Veyrath stood at the edge of a towering obsidian ridge, watching as the humans gathered.
Fires flickered in the distance, forming a circle of light in the darkness. Their camp had grown—more bodies, more weapons, more torches.
They were preparing.
His last battle had not gone unnoticed. The first weaklings he had culled were insignificant, mere insects beneath his claws. But when he had crushed Brakar's hunting party, the humans had realized that something was different.
They had seen. They had feared. And now they had come.
Veyrath's lips curled.
Good.
He counted at least twenty-five.
More than before. More than he could take on alone.
They had rallied their own kind, spread word of the mysterious predator lurking in the wastes. Some wielded steel, others bore staves of crude magic.
A few wore better armor.
Veyrath's gaze flickered to Brakar.
The man stood near the center of the group, his wounds freshly healed, his blade sharper than before.
But it was the woman beside him that caught his attention.
A new Seer.
Her robes shimmered with enchanted thread, and her fingers traced runes in the air. She wasn't just another weakling. She was a problem.
Veyrath's mind worked quickly.
He had been careless last time—too bold, too reckless. He had won, but he had bled for it. The humans had numbers. They had magic. They had tools.
If he charged in blindly, he would fall.
He needed a new approach.
The humans were hunters.
They thought themselves apex predators, used to killing mindless beasts, leveling up, growing stronger.
But they had never been hunted.
Veyrath would change that.
He would not fight them all at once.
He would break them apart.
One by one.
Night fell.
The fires at the human camp burned low, their crackling the only sound in the stillness. Some slept. Others stood watch.
Veyrath moved through the darkness. Silent. Unseen.
He had learned from his past fights. He was still weak compared to what he had once been, but his agility, his instincts—those were returning.
He watched. He waited.
Then, he found his target.
A lone guard, standing at the edge of camp, clutching a spear. His head bobbed slightly, exhaustion creeping into his limbs.
A mistake.
Veyrath struck.
A single Shadow Step, a flicker of darkness—and he was behind the man.
His claws slid across the human's throat, quick, clean. The body slumped to the ground, silent.
+1 kill.
He dragged the corpse into the shadows, erasing all evidence.
The humans would not notice yet.
But they would soon.
An hour passed. Then two.
Veyrath took another.
And another.
Four guards were missing before the humans even noticed.
Panic set in.
They woke their own, their voices rising in confusion. Brakar cursed loudly, ordering a search.
Too late.
The bodies were gone.
All that remained was a message—a single streak of blood on a nearby rock, smeared into a crude symbol.
Veyrath grinned from the shadows.
They were afraid now.
And fear made them weak.
The Seer moved quickly. She whispered spells, tracing runes in the air. Trying to locate him.
Veyrath watched, waiting.
Then he saw it.
A flicker in the air. A ripple of magic spreading outward.
She was scanning for him.
He had to move—now.
He turned, shifting deeper into the night, but then—
A flash.
A pulse of white light.
His body burned as the spell found him.
A tracking mark.
Veyrath growled, his instincts screaming a warning. The humans turned, weapons raised.
They had him.
And they were coming.
Veyrath ran.
The ground blurred beneath him, his agility carrying him faster than any human could hope to match. But it wasn't enough.
A bolt of flame seared past his shoulder.
An arrow whistled through the air, grazing his side.
They were closing in.
He snarled, mind racing. He had to break the pursuit.
And then—
He saw it.
A narrow ravine in the wasteland, its depths swallowed by shadow.
A trap waiting to be sprung.
He turned sharply, leading the humans toward it.
Brakar led the charge, his sword gleaming in the moonlight.
Veyrath reached the edge of the ravine, skidding to a stop.
Brakar slowed, confusion flashing across his face.
The Seer's voice rang out.
"It's a trap!"
Too late.
Veyrath dropped into the ravine, using Shadow Step to vanish into the abyss.
The humans hesitated. A fatal mistake.
The ground beneath them shifted.
Then it collapsed.
The rock beneath their feet crumbled, sending half the hunting party tumbling into the depths below.
Brakar barely leapt back in time, but others were not so lucky.
Screams echoed.
Bones snapped.
And from the shadows of the ravine, Veyrath emerged.
The humans had come to hunt him.
Now they were trapped with him.
And he was not prey.
The screams had died down.
For a moment, the only sounds that filled the ravine were ragged breathing, the shifting of loose stone, and the occasional groan of the wounded.
The humans had stopped calling out for help. They knew now—no one was coming.
Veyrath stood at the edge of the ravine, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. He did not move. He did not speak.
He only watched.
And they felt it.
The weight of his gaze. The slow, creeping realization that they had not simply fallen into a pit—they had fallen into a grave.
Their grave.
And he was waiting.
A flickering torch barely illuminated the seven humans trapped below.
They had survived the fall, but not without cost.
