform, rocking as he chanted louder than the rest, hands raised like he was holding something invisible.
The hunter stepped up behind him. "Hey."
No response.
"Hey!" the hunter said, louder.
The fisherman kept chanting, spit bubbling at his lips, eyes rolled slightly upward as if he was staring at something no one else could see.
The hunter sighed. "Alright."
He slapped the fisherman.
Hard.
The sound cracked in the chamber.
The fisherman blinked like he'd been punched awake. His pupils snapped into focus.
His face twisted.
Then he started shaking.
"It's gonna kill us," he whispered.
Then louder, voice breaking: "It's gonna kill us! It's gonna kill us! It's gonna—"
He started to hyperventilate, clawing at his own chest like he wanted to rip his heart out before something else could.
The hunter grabbed his jaw, forced him to look up.
"Listen to me."
The fisherman's eyes were wild. "It's here— it's here— it's in—"
The hunter pressed two fingers to the fisherman's temple.
A soft pulse of Psychic Muti ran through his fingertips, not an attack—more like a calm command.
The fisherman's breathing slowed against his will.
His eyes unfocused, panic collapsing into exhaustion.
He sagged.
Before he fully slipped, he forced out two words like a confession.
"A soulless one."
The hunter went still.
His face went pale.
His breath caught like he'd swallowed ice.
Luke stared up at him. "What's wrong? What are we hunting?"
The hunter didn't answer for a moment.
Then he swallowed, voice lower than before.
"I've never hunted one," he said.
Luke's throat tightened. "What—what is it?"
The hunter's eyes flicked to the empty throne, then to the kneeling villagers, then to the shadows beyond the candle ring.
"I always thought it was old scary stories," he said. "Myths. Something adults tell kids so they don't walk at night."
He exhaled slowly.
"But there are tales. Always the same pattern. It starts small. A few missing. A few strange nights. Then it rises in scale until entire towns... vanish."
Luke whispered, "How does it start?"
"We don't know," the hunter said. "Stories never agree. Pacts. Forbidden Muti. Abyss rituals. Something that makes the living... not fully living anymore."
He looked down at Luke.
"Alive," he said, "but dead. Half here, half... somewhere else."
Luke's hands tightened on the torch. "Like... like a spirit?"
"No," the hunter said immediately. "Worse."
He leaned closer, voice rough.
"Some of them can walk and talk like mortals. Smile. Cry. Pretend. Especially when they learn to master their... hunger."
Luke's eyes filled with fear.
The hunter looked away like he didn't want to see the kid's face and still had to.
"In Africanus," he said, "they call them the Soulless."
His gaze cut back to the shadows around the room, like he expected something to be standing there listening.
"And here," he finished, voice tight, "they call them... Lamia."
The candles flickered.
The chanting stopped like someone cut the world's throat.
One moment the chamber was full of it—low voices, swaying bodies, candlelight breathing.
The next, it was silence.
Not fading.
Silence.
Luke whispered, "Why'd they—"
He didn't finish.
Because every villager in the room rose to their feet at once.
Not staggered. Not confused. Not human.
Perfect unison. Heads tilted. Shoulders slack. Red eyes fixed on the aisle like they'd been waiting for this exact moment to start moving.
Luke's torch trembled in his hands.
The hunter stared at the ring of bodies and let out a slow, tired breath.
"...Safe to say I think it's our time to go."
Luke's voice cracked. "Now you wanna go?!"
The hunter didn't look away from the crowd. He shifted his weight, dagger low, stance clean.
"Luke," he said, voice sharp now, "help him."
He jerked his chin toward the fisherman, who'd slumped half-conscious at the base of the platform, lips still murmuring nonsense.
"The fisherman?" Luke blurted. "He's the reason—"
"He's the only one in here who's still breathing like a person," the hunter snapped. "Even if he acted crazy, he's normal enough to carry. Get him out. I'll make an opening."
Luke swallowed. Fear tried to nail his feet to the floor.
The hunter's tone softened just a hair—enough to hook Luke back into motion.
"Go."
Luke crouched, grabbed the fisherman under the arms, and immediately realized the man weighed like wet rope and guilt.
