The village was nothing but ruins and silence.
The doors hung open.
The streets were stained red.
The bodies lay where they had fallen, untouched, left to rot in the rising sun.
There were no survivors.
Except one.
A child.
Small. Frail.
Too young to understand what had happened.
Too young to fear what had come for them.
She sat among the dead, her hollow eyes staring at nothing.
Veyrath had left her there.
Not as an act of mercy.
But as an offering to the world.
Let them come.
Let them find her.
Let them see the truth.
Let them know what waits in the dark.
And when they came?
When they tried to understand?
When they tried to hunt him?
He would be waiting.
Veyrath stood at the edge of the forest, watching the dead village from afar.
He had never needed to stay after the slaughter before.
There had always been more prey to chase.
More blood to spill.
But this time was different.
This time, they would come looking.
And he wanted to see how they reacted.
How they broke.
How they bled.
He exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of his own evolution.
He had grown.
Not just in skill, not just in strength.
But in understanding.
He could feel it—a shift within himself.
The world was changing around him.
And he was changing with it.
His fingers twitched.
Time to see how much.
He willed it into existence.
The world obeyed.
A window of power unfolded before him, raw data made real.
Status Window
Name: Veyrath
Race: Mahjra'ka (Weakened)
Level: 10
Health: 280/280
Mana: 160/1500
Strength: 12
Agility: 15
Endurance: 11
Magic: 18
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)
• Fearmonger (Passive): Prolonged exposure to Veyrath increases an enemy's fear response, making them more likely to panic, make mistakes, or break mentally.
• Executioner's Grasp (Active): A lethal grip that crushes the target's vital points, dealing devastating internal damage. (Mana Cost: 20)
Veyrath's gaze lingered on the new skill.
Fearmonger.
It had not been there before.
But it made sense.
He had broken them before killing them.
Had made them fear their own minds.
Had turned their own terror into his weapon.
And now, the world recognized it.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the raw hunger in his veins.
He was no longer just a killer.
He was a force.
A thing that erased hope itself.
And he was just getting started.
The first riders arrived at noon.
Five men, armored in iron and leather, carrying spears and crossbows.
They were not farmers.
They were trained. Hardened.
But even they did not ride in as warriors.
They approached slowly. Carefully.
Because even from a distance, they could tell.
Something was wrong.
The village should have been alive.
Smoke should have risen from the chimneys.
Voices should have carried on the wind.
Instead, there was nothing.
Just emptiness.
And the smell of blood.
One of them—a man with a scarred face, his hand tight around his spear—called out.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
He glanced at the others.
A second rider, younger, nervous, nudged his horse forward.
"Do we go in?"
The scarred man nodded.
They moved together.
Slowly.
Weapons drawn.
They passed the first body near the gate.
The next two by the well.
By the time they reached the center of the village,
By the time they saw the blood-stained doorways, the open houses, the dead eyes staring back at them—
They stopped.
And the youngest among them whispered it first.
"Gods… what happened here?"
Then, they saw her.
The girl.
The only one left.
She sat on the steps of the ruined longhouse, her face pale, her hands wrapped around her knees.
The youngest rider dismounted first.
He hurried toward her, kneeling.
"Hey. Hey, it's okay."
She did not move.
Did not blink.
The scarred man watched closely.
Something was wrong.
Something about her wasn't right.
He stepped forward, voice low.
"What happened here?"
The child lifted her head.
Her lips parted.
And she spoke.
"He's still here."
The words were not a warning.
Not a cry for help.
They were a simple truth.
And the riders realized it too late.
Veyrath was already among them.
He had been watching since they arrived.
Had been waiting.
And now, they were exactly where he wanted them.
Still.
Distracted.
Open.
The scarred man turned just in time to see the movement.
A flicker of black and red.
A shape emerging from the ruined houses.
Then—
The first one died before he could even scream.
A single, crushing blow to the throat.
His body hit the dirt, lifeless.
The others reacted too slowly.
The young rider turned—too late.
Veyrath's claws tore through his armor.
Another body collapsed.
The remaining three drew weapons.
One raised a crossbow.
Veyrath vanished into the shadows.
Then reappeared behind him.
A twist. A snap.
The crossbow clattered to the ground.
Only two remained.
One tried to run.
Veyrath let him.
Because he already knew how it would end.
The last man stood his ground.
His voice steady.
His spear raised.
"You're a monster."
Veyrath's crimson eyes glowed.
And he smiled.
"Yes."
The village was a graveyard.
Bodies littered the streets, motionless, lifeless. The fires had long since burned out. The blood had dried in the dirt.