One man lay motionless, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle—dead.
Two more were badly injured. One clutched a broken leg, biting down on a leather strap to stifle his pain. The other had an arm bent the wrong way, cradling it as he shivered in shock.
The remaining four were still combat-capable, but shaken. Uncertain.
They weren't looking for a way out.
They were looking at him.
One of them, a bearded man with a dented breastplate, broke the silence.
"It's watching us."
His voice was barely a whisper, hoarse with fear.
Another torch was lit.
The glow illuminated Veyrath's silhouette, standing unmoving on the edge of the pit.
One of the men swallowed hard.
"…Why isn't it attacking?"
They had expected a monster.
A beast. A mindless creature that would charge in blindly, slaughter them all in a frenzy of claws and blood.
But he did not move.
And that terrified them more than anything else.
Because a monster kills.
A predator waits.
The broken man with the shattered leg clutched his weapon, sweat dripping down his brow. His breathing was too fast, shallow and panicked.
He knew.
He wouldn't make it.
The beast above—it knew.
And it was waiting for him to realize it.
A trembling voice broke the silence.
"We… we have to get out of here."
Brakar—still above, still watching, still alive— shouted down from the ledge.
"Hold position! I'll get the others—we can pull you up!"
A lie.
A weak lie.
Brakar wasn't coming back. Not with Veyrath still standing at the edge.
The trapped ones realized it too.
They had been abandoned.
Then the whispers began.
Veyrath could hear them. Could feel them.
The trapped humans started turning on each other.
"We should climb." One of them muttered. "We can climb, right? Right? We just—"
"Are you stupid?" Another hissed. "We can't climb that fast! It's waiting! It's waiting for us to try!"
Silence.
The man with the broken leg groaned, his grip on his sword faltering. His pain was growing. His resolve was breaking.
The whispers continued.
"We can't stay here."
"We need to move."
"…He's going to die anyway."
Veyrath's eyes narrowed slightly.
Ah.
They had begun considering sacrifice.
And so, he waited.
Watched.
The darkness closed in around them.
The torchlight flickered lower.
The shadows stretched longer.
Their fear festered.
And then—one of them moved.
The man with the broken arm lunged.
A dagger flashed in the dim light, stabbing downward—not at Veyrath, but at one of his own.
The man with the broken leg cried out in shock.
Too late.
The blade sank into his throat.
Blood gushed, hot and sudden, pooling across the stone.
The others stumbled back, gasping.
The dagger-wielder's breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes wild. His hands shaking.
"We need to live," he whispered, voice frantic. "We can't carry him, and if we stay here, we're dead anyway—
CRACK.
A heavy boot slammed into his chest, sending him crashing against the stone.
The bearded man—the leader among them—stood over him, face twisted in disgust.
"You're a coward."
He raised his sword.
The dagger-wielder barely had time to scream before his skull was split open.
Two dead.
And Veyrath had done nothing.
The bearded man turned to the remaining survivors, face grim.
"No more madness," he growled. "We stick together."
Lies.
The others knew it.
They did not trust each other anymore.
Fear had infected them.
Veyrath could smell it in the air. Thick. Palpable. Choking.
They weren't looking at him anymore.
They were looking at each other.
Veyrath finally moved.
A single, slow step forward.
The humans flinched as one.
Weapons rose.
Terror gripped their bones.
But he did not leap down.
Did not charge.
He simply let them see.
Let them feel his presence.
The bearded man tightened his grip on his weapon.
The remaining three survivors clutched theirs, shaking.
Then—it happened.
One of them broke.
A young fighter, his hands slick with sweat, suddenly threw down his sword and ran.
Not at Veyrath—but away.
Scrambling toward the rocks, toward any chance of escape.
He clawed desperately at the wall, trying to climb, trying to leave, trying to flee from what he could not fight.
He had forgotten Veyrath.
He was only afraid of dying.
The bearded man's face twisted. He had no patience left.
He swung his blade.
The coward never reached the wall.
A spray of blood painted the rock.
Three left.
Veyrath finally leapt.
His descent was swift, brutal.
The bearded man barely had time to turn before Veyrath's claws sank into his back, shredding through leather and flesh.
A single, precise strike.
His legs collapsed beneath him.
The remaining two screamed.
They had no fight left.
They ran.
Veyrath let them.
He let them scramble, stumble, beg for mercy that would not come.
And when they fell—when exhaustion stole the last of their strength—
He ended them.
Quickly.
Effortlessly.
Without a sound.
Silence returned to the ravine.
Veyrath stood over the slaughter he had created.
Seven kills.
And not a single wasted effort.
He wiped his claws clean, looking up toward the ledge.
Brakar was gone.
He had fled.
Good.
Let the humans run.
Let them scream.
Let them tell their kind what waits in the abyss.