A lean young man stood amidst the ruins, the biting wind scraping his skin like knives. A quarter moon reflected off the calm, azure lake, unobscured by roaming clouds. Towering trees loomed overhead, shadows swaying in the dim light. Bodies lay scattered—men and beast alike—abandoned by life, consumed by the fire's lingering heat, its smoke carried off by the strong winds. Staff, shield and bow discarded in mockery of their former wielders, strewn around like forgotten tools. The sword—the missing link of the party—untouched by soot and ashes, gleamed in the cold embrace of moonlight.
Another band, another group of pure-hearted adventurers.
Another tragedy.
Hearing the faint splash of water behind him, Ren turned as a dragonfly ascended from the water's edge, leaving a small but noticeable ripple. Approaching the lakeshore, he bent low, cupping his hands to scoop the cool, clear water. Refreshing his parched throat, grounding him in the tranquil solitude of the lake's edge.
"Ahhh…finally! Peace and quiet." Ren said, the glint in his eyes dimming ever so slightly, brows dropping as if mirroring his emotions.
"I was kinda getting to enjoy their company for once."
Straightening up, he wiped the water from his lips, expression unreadable. Ren's eyes glanced over the scorched remnants of the camp, the fire's warmth fading with the wind.
"Another group," he muttered, his gaze drifting toward the distant treeline. He let out a sigh, his shoulders sagging. Brandishing his falchion once again, he butchered the foul creature which had decimated his victims, its skin, flesh, teeth and bones alike cut with brutish efficiency, slicing through the beast like hot knife to butter.
Yet despite the emptiness around him, despite the cold night air and the bodies that lay still, there was an undeniable feeling—the sting of something lost. Something deeper than mere survival.
But Ren didn't have time to dwell on it. He had a new goal now, and the cycle would continue.
Stuffing as much of the meat into a hiking bag, he took one last, long look at the bloody sight. The eerie silence of the night encapsulating around him, disturbed only by the fair crackle of dying embers and rustle of the autumn leaves. Reaching for his pocket, he took out a rusty locket and opened it, staring at the worn image of his late family near a crackling campfire.
"I'm sorry."
***
A measly century ago, Earth was a thriving civilisation. The Advanced Races had propagated to every corner of the land, populating it with offspring of all colour and ethnicity, with no segregation or distrust among its inhabitants, it was a true paradise.
That was until the demons invaded.
They unleashed unspeakable horrors upon humanity's ancestors, eldritch beings beyond their beliefs, mythological creatures from the very depths of fiction itself, and ancient beasts long forgotten from history.
Confronted with such a crisis, the humans fought back with all they had.
The result?
On the demon side:
1 Goliath rendered unable to fight.
On the human side:
Untold billions killed.
No war.
No valiant sacrifices.
No heroic battles to turn the tides.
Just massacre.
***
Closing the locket with a distinct click, Ren allowed himself to linger a moment longer, fingers tracing the intricate patterns along the circular locket. His eyes—once cold and calculating—now lost, unsure of how to progress, the weight of the locket heavier than the steel on his side and the meat on his back. Well, at least he knew which direction to not go in… the Hunters.
Ren's eyes narrowed at the mere thought of the foul group, fists clenching around the leather hilt of the steel falchion, knuckles going from a blinding white to a shade of bluish-purple, the colour of the flames of survival and revenge in his heart. He had learnt the cost of their "greater good" just a year ago, and he would not forget it as abruptly as how he had learnt it.
They came with a promise, a promise of the rebuilding of civilization, a promise of peace for all, a promise of utopia.
What they did not promise was the cost it entailed.
Shaking his head, Ren remained steadfast.
'Dwelling on the past isn't getting me anywhere, focus, Ren. Survive.'
The night was when both Minor Monsters and Beasts were most active—the nocturnal things hunting for food in the pitch dark of midnight—and staying awake while always on the move, scouting out areas and having reliable escapes would prove essential to survival during these times.
Boots crunching through the ashes—both of the group's and glory of humanity long past—he trudged forth through the lush greenery of the jungle surrounding him, stretching throughout the vast expanse of land for miles around on all sides, before halting on the borders of either the labyrinthian-like Dragon's Den, desolate desert of the Titan's Territory or sandy beaches of the Leviathan's Lair.
These walking catastrophes were a leftover of the demon invasion, the weaker Monsters who could not afford to continue invading more worlds, lest they succumb to lasting injury. However, on Earth they were known by another name, The Gods of Destruction.
The aptly named Gods of Destruction roamed their respective lands, rarely—if ever—leaving them.
Unless you were worthy enough to be deemed a threat.
Cities, towns, villages all laid waste by servants of the Gods, the Minor Monsters. 3 story tall behemoths capable of razing villages to the ground, their nature of travelling in pairs ensuring at least mutual destruction. This led to no large groups of humans ever surviving post-demon invasion, save for the Hunters, a large cult-like entity which gathers any and all Relics and Artifacts from people, willing or not, with the goal of saving the world from the Gods of Destruction, seeking to gain enough power to eradicate them, establishing new societies from the ruins of The Advanced Ones.
