Veyrath walked.
Not toward civilization.
Not toward another hunt.
But toward isolation.
The ruined city lay far behind him, its screams long faded, its ashes left to smolder.
He did not look back.
There was nothing left to see.
Now, he sought something else.
Something buried deep within himself.
Something he had not touched in lifetimes.
Rituals.
The power he had once wielded.
The arts that had long since been lost to him.
It was time to see if they could be reclaimed.
Days passed.
The land around him became untamed, untouched by men.
Dense forests, jagged cliffs, ancient ruins half-buried by time.
A place forgotten by the world.
It was here that he would begin.
Where he would carve something from nothing.
Where he would test the limits of what remained.
He found a deep cavern, hidden behind a waterfall, its entrance swallowed by shadows.
A place where no one would follow.
Where no one would hear him.
Where he could work undisturbed.
Veyrath sat in silence.
The cavern was empty, save for him.
The air was cold. Still.
He closed his eyes.
Reached inward.
Dug through the remnants of what he once was.
And began.
His hands moved through old motions, tracing symbols into the dirt.
His voice spoke words that had not left his lips in centuries.
But nothing happened.
No shift.
No power.
Just emptiness.
Veyrath did not stop.
He refused to stop.
Again.
And again.
And again.
He repeated the rituals that had once been effortless.
But there was no response.
No flicker of magic.
No pull from the void.
Nothing.
He snarled, clenching his fists.
Had he truly lost it?
Had the power that once belonged to him vanished forever?
Had time erased what he had been?
No.
He would not accept that.
He would tear it from the depths of his being if he had to.
It took days.
Days of failure. Of silence. Of rage.
But then—
A flicker.
A single spark.
The moment was so small he nearly missed it.
A whisper of power, slipping through his fingers.
Not strong.
Not controlled.
But there.
Real.
His breath hitched.
His pulse steadied.
And slowly, carefully, he tried again.
He knelt.
Drew the symbols again.
Spoke the words again.
And this time—
The cavern shifted.
The air stirred.
The shadows trembled.
It was weak.
Barely a whisper of what he had once commanded.
But it was something.
And something was enough.
Veyrath exhaled slowly, studying the ritual before him.
It had worked.
But only just.
This was not mastery.
This was the first step on a path that would take lifetimes.
Rituals were not simple magic.
They were not brute force.
They required patience. Knowledge. Understanding.
And he had forgotten too much.
If he wanted to reclaim what was lost, he would have to start from the beginning.
Learn again.
Fail again.
Suffer again.
But Veyrath did not fear the long road.
Because he had time.
And he had no intention of staying weak.
Veyrath stayed in the cavern for days.
He refined the markings.
Tested variations of the chants.
Learned what still worked and what had been lost.
And as he practiced, slowly, painfully—
He grew stronger.
Little by little.
Step by step.
It would be years before he reached true power again.
But he was willing to bleed for it.
Because now, he knew.
The path was not closed to him.
It was just waiting to be walked once more.
And he would walk it.
Veyrath left the cavern before dawn.
The ritual site he had carved into the earth remained behind—a testament to what had been reclaimed, even if only in fragments.
He did not linger.
He had learned what he could for now.
The foundation was there.
But true mastery?
That would take time.
And time was something he would shape to his will.
He would refine his craft between the hunts.
Perfect it alongside the slaughter.
Because while rituals would make him stronger in the future—
Blood was what sustained him now.
Days passed as Veyrath moved through untamed lands.
Forests untouched by men.
Winding paths that had long since been forgotten.
But eventually, the wilderness broke.
And civilization rose before him once more.
A new city.
A new place filled with weak prey and blind fools.
But this time, he did not rush.
This time, he would observe first.
Because while he had spent centuries perfecting the art of fear—
He had never forgotten patience.
This was not the same as the last city he had broken.
This one was built differently.
It was a place of warriors, mercenaries, slayers of beasts.
A city that did not just trade goods—
It traded power.
He watched from the ridgeline beyond the gates.
The streets below bustled with fighters.
Men and women clad in armor, leathers, enchanted cloaks.
Weapons gleaming under the morning sun.
A city used to the presence of killers.
A city accustomed to death.
They would not frighten as easily.
But that only made the game more interesting.
Veyrath's claws flexed at his sides.
This would take more than shadows and whispers.
This time, he would have to do something different.
Veyrath stood at the edge of the city, unseen.
The flickering torchlights illuminated the walls, the guards, the people moving within.
He did not step forward.
Did not attempt to enter.
Because he could not.
His form was too different.
His towering frame, the jagged bone protrusions along his shoulders, the unnatural glow of the runes that lined his obsidian-like skin—
No human could mistake him for one of their own.
Not with his burning crimson eyes.
Not with the way the shadows clung to him, shifting unnaturally, as if drawn to his presence.
Even disguises were meaningless.
No cloak would conceal what he was.
No hood could mask the raw terror his presence inspired.
And so, he did not walk among them.
He hunted from the outside.
This place was stronger than the last.
The people here were not soft, not naïve.
They were fighters, mercenaries, slayers of beasts.
Many of them had seen death, had faced monsters before.
But they had never faced him.
And that was their greatest weakness.
