The Wastelands stretched as far as the eye could see, a barren expanse that seemed to swallow sound and hope alike. No one crossed this land unless they had to—those who tried, and failed, left behind their bones, half-buried under layers of dust. And yet here Night was, crouched in the shadow of a crumbling stone wall, every nerve in his body taut, every sense sharpened.
Night was no stranger to the bleakness of this place. He was, after all, a child of the Wasteland, or so he liked to think. He'd grown up surrounded by its desolation, its silence. It had taught him harsh lessons—lessons of survival, of resilience, of the cost of a single mistake. The Wasteland punished the careless, the weak, and even those who dared to linger too long. Here, the difference between life and death was often a single misstep, a single heartbeat.
The ruins around him were all that remained of a once-prosperous civilization that had fallen into darkness centuries ago. Stories said this place had once been green, thriving, a hub of power and trade. But whatever had transformed it into a barren wasteland had left a scar on the land, one that seemed to seethe with a dark, restless energy. No one knew exactly what had happened—only that it had changed everything. Those who still lived here did so out of necessity or madness, clinging to scraps of life in a world that had all but forgotten them.
And then there were the beasts.
Night's gaze flicked across the landscape, searching the shadows for any sign of movement. The Wasteland was home to creatures that defied reason and defied nature. They were born from darkness, sustained by it, and thrived in the absence of light. They were beasts in the purest sense, hunting by instinct, driven by a hunger that seemed insatiable. Some of them were small, stealthy, the kind that would wait until you'd turned your back before striking. Others, like the one he'd seen earlier, were far larger, more aggressive—beasts of shadow that roamed openly, daring anyone to challenge their dominion over the Wasteland.
The one pursuing him now was of the latter kind. It was known as a Shade Hound, one of the more dangerous creatures that stalked these lands. It moved like smoke, its body blending seamlessly with the shadows, and its only visible feature was a pair of red, predatory eyes that seemed to burn with a fierce, unholy light. Shade Hounds were known for their speed, their agility, and their relentlessness. Once they had a scent, they didn't stop hunting until they either killed their prey or were killed themselves.
Night remained completely still, pressed against the stone, his hand hovering over the dagger at his side. It was a crude weapon, really—little more than a chipped, weathered blade he'd found in a forgotten corner of the ruins. But it was sharp enough to wound, and in the Wasteland, even the smallest advantage could mean the difference between life and death.
The Hound's red eyes flicked in his direction, narrowing as if sensing his presence. Night held his breath, willing himself to disappear, to become part of the shadow. He'd learned long ago that sometimes, the best way to survive was to let the darkness consume him, to blend with it, to become indistinguishable from it.
And he'd had practice—more practice than he cared to admit.
In this world, everyone possessed unique abilities, though no two abilities were exactly the same. Some called it a gift; others called it a curse. It was as if the Shadow Realm itself had imprinted a piece of its essence into every soul that survived here, marking them in ways they couldn't ignore. For some, this meant strength beyond measure, the ability to wield fire, or the power to bend light. But for others, it meant something darker, something that came at a terrible cost.
Night's ability, though he barely understood it himself, was linked to shadows. He could sense them, manipulate them, though only in limited ways. There was a feeling he'd come to recognize—a tingle that started in his chest, spreading to his fingertips, like an itch he couldn't scratch. It was as if the shadows themselves were alive, waiting for him to command them. But the energy it took was immense, draining him in ways that left him feeling hollow, exhausted. He used it sparingly, knowing that each time he called on it, he was inviting the darkness a little closer, letting it seep a little deeper into his soul.
And he wasn't the only one who paid a price. In the Shadow Realm, power always came at a cost. The stronger your abilities, the heavier the toll. Some people lost their sight, their memories, their sanity. Others developed physical scars—burns that never healed, limbs that grew brittle and withered. Night had heard of people who'd lost their humanity entirely, becoming something else, something monstrous.
He shuddered at the thought, gripping his knife tighter.
'No,' he thought. 'I won't let it control me'.
The Shade Hound was closer now, its red eyes fixed on him, unblinking. It moved in a slow, measured pace, circling him as if savoring the moment. Night could feel its hunger, a dark, pulsing desire that radiated from its very being. It was more than just hunger for flesh—it was as if the creature fed on fear, on despair, on the very essence of life itself.