"Why is he so heavy—"
"You want commentary or you want him alive?" the hunter muttered.
Luke grunted, tried again, and finally hauled the fisherman up. The man's head lolled. His arms dragged.
Luke got him across his shoulders in the worst carry of all time—half sack, half corpse—and staggered backward.
The villagers stepped forward.
Then they rushed.
Not with skill.
With hunger.
Hands outstretched. Nails scraping. Teeth glinting.
The hunter moved first.
Martial Muti snapped through his limbs like a switch flipping.
He met the first villager with a forearm check that turned into a dagger cut—clean line across the throat—then pivoted out of the splash.
A second grabbed for his cloak.
He let it.
He stepped in close, elbow smashed the jaw, dagger reversed and slid under ribs.
He shoved the body aside like it was furniture.
More surged.
He clicked his tongue, annoyed, and lifted his palm.
A short burst of Wind Muti—tight, focused, not a storm—hit the front ranks like a sudden shove.
Wind Muti — Break Gust.
Bodies stumbled. The candle flames bent sideways. The aisle opened for a heartbeat.
The hunter barked, "NOW!"
Luke ran.
He almost fell immediately because the fisherman's weight shifted and his own legs remembered they were twelve.
He caught himself at the last second, coughing, and stumbled into the tunnel.
Behind him, the chamber erupted into wet snarls and the sound of steel biting flesh.
The hunter stayed in the doorway between tunnel and chamber like a lid trying to hold down boiling water.
Anyone who tried to slip past him—he cut them down.
Anyone who tried to grab Luke's ankle—he severed hands.
He wasn't graceful.
He was efficient.
And for the first time, Luke understood: the goofy man wasn't goofy because he was weak.
He was goofy because fear didn't get to own him.
Luke hauled the fisherman through the tunnel, boots slapping damp stone.
The torchlight bounced wildly, carving the passage into flickering horror.
He saw the old side rooms again. The blood smears. The tight bends.
He spotted the faint rectangle of light ahead—the cellar hatch.
His chest surged with hope.
Then he heard it.
Behind him, in the dark—
Growling.
Not one throat.
Many.
Close.
Luke's breath turned to knives. He shoved forward harder.
"Come on—come on—"
He reached the ladder and started climbing.
The fisherman's body dragged like dead weight. Luke's arms shook. The torch nearly slipped.
He hooked one elbow over a rung, then hauled, then hauled again.
He got halfway—
A cold hand clamped around his ankle.
Luke screamed.
He looked down.
A villager had crawled up behind him, eyes glowing red in the dark, mouth wet, fingers digging into Luke's leg like it wanted to pull him back down into the tunnels forever.
Luke kicked, frantic.
The grip tightened.
Then—steel flashed.
The villager's hand came off.
The fingers still twitched as it fell.
The villager dropped with a wet gasp, and the hunter appeared below like he'd been poured out of the shadows.
He yanked Luke's ankle free and shoved him up.
"KEEP GOING!" he snapped.
Luke sobbed, half from terror, half from relief, and dragged himself the rest of the way up.
He spilled into the cellar, pulled the fisherman up after him with a final desperate heave.
The hunter climbed out behind them in one smooth motion.
Then the air changed.
Heat.
A familiar pressure.
A low, angry growl.
The hunter turned—
And there he was.
The burned monster from earlier stood at the cellar entrance, body fully healed like fire had never touched him. Red eyes. Foam mouth. Muscles carved out of meat and rage.
The hunter stared at it.
Then stared a little harder.
"...You gotta be fucking kidding me."
Luke whimpered, "Mister—"
"Stay behind me," the hunter said automatically.
The monster lunged.
The hunter shifted to meet—
And the room went colder.
Not from wind.
From attention.
A voice, calm and venom-smooth, spoke from the tunnel mouth behind the monster.
"So," it said, almost amused, "I finally get to see the rats that made it onto my island."
The hunter froze.
So did Luke.
Slowly—slowly—they turned their heads back toward the chamber.
Because they hadn't noticed it before.
Someone was sitting on the throne.
Not empty.
Occupied.
A figure with white hair draped like silk over his shoulders. Pale skin too clean to belong underground. Beauty that didn't feel human, like a knife that had learned to smile.
