The humans had noticed.
Veyrath crouched atop a jagged spire of obsidian, his sharp eyes scanning the distant figures moving across the wasteland. Torches flickered in the twilight gloom, illuminating five humans, moving in formation.
They weren't like the others.
These were organized.
Armed.
Prepared.
The weak, scattered fools he had hunted before had been nothing more than wandering prey—lone scavengers who never expected to die. But these ones? They were here for a reason.
Hunting parties weren't common in these wastes. The players—humans—mostly killed beasts for loot, occasionally fought among themselves for territory. But something had changed.
And he knew what it was.
They were looking for him.
Veyrath grinned.
Good. Let them come.
He remained still, blending into the jagged landscape. The humans moved cautiously, scanning their surroundings. They weren't ordinary adventurers.
Their leader, a tall man clad in iron-plated leather, carried a curved longsword at his side. His armor gleamed with faint enchantments. Not powerful ones, but enough to mark him as more than just a weakling.
His nameplate—glowing slightly above his head—read: Brakar, Level 12.
A dangerous opponent.
But it was the woman beside him that interested Veyrath more.
She was different.
A Seer.
Her robes were woven with silver threads, marking her as a magic user. Her eyes glowed faintly—a sign of divination.
Veyrath's lip curled. A tracker.
She had followed his trail.
That meant she could sense him.
A problem.
Veyrath's fingers flexed. He could flee, vanish into the wastes, let them pass. It was the safer option. He had fought only the weak before, never a true group of organized killers.
But safety did not lead to power.
Power came from the slaughter of the strong.
And so, he waited.
Brakar raised a hand. His group halted.
"We're close," the Seer murmured. "I can feel it."
The others shifted uneasily.
"Another monster?" a short, bearded man asked.
"No." The Seer's gaze narrowed. "It's… not like the others."
Brakar exhaled sharply. "Whatever it is, we kill it. Stay close."
They moved forward, closer to where Veyrath lay in wait.
They were cautious, but not cautious enough.
Veyrath had chosen his battlefield carefully—an area filled with jagged stone formations, narrow paths, and deep crevices.
A perfect place for an ambush.
He let them pass, waiting for the exact moment.
Three.
They moved deeper into the trap.
Two.
Brakar's hand twitched toward his sword, a sense of unease settling over him.
One.
The moment their backs were turned, Veyrath struck.
Veyrath dropped from above, silent as a shadow, striking with lethal precision.
His first target—the Seer.
Her glowing eyes widened in shock as his claws sliced across her throat.
A critical strike.
She fell, choking on her own blood, fingers clawing at her ruined throat.
The group exploded into action.
Brakar whirled, sword flashing. Too slow.
Veyrath was already moving.
A second target.
He lunged at the short, bearded man—the weakest link. His dagger punched through leather, into soft flesh.
Another kill.
The remaining three reacted.
Brakar swung.
Veyrath barely dodged, the blade slicing across his shoulder.
Pain.
He snarled. Weak body, too slow. He needed more power.
He backed away, reassessing.
Three left.
Brakar. The armored swordsman.
A second melee fighter—an axe-wielder, moving cautiously.
And the last—a ranged attacker, drawing a bow.
They weren't panicking.
They were trained.
Veyrath bared his teeth. This would be fun.
Brakar led the charge.
He was fast. Faster than the others. His sword glowed faintly, enchanted for sharpness.
Veyrath sidestepped the first strike, but Brakar adjusted—a feint.
The real strike came from the left.
Veyrath twisted, the sword grazing his ribs. Pain flared.
Too slow.
The axe-wielder followed up. A downward swing—brutal, meant to cleave.
Veyrath rolled aside. His body was weak, but he was still faster.
The moment the axe missed, he retaliated.
A strike to the knee.
Bone cracked. The man screamed, toppling.
Now—one left.
The archer loosed an arrow. Veyrath caught the movement. Too late.
The arrow sank into his shoulder.
Pain.
Deep pain.
Veyrath growled. His blood boiled. His vision sharpened.
He turned to the archer.
She hesitated.
A mistake.
Veyrath closed the distance in a heartbeat.
Her scream was short-lived.
His claws ripped out her throat.
Brakar was alone.
He stood panting, his blade coated in Veyrath's blood. His allies lay dead around him.
Veyrath exhaled, steadying himself. His wounds burned. His body ached.
But he was winning.
Brakar stared at him. Then—a sudden movement.
Not an attack.
He grabbed a small gem from his belt.
A teleport crystal.
Veyrath's eyes narrowed.
He moved.
Brakar vanished.
The battle was over.
Veyrath stood among the bodies, breathing heavily. His wounds throbbed, but his veins buzzed with stolen power.
The bodies lay still.
Veyrath exhaled, his breath ragged. His wounds burned, his muscles ached, but his mind was sharp—sharper than it had been since his exile.
He had killed. Again.
And this time, it had not been easy.
Brakar had escaped. The first human to survive an encounter with him.
But it did not matter.
Veyrath had won.
And he had grown.
He stepped away from the corpses, wiping the blood from his claws. His vision blurred for a moment—not from weakness, but from change.
Something had shifted.
Something deep inside.
Instinctively, he called upon the power buried within him, forcing the world to acknowledge his growth.
A window flickered into view.
Status Window
Name: Veyrath
Race: Mahjra'ka (Weakened)
Level: 3
Health: 160/210
Mana: 20/1100
Strength: 7
Agility: 9
Endurance: 6
Magic: 12
Skills:
• Dark Affinity (Passive) – Magic aligned with darkness is easier to control.
• Predator's Instinct (Passive) – Instinctively detects weak points in prey.
• Shadow Step (Active) – A short-range movement ability that momentarily blends the user into the darkness. (Mana Cost: 10)
Veyrath stared.
His magic had grown.
Not much. Not enough.
But enough to matter.
He clenched his fingers, feeling the magic stir within him—the first true ability to return to him since his exile. It was weak, nothing compared to the spells he had once wielded, but it was a start.
His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, not from pain, but from expectation.
He was growing again.
He was coming back.
The humans had given him this power. Their deaths had fed his return.
And he was not done yet.
Veyrath did not linger.
The humans would return. He could not fight an army, not yet.
He grabbed Brakar's abandoned longsword and the other spoils of war. Coins. Potions. A minor mana crystal.
Then he vanished into the wastes.
The arrow wound still burned. His ribs ached. But none of it mattered.
He had no time for weakness.
He needed to recover.
He needed to grow stronger.
The humans had underestimated him once.
They would not get a second chance.
Hours passed.
Veyrath moved through the desolate landscape, heading toward a hidden crevice he had claimed as his temporary shelter. The obsidian walls gave him cover, the overhang shielding him from sight.
He sat.
Finally.
His body demanded rest. His wounds needed tending.
But before he could close his eyes, he felt something shift in the air.
A pulse of magic.
Distant. Faint.
But growing.
Veyrath's eyes narrowed.
The humans were moving.
Somewhere in the distance, beyond the ridges and the broken lands, the players were gathering.
Veyrath had hunted them. Killed them. And now?
They wanted revenge.
He could almost hear them.
"Who is he?"
"What kind of monster is this?"
"Can we kill it?"
"We need more people."
More people.
Veyrath smirked.
The weak always clung to numbers. As if numbers could save them.
He leaned back against the obsidian wall, closing his eyes for just a moment.
It didn't matter how many they sent.
He would kill them all.
This world belonged to the strong.