Night's heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm, to think. Running would only make him an easier target, and fighting… well, he didn't have much of a choice there. His only hope was to outsmart the beast, to use his surroundings to his advantage.
Slowly, carefully, he shifted his weight, inching his way around the stone pillar, keeping it between himself and the Hound. His movements were smooth, deliberate, honed from years of practice. He knew the creature's senses were sharp, its reflexes deadly, but he also knew its limitations. The Hound relied on darkness, on its ability to blend in, to become one with the shadows. But if he could force it into the light…
He glanced up, squinting at the faint glow in the distance—the Syndicate's campfires, burning just beyond the ridge. It was risky, but if he could draw the Hound into the light, it might give him the edge he needed.
Taking a deep breath, Night gathered his energy, feeling the familiar tingle spread through his fingertips. He didn't fully understand how his ability worked, only that he could shape the shadows around him, bending them to his will, if only for a moment. It was like trying to hold water in his hands—fleeting, unstable. But it was enough.
He raised his hand, letting the shadows coil around his fingers, and with a swift motion, he flung them toward the Hound, creating a decoy—a dark, flickering silhouette that darted across the Wasteland, drawing the creature's attention.
The Hound hesitated, its red eyes narrowing as it watched the shadow move. It took the bait, lunging toward the decoy with a snarl, its claws tearing through empty air. And in that moment, Night sprang from his hiding place, sprinting toward the ridge, his heart pounding in his chest.
The ground was uneven, littered with debris, but he moved with the agility of someone who had learned to navigate this treacherous terrain. He could hear the Hound behind him, its snarls growing louder as it realized the deception, as it locked onto him once more.
Night's muscles burned, his lungs ached, but he didn't slow down. He pushed himself harder, faster, his gaze fixed on the distant glow of the campfires. He could feel the Hound closing in, its hot breath on his heels, its claws scraping against the ground.
Just a little further. Just a few more steps.
He reached the edge of the ridge, the faint glow of the fire illuminating his path, and without a second thought, he leapt, tumbling down the slope, his body rolling over rough, jagged rocks. Pain shot through him, but he ignored it, scrambling to his feet as he reached the bottom.
The Hound skidded to a halt at the edge of the ridge, its red eyes blazing as it stared down at him. It hesitated, its form flickering in the firelight, as if the light itself were repelling it.
Night took a shaky breath, his body trembling from the exertion. He glanced back at the Hound, meeting its gaze, and for a moment, he thought he saw something in its eyes—a flicker of recognition, a glint of something almost… human.
But then the creature snarled, turning away, disappearing into the shadows.
Night slumped to the ground, his body exhausted, his mind reeling. He didn't understand what had just happened, but he knew one thing for certain: he'd survived. For now, at least.
As he lay there, catching his breath, he felt something small and hard pressing against his chest. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small, black stone etched with strange symbols. He didn't know where it had come from, only that he'd found it in the ruins some weeks ago. But now, as
he held it in his hand, he felt a strange warmth emanating from it, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
The stone seemed to glow faintly, as if responding to his presence, and as he stared at it, he felt a surge of energy—dark, powerful, intoxicating. It was the same energy he'd felt earlier, when he'd summoned the shadows to create the decoy.
For a moment, he wondered if the stone was the source of his power, if it was somehow connected to the shadows that obeyed his will. But deep down, he knew it was more than that. The stone was a piece of the Wasteland itself, a fragment of the darkness that had swallowed this land.
And as long as he held it, he would never be free of the Wasteland's curse.
With a sigh, he slipped the stone back into his pocket, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. In the distance, he could see the glow of fires—the Syndicate's camps, if his maps were correct. The Umbra Syndicate, a shadowy organization that controlled much of the Shadow Realm, was known for its cruelty, its power, and its secrets. He'd avoided them for as long as he could, knowing that crossing paths with the Syndicate was a risk few survived.
But now, with this strange power awakening within him, he couldn't ignore the nagging feeling that he needed answers. The Syndicate held knowledge, secrets about the Shadow Realm and its mysteries, secrets that he desperately needed to understand.
One way or another, he was going to find out. And if it meant facing the Syndicate… then so be it.