Chapter eight– First Hunt
The wind shifted, carrying a tangle of scents — wet bark, rot, and something faintly acrid. Leylin straightened from the hollow of the fallen tree, nostrils flaring, eyes sweeping the forest as if it were a script written only for him.
[Environmental scan: Complete.]
[Optimal route to sustenance located.]
The AI chip coiled through his thoughts like a second spine ... rigid, efficient, always calculating. A guide and a parasite. But he ignored the pale-blue path etched across his vision. The chip was precise, yes, but it lacked hunger. It did not understand instinct. His gaze drifted north, toward the ridgeline rising like the teeth of a buried beast.
A single thread burned brighter than all others: a location. A cluster of stone towers hidden in the northern hills ..Station Mirth.
He remembered the sterilized air, the steel restraints, the murmured voices, the blades opening flesh. The Vessel had lain in those halls. Failures discarded, husks swept away. Somewhere in their records, his designation still lived. Not as a man, not even as a beast, but as a numbered specimen.
His lip curled. A smile, sharp and humorless. "Then it's the right way."
The chip pulsed in warning.
[Route analysis: Northern path intersects predator territories. Estimated risk: high.]
[Recommendation: Alternate route suggested.]
Leylin's fingers brushed the bark of a twisted elm, nails scoring faint grooves into its skin. Risk. To the chip, risk was a negative sum. To him, it was sustenance. Growth. Proof that he was no longer chained.
His muscles coiled. He moved.
Moss muffled his tread, but each step carried the weight of inevitability ... the quiet rhythm of a creature born not merely to survive, but to end. The forest shifted around him. Small lives scattered ...wings fluttered, a sudden silence of hidden throats. He followed the acrid scent deeper, letting the thread tighten. The hunt was not chosen. It was demanded.
Minutes stretched into an hour. The trees thickened, roots twisting like veins, the shadows deepened. And then, at the edge of a clearing, he found it.
A beast crouched over a carcass. Massive shoulders bunched with muscle, fur mottled with scars. Its head lifted as he approached, muzzle smeared red. Six eyes gleamed in the gloom. The carcass beneath it ... some forest stag .. was half-devoured, ribs cracked, steam rising from the torn cavity.
The chip spoke.
[Species: Hexa-wolf.]
[Tier: Predatory apex. Estimated essence yield: 112 units.]
[Risk assessment: Moderate to high.]
Leylin's heartbeat slowed. Not from fear. From clarity.
The wolf snarled, blood dripping from its jaws. It expected hesitation, flight. Instead, he walked into the clearing as though it were already his domain.
The creature lunged.
Time slowed. His body moved before thought. A shift left ... claws grazed bark instead of flesh. His arm snapped upward, fingers hooking the wolf's throat. Momentum wrenched sinew, and with a single twist, the beast hit the ground.
It writhed, snapping, but Leylin was already on it. His grip tightened until vertebrae cracked. The howl choked to silence.
The clearing fell still. Then the chip announced:
[Target neutralized.]
[Essence extraction available.]
The corpse twitched. Black motes of energy seeped upward, curling into Leylin's palm. They burned cold, threading into bone, marrow, nerve. His vision sharpened. His breath came smoother.
[Essence absorbed: 89 units.]
[Reserve total: 336 units.]
Leylin rose, wiping blood from his arm, gaze tilting back north. The first hunt had ended, but it was only a prologue. The hunger would not be sated. It never would.
He slowed, letting the quiet stretch for a heartbeat. The forest hummed. Each leaf, each whisper of wind, carried knowledge. Movement in the shadows mapped itself into his mind. Not merely awareness ... understanding. He could anticipate, react, dominate. The line between hunter and environment blurred.
A low hum of hunger whispered beneath his ribs. Patient. The Gluttony Core pulsed faintly, a heartbeat within a heartbeat, reminding him of what lay beneath his consciousness. Power. Instinct. Appetite. Control.
The fire of memory burned steady in his chest. Every betrayal, every endurance, every kill .. woven into him like sinew and bone. He was no longer the Vessel. No longer a number. He was Leylin Devor. Strategist. Vessel. Predator.
He began to walk, forest bowing to let him pass. Shadows clung, silent, obedient. Paths curved, prey fled, and every inch of the world whispered itself to him. Station Mirth waited, and with each step, he moved closer .. not just to the towers, but to the reckoning they contained.