Why would anyone not want to follow them, you ask, dear reader?
Their ways.
Those deemed as weak and inferior to the Hunters are used as sacrifice and bait, training dummies for the strong and talented.
Ren swung the falchion in a wide arc, the blade flashing through the air. It sliced effortlessly through the tangled foliage, its sharp edge gliding past twigs and leaves like a tuna in water. Though the sword wasn't made for hacking, Ren's precision turned the taxing task into a fluid art, effortlessly carving a path through the dense forest. His footsteps light and measured, making no less than a slight squish as they sank into the mud.
The faint rustle of leaves sent chills down his spine, readying his falchion, Ren equipped it with one hand, pointing its devastating edge towards the source of the sound. Ren let off a bead of cold sweat in anticipation, eyes locked at the general vicinity of the noise, laser focused to react to any sudden movements, poised to stab in a heartbeat.
His breathing sped up and heartbeat heightened, vision narrowing to include only the small bush which emitted the disturbance. However nervous he was mentally, he did not show weakness. His body was unwavering, not letting off even the slightest of movements, hands stable on the rough hilt of the cool falchion.
The rustling intensified for a moment before it stopped altogether. Ren's muscles were tense, his mind buzzing with the threat of an unseen enemy. He knew better than to assume the jungle was ever truly quiet. Something near him lurked, waiting for the right moment.
He took a slow breath, steadying himself, scanning the surroundings with a calculated calm. Every shift of the wind, every rustle of the brush, every flicker of shadow—Ren had learned to interpret them, use them as signs. The jungle spoke, and it was his job to listen.
The seconds stretched, sending Ren's nerves to their limits. He couldn't afford to make a mistake. If he was too hasty or too slow, the consequences would be swift and deadly.
Then, without warning, a blur of motion erupted from the bushes. A hulking shape, too large to be a mere animal, burst from the foliage, two wild and red eyes gleaming with malice. Its roar shook the ground, a deep, guttural sound that rattled the very land.
It was a Beast—one of the many horrors left in the wake of the demon invasion. A bipedal wolf-like animal towering above Ren, a cavern of serrated teeth bent inwards in its maw to prevent any escape, saliva dripping from its jaws like a rabid animal, claws as long as Ren's falchion.
Ren reacted instinctively. With a fluid motion, he pivoted on his heel and bent downwards with his torso facing the sky, bringing the falchion up in a smooth arc—like he was tracing a rainbow through the sky—as the beast lunged. The creature's claws raked through the air, missing him by mere inches. He could feel the wind of its attack rush past him as his blade slashed through the soft abdomen of his opponent.
The beast roared in pain, its immense bulk staggering back as Ren stepped back, reeling from the trauma of having its innards sliced, leaving a huge scar across its stomach.
But it wasn't enough. The Beast's unbending spirit was like iron, its bloodlust was far from quelled. Swinging its claws again—faster and more precise this time—Ren had to roll beneath the beast's massive swipe. His heart hammered against his ribcage as he quickly regained his footing, eyes still locked on his opponent.
His mind raced. He needed to end this quickly. Its strength was overwhelming, but Ren knew that its aggression, size, and lack of strategy would be its downfall. Too enraged to think beyond its instinct to kill.
Swallowing his saliva, pain like a sharp knife stabbing his dehydrated throat sent a jolt throughout his body, like he had just been running for hours on end. The pain calmed him.
Ren's grip tightened on the falchion. His breath slowed as he calmed his racing heart, eyes narrowing in focus. He needed the right moment—one more strike, a fatal blow. His falchion was sharp, but it was also lightweight. Ren wasn't just fighting the Beast—he was playing a game of precision and timing. The longer the fight dragged on, the more dangerous it became…for the rabid animal. If he could land a precise strike, or let it bleed out, he would win. Just like all the other battles.
It lunged again, but this time, Ren was ready. He sidestepped, using the momentum of the creature's charge to circle behind it. With a fluid motion, he raised the falchion once more, this time aiming for the weak point that he created, its abdomen, stabbing it straight through, hitting its fleshy insides yet again.
The blade sank in without a sound made.
The creature careened, eyes wide with shock, before collapsing with a final, guttural growl, its massive body hitting the ground with a thud that sent tremors through the earth. The jungle went still again.
Ren stood over the beast, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face. He glanced down at the fallen creature, his hand still gripping the falchion's hilt tightly. The adrenaline was still pumping through him, the aftershocks of the fight still vibrating in his limbs.
He couldn't afford to rest. Not now.
Ren turned, pushing past the fallen creature with a grim determination. The jungle was vast, and the night was young. Another could be waiting just beyond the next tree, the next nook or cranny, and he had to be prepared. But as he walked, he allowed himself a brief moment to think about the cost—the price of survival in a world that had been broken and remade in the image of destruction.
The peace he longed for, the family he'd lost—those things were long gone, consumed by the fires of a killing he never asked for. But he had learned. He had learned to fight. To survive.
And he would keep fighting until there was nothing left to fight for.
Because in the end, that was all that mattered.
Survival.