The city was quiet, but the tension hung like smoke. Every alley, every rooftop, every flicker of lantern light became a map in my mind. The heroes I had fought were regrouping, preparing to strike again. Their confidence was shaken, but not broken. I could feel it—every heartbeat, every instinct, every small mistake hidden beneath discipline. Observation alone was no longer enough.
Voraciel pulsed strongly against my back, warm and alive. The whisper pushed at the edges of my mind: "…kill—rise."
The first strike came just before dusk. The archer fired from a hidden rooftop, aiming for a weak angle in my approach. The mage unleashed a sudden fireball to cut off escape routes, and the swordsman charged through the streets, shield raised, moving faster than before. They had learned. They had adapted. But so had I.
Crimson Tide flowed first, precise and silent, shadows twisting to intercept the archer's arrow mid-flight. Raven's Fang responded instantly, spreading tendrils across the alley to disorient the swordsman, forcing him to stumble over debris I had subtly placed hours before. The mage's wards flared, but Voraciel bent the shadows around the magic, striking at the windows of opportunity in his defenses.
Bloodlust surged inside me, sharper than ever. The whisper became insistent: "…unleash." This time, I allowed it, letting the raw intent feed Voraciel.
"Bloodlust—Raven's Fang: Crimson Tempest!"
The shadows exploded outward, twisting streets into corridors of darkness. The heroes were struck simultaneously from multiple directions, their movements disrupted, coordination collapsing. The mage's fire faltered as shadows redirected the heat, the swordsman tripped over his own feet, and the archer's aim was thrown off by tendrils of darkness wrapping around rooftops.
The city itself seemed to respond. Lanterns toppled in the chaos, market stalls collapsed, and civilians screamed and fled. Every minor misstep, every hesitation, every split-second error was magnified, feeding Voraciel's power. I moved like a predator through the chaos, strikes precise, shadows bending, controlled yet ruthless.
For the first time, the heroes were truly on the defensive. Even their combined skill could not counter the surge of power, the sudden evolution of my techniques under pressure. Crimson Tide struck where precision mattered most, Raven's Fang disrupted coordination on a larger scale than before, and the new power—Crimson Tempest—amplified both, creating openings in their defenses I could exploit.
By midnight, the heroes were cornered in the central plaza, exhausted, struggling to maintain footing and focus. The mage's wards flickered, the swordsman's shield cracked, the archer stumbled repeatedly. They had faced the shadow before, but now they faced a force beyond prediction, beyond preparation.
I paused atop a ruined tower, Voraciel pulsing strongly, alive, resonating with intent. Bloodlust had been awakened fully, sharpened into control. Observation had merged with instinct, strategy with raw power. I could feel the potential growing, whispering at me to push further, to strike harder, to dominate fully.
The city's defenders had learned fear tonight. They had learned that even skill could not guarantee survival when shadows moved with intent. And I had learned something too: bloodlust, when harnessed properly, could evolve into a weapon far beyond the sum of its parts.
Tomorrow, the battle would continue. But the predator was no longer just patient. It was awakened, aware, and hungry.
The city trembled beneath the shadows.