His pupils were red.
Everything else in his eyes was black.
He wore gold armor that looked older than the town, older than the wood of the throne itself—too perfect, too heavy, like it had been made for a different age.
Beside him, resting like an extension of his body, was the black sword with gold trim.
The sword that had a name.
The figure's fingers rested on the hilt like it was a pet.
He spoke again, voice mild but edged.
"I'm going to ask one time."
His smile barely moved, but the candle flames all leaned toward him.
"What are you doing on my island?"
Luke, trembling, stepped forward before he could stop himself. "This isn't your island."
The white-haired figure tilted his head, amused.
"It became mine," he said, "when your town decided to steal my coffin. And my treasure."
He leaned back into the throne like a king remembering he used to be one.
"It is written," he continued, voice soft as a confession, "in the old blood language."
He tapped the air with a finger, as if tracing words no one else could see.
"Do not open... unless you wish to end the world."
His laugh was quiet.
Chilling.
Not because it was loud, but because it sounded pleased.
"It's all mine now."
The hunter stared at him, then lifted his dagger like it was a polite gesture.
"...Sounds great," he said, deadpan. "Can you show me the way out?"
Luke looked at him like he was insane.
The figure's smile widened just slightly.
"You can go," he said calmly.
Then his eyes slid to Luke like a hunger deciding.
"But you leave the boy."
Luke's breath stopped.
"You can take the fisherman," the figure added, dismissive. "He's useless to me."
The hunter's body went still.
He looked at Luke.
Luke's eyes were wide, wet, desperate.
"Please don't," Luke whispered. "Please don't do it, mister."
The hunter didn't answer immediately.
For a moment, something far away flickered behind his eyes—something that wasn't this cellar, this torch, this throne.
A memory.
(Chun's Cliff - ???B.S)
A cliff above a wide sea, wind biting clean and bright.
A younger version of him stood with his hands in his pockets, staring out at the water like it might tell him what to become.
A girl beside him, arms crossed, hair snapping in the wind.
"Hey," she said, bumping him. "Elric. Elric! Are you daydreaming or something?"
He blinked and smiled like he'd been caught doing something embarrassing.
"Sorry," he said. "It's almost time for me to go. I just wanted to look at this view one more time before I head."
She frowned, then tried to hide it with attitude. "I'm gonna miss you. Don't be gone too long."
He laughed softly. "Why would I leave my best girl for long?"
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "Oh okay, Mr big-time hunter or adventurer."
He snorted. "No. Not a hunter. I don't like just money. And adventurers usually only care about themselves."
She squinted. "So what are you, then? You just said 'seek power.'"
He shrugged, looking back at the sea. "I need power to save my country. And... probably save people along the way."
She tilted her head, then said it like a joke that stuck.
"...What about a seeker?"
He immediately recoiled, offended. "Hell no."
They both laughed.
The wind swallowed the sound.
(Back to current day)
The memory snapped away.
Back in the cellar, torchlight shook on Luke's face.
The hunter exhaled.
Then he crouched slightly, like he was about to sprint.
"Kid," he said quietly, "I'll make an opening for you."
Luke's lips trembled. "What about you?"
The hunter's eyes stayed on the throne.
"I told you before," he said. "I'd protect you."
The white-haired figure watched, expression amused, like this was entertainment.
The hunter tightened his grip on the dagger.
Then he said it—almost like he hated the word, almost like it was stupid, almost like it was the only honest thing he'd ever said.
"Because I'm not a hunter."
He glanced at Luke, and for a second, the goofy man and the serious man overlapped into one person.
"I'm a seeker."
Luke's face changed—fear still there, but something else too.
Pride.
Trust.
A spark.
Luke nodded hard, teeth clenched.
"I'm ready," he whispered. "When you're ready."
The hunter turned back toward the throne.
His aura rose—low at first, then sharper, tighter, like a blade being pulled from its sheath.
The villagers in the shadows began to move again.
The burned monster snarled and crouched.
The pale king on the throne smiled like he'd been waiting for someone brave enough to say the wrong word.
And the first seeker in history took one step forward into the dark—without realizing he'd just named a future that would outlive them all.