And yet, one man remained.
A single rider.
A single survivor.
His spear was steady. His grip was firm. His eyes did not waver.
He was not like the others.
Not yet.
But he would be.
Because Veyrath had seen this before.
The brave ones always broke the hardest.
And breaking them was his favorite part.
The man's name was Ravon.
Veyrath could see it etched into the nameplate of his armor.
A warrior.
A soldier.
A man who had faced death before.
But not this kind of death.
Not this kind of fear.
Still, he fought it.
He stood his ground, his spear leveled at Veyrath's chest.
His breath came slow. Controlled.
"You won't take me like you took the others."
Veyrath's crimson eyes narrowed.
Then he smiled.
"Who said I was going to take you?"
Veyrath did not attack.
Not yet.
Instead, he moved.
Slowly. Casually.
A predator circling its prey.
Ravon turned with him, never lowering his weapon.
But his breathing hitched—just slightly.
The first sign.
The first crack.
"I've fought worse than you," Ravon said, his voice forced and even.
Veyrath chuckled.
"No, you haven't."
A flicker of movement—
Shadow Step.
Veyrath was behind him.
Ravon spun—too slow.
Veyrath's claws traced his armor—lightly, just enough for him to feel it.
A whisper against his ribs.
A reminder that he could have died right then.
That Veyrath had let him live.
For now.
Ravon stepped back, eyes wide.
His stance shifted—just a fraction.
But it was enough.
Veyrath saw it.
Felt it.
The creeping doubt.
The question burning in his mind.
What am I fighting?
Veyrath tilted his head, watching the realization dawn.
Then he spoke again.
"You're shaking."
Ravon gritted his teeth.
"No, I'm not."
Veyrath's grin widened.
"Then why are you lying?"
It was always like this.
The ones who stood the longest had to lie to themselves.
Had to tell themselves they still had a chance.
Had to believe they were still in control.
Because the moment they admitted the truth—
That there was nothing they could do.
That their fate had already been decided.
That they were just waiting to die.
That was when they broke.
Veyrath moved again—fast.
Not an attack.
Just a brush of his claws against Ravon's side.
A scratch.
Nothing deep.
Nothing fatal.
Just enough for blood to flow.
Just enough for Ravon to feel it.
His breath hitched.
He stumbled—just slightly.
Veyrath licked the blood from his claw.
"Not so steady anymore."
Ravon tightened his grip on his spear.
He lunged.
Veyrath let him.
The spear rushed forward—straight at his heart.
A perfect strike.
A killing blow.
But Veyrath did not move.
And the spear stopped an inch from his chest.
Ravon's hands froze.
His body locked in place.
His muscles refused to push forward.
Because somewhere, deep inside, he had already accepted the truth.
This fight wasn't real.
It never had been.
This was his execution.
And he was the one who had walked into it.
Ravon let out a shuddering breath.
He forced himself to step back.
Forced himself to regain his footing.
"You're trying to get into my head," he growled.
Veyrath smirked.
"I'm already there."
He saw it now.
The glint of terror behind the bravado.
The way Ravon's fingers clenched too tightly around his weapon.
He was not thinking anymore.
He was reacting.
He was afraid.
Veyrath took a step closer.
Ravon stepped back.
Veyrath took another step.
Ravon stepped back again.
And then—
His foot hit a corpse.
He stumbled.
Veyrath struck.
Not a killing blow.
Not yet.
Just a clawed hand wrapping around Ravon's throat.
Not crushing.
Just holding.
Just reminding him.
You lost.
Ravon's hands shook.
His knees buckled.
His body gave out.
And Veyrath slowly, gently, lowered him to the dirt.
Like a predator letting its prey collapse under its own weight.
Ravon was breathing too fast now.
His spear had fallen from his hands.
His strength had left him.
Veyrath could feel the fear radiating from him now.
Deep. Primal.
The kind that buries itself in the bones.
The kind that does not leave.
Not in death.
Not ever.
Ravon's voice was barely a whisper.
"What… are you?"
Veyrath crouched over him.
His claws pressed lightly against Ravon's chest.
Not cutting.
Not yet.
Just waiting.
Then he whispered back.
"I am the last thing you will ever see."
The words sank into Ravon's skull.
And in that moment, he finally broke.
His breath hitched.
His pupils dilated.
His mind snapped.
Veyrath could see it in his eyes.
The exact moment he surrendered.
The moment he realized he was already dead.
Veyrath leaned in.
And finally, he ended it.
Slowly.
Letting Ravon feel every moment of his failure.
Until there was nothing left of him but silence.