Charles could hardly breathe.
The weight of the crimson eyes bore down on him, sending waves of dread crawling up his spine. The eerie silence that had followed the dragon's rampage hung in the air, broken only by the panicked, shallow breaths of the men around him. His body refused to move at first, frozen in place as if his very soul had been pinned by the gaze of the demon-like creature lurking in the shadows.
That thing—it wasn't the dragon. No. The dragon was terrifying enough, but this…this was worse. Far worse.
The ground trembled softly as the dragon—the beast—slowed its rampage. Its massive wings folded against its back as it stepped over the fallen body of the ogre bear. The creature's head twisted and turned, as though seeking something, but then its violent movements began to ease. It was as if it had been bewitched, pulled from its berserker rage by an invisible hand. Charles watched in disbelief as the dragon, once a vision of unstoppable destruction, lowered itself to the ground.
He dared not move as the dragon's form began to shift, contorting and shrinking, the massive wings receding into a more human-like shape. The red glow that had filled the clearing began to dim, and where the dragon had stood, now there was a woman—still fierce, still terrifying, but undeniably…beautiful. The horns on her head remained, her dark hair cascading over her bare shoulders. But she slumbered now, as if the battle had drained every ounce of rage from her.
For a moment, Charles felt a flicker of hope. Maybe—just maybe—they could still escape this nightmare.
But then, from the shadows, it emerged.
The figure stepped forward, its presence heavy with malevolent intent. It was taller than any man in Charles' group, its dark, sinewy form covered in fur as black as the jungle's depths. Its eyes glowed a deep, terrifying crimson—hungry, cold, and merciless. The beast's face was sharp, almost demonic, with horns curling from its skull like a twisted crown. Its fangs glistened in the dim light as it stalked closer, each step purposeful, predatory.
Charles' heart stopped. This was no ordinary creature. This was something birthed from nightmares, a demon made flesh.
Behind him, he could hear his men starting to panic. Their breaths came faster, their hands trembling against their weapons. The air itself seemed to thicken, as though the jungle was tightening its grip around them, pulling them deeper into despair.
"Retreat." The word tore from Charles' throat, raw and desperate.
The mercenaries didn't need to be told twice. Garreth was the first to turn, his massive frame pushing through the underbrush, leading the way back toward the jungle's edge. The others followed suit, their fear palpable, their movements erratic and hurried.
But Charles knew the truth in his bones: they weren't going to make it. They were too slow. Too frightened.
And that creature—it was already moving.
The beast—no, the Hunter, as Charles began to call it in his mind—stalked toward them with a terrifying grace. There was no urgency in its steps, only the cruel patience of a predator who knew its prey had nowhere to run. The closer it came, the more suffocating the atmosphere became. Fear rolled off the men in waves, thick and cloying, and Charles could feel the Hunter feeding off it.
It didn't even need to chase them.
The first scream shattered the oppressive silence.
One of the archers had fallen, his feet tangled in the roots of a tree. He scrambled, his fingers clawing at the dirt in a desperate attempt to pull himself free. But the Hunter was already there. A shadow fell over him, and before he could scream again, the beast's claws were upon him, tearing through flesh and bone with sickening ease. Blood sprayed across the forest floor, and the archer's body convulsed before going limp, his mouth frozen in a silent scream.
Charles heard someone retch behind him, but there was no time to stop. No time to mourn.
"Move!" he roared, his voice laced with fear and desperation.
They ran, crashing through the jungle, their formation forgotten as the primal urge to survive took over. Trees whipped past them, branches snagging on their armor, but the fear driving them forward was too powerful to be deterred. Every step felt like a lifetime, and every breath was a struggle.
But the Hunter was relentless.
A second scream pierced the air, followed by a sickening crunch. Charles glanced back, his heart lurching in his chest as he saw another mercenary—one of the mages—lifted off the ground by the creature. The man's body dangled like a rag doll in the Hunter's grasp, his eyes wide with terror as the beast's claws sank into his chest. Blood poured from the wounds, and with a vicious snarl, the Hunter tore him apart, flinging the pieces into the jungle with brutal force.
Panic spread like wildfire through the group.
The jungle seemed to close in tighter, the darkness growing thicker, more oppressive. The fear, Charles realized, wasn't just coming from his men—it was feeding into the Hunter. It thrived on their terror, their helplessness. And the more afraid they became, the stronger it grew.
"Run! RUN!" Charles screamed, pushing himself to the limits of his endurance.
He could feel his lungs burning, his muscles straining with every step, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except getting away. His eyes darted to the teleportation ring on his finger—a last resort, but one he would have to use. Not yet. Not now. He had to lead his men to safety, or at least try.
Another cry—this one from Garreth. The giant mercenary had been one of Charles' closest comrades, a man who had fought beside him for years. But now, even Garreth, with all his strength, was nothing more than prey. The Hunter pounced, knocking Garreth to the ground with a savage snarl. The big man roared in defiance, swinging his massive axe, but it was futile. The Hunter's claws ripped through his chest, splintering armor and bone alike. Blood spattered across the trees as Garreth's body crumpled beneath the assault.
Charles didn't look back.
He couldn't.
The screams behind him became fewer, but each one was a knife in his gut. His men were being slaughtered, torn apart one by one. The sounds of bones snapping, flesh ripping, and the horrific gurgles of dying men filled the air, turning the jungle into a nightmare.
The Hunter was enjoying it.
Charles could feel it—sense it. The way the beast moved, the way it played with its prey before delivering the killing blow. This was no mindless monster. This was a predator with intent, driven by an insatiable hunger for blood. And it wasn't just feeding on their flesh; it was feeding on their fear.
His feet faltered, his legs growing weak as exhaustion began to set in. He stumbled, catching himself against a tree as he gasped for breath. The teleportation ring burned against his skin, a reminder of his last chance for survival.
But he wasn't fast enough.
The sound of heavy footsteps crashing through the jungle grew closer. The Hunter wasn't far behind, and Charles could feel the ground tremble with every step. His heart pounded in his ears, his vision blurred, but he forced himself to move.
"Almost there," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "Almost…"
The jungle parted, revealing a small clearing ahead. Safety. Salvation.
But then the Hunter appeared.
It emerged from the shadows, blood dripping from its claws, its eyes burning with a malevolent hunger. The Hunter's mouth twisted into something resembling a smile, though it was far too sinister to be called one. It was a promise of death, a guarantee that no one was leaving this jungle alive.
The last of the mages fell, his body torn apart before he even had a chance to scream. The archers were already gone, their bodies strewn across the jungle floor like broken toys.
Charles was alone.
The Hunter's crimson eyes locked onto him, and for a moment, everything went silent.
The pressure in the air was suffocating. Charles could feel his limbs growing heavy, his breath shallow. The fear was overwhelming, choking him, paralyzing him.
He was going to die.
His hand shook as he raised it to his chest, fingers trembling as they touched the teleportation ring. It was his only chance. But even as he prepared to activate it, he knew the truth: he had failed. His men were dead, slaughtered like animals. And he had led them to it.
The Hunter moved, faster than Charles could react.
The ring burned hot as he activated the spell, the air around him distorting, warping as the magic took hold. But the last thing he saw before the world faded to black were those crimson eyes, staring into his very soul, as though they had marked him for death.
Even though the teleportation took him away, Charles knew one thing for certain:
There was no escaping the Hunter.