Because they had grown accustomed to battles that had rules.
They had never fought an enemy that did not play by them.
And that was what Veyrath would teach them.
Not through war.
Not through a siege.
But through something worse.
Through fear itself.
Veyrath moved as a shadow among the treetops, unseen, unheard.
The outskirts of the city were not empty.
Hunters patrolled the roads, men armed with crossbows and steel, their eyes sharp, their senses honed from years of tracking beasts.
But beasts were predictable.
And Veyrath was not.
He did not attack immediately.
He waited.
Watched.
Learned their patterns.
Because the best hunts were not rushed.
The best kills were set into motion long before the first drop of blood was spilled.
The first prey arrived at dusk.
A merchant caravan, escorted by hired swords, rolling toward the city gates.
Their armor was polished but worn.
Their movements practiced but tired.
They had done this many times before.
Too many times.
And routine was dangerous.
Because it made them predictable.
And predictable men died first.
Veyrath moved before they even knew he was there.
A flicker of movement in the trees.
A whisper of something unseen.
The lead guard stiffened.
Turned.
Nothing.
But the feeling did not leave him.
A chill crawled up his spine.
His fingers tightened on his blade.
"We're being watched," he murmured.
The others laughed.
"Paranoia. We've made this trip a hundred times."
But the lead guard was not convinced.
His instincts screamed at him.
He turned to his men.
"Double the watch. We don't take risks."
It would not matter.
Because fear was already in his heart.
And once it was there, it would never leave.
That night, they camped outside the city gates.
The caravan's leader did not trust the city enough to enter after dark.
So they waited.
And Veyrath waited with them.
One of the younger guards was the first to break.
He had felt the unseen presence all night.
Had felt the watching eyes, the whispering wind.
And fear had eaten at him.
He could not sit still.
He could not sleep.
So he stepped away from the fire.
Away from his allies.
Away from safety.
Just for a moment.
Just for a breath.
And that was all it took.
It was silent.
Quick.
A shadow descended upon him from above.
A clawed hand clamped over his mouth.
A blade slid between his ribs.
His eyes widened.
His body convulsed.
Then—
Stillness.
Veyrath lowered him to the ground without a sound.
His breath did not even hitch.
Because this was what he was.
This was what he had always been.
A predator.
A force that did not need to be seen to be feared.
When the guards noticed he was gone, it was already too late.
They searched.
Called his name.
Scanned the woods with torches and blades.
But they found nothing.
Because Veyrath had left no trace.
No blood.
No body.
Only emptiness.
And that was worse than finding a corpse.
Because now, they did not know what had happened.
Did not know if he was dead.
Did not know if he had run.
Did not know if they were next.
And that, more than anything else, would drive them mad.
By morning, the caravan entered the city in a frenzy.
They spoke of a presence in the woods.
Of a missing man who had simply vanished.
The guards at the gate laughed at first.
Until they saw the look in their eyes.
The way their hands shook.
The way their voices faltered.
They had faced monsters before.
But this?
This was something else.
Because monsters left bodies.
And this one had not.
By morning, the fear had spread—but not enough.
The guards were uneasy, but not desperate.
The merchants were whispering, but not fleeing.
The city was stirring, but not yet breaking.
They still thought they had control.
That the missing man was an isolated event.
That whatever lurked beyond the walls was just another beast.
They were wrong.
And Veyrath would show them how wrong they were.
Not slowly.
Not gently.
But all at once.
He would turn their homes into prisons.
Turn their streets into graves.
Turn their confidence into nothing.
By the time this night was over,
There would be no doubt left.
Only panic.
Before he began, Veyrath checked himself.
Not out of hesitation.
Not out of weakness.
But because he had grown.
Because he had felt the shift in his being.
Because after every hunt, he became something more.
And he wanted to see what he had become.
With a thought, the status window unfolded before him.
Status Window
Name: Veyrath
Race: Mahjra'ka (Weakened)
Level: 11
Health: 300/300
Mana: 200/1600
Strength: 14
Agility: 18
Endurance: 13
Magic: 20
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)
• Ritual Mastery (Beginner): Allows the creation of basic rituals with limited effectiveness. Progressing in this skill will take time and refinement. (Long-Term Growth Required)
Veyrath studied the words before him.
His strength had risen.
His magic was growing.
His body was evolving.
But the most important thing?
The thing that made his path clear?
He was not done.
There was still so much more to take.
And tonight, he would claim more.
He struck before the sun had even set.
A single guard patrol.
Three men.
Walking the western district, weapons loose in their grips.
Tired.
Unprepared.
They were the first.
A flicker of movement.
A blur in the air.
Shadow Step.
By the time the first man noticed, the second was already dead.
A clawed hand tore through his throat—no scream, just silence.
The third turned, panicked.
Veyrath let him.
Let him see.
Let him understand.
And then, he vanished again.
This time, he did not erase the evidence.
Did not hide the corpses.
He left them where they fell.
Right in the middle of the street.
Where they would be found.
Where everyone would see.
Because panic spread faster when it had proof.
And when the next patrol came across the remains of their comrades,
They did not report it.
They ran.
And the moment the alarm bells rang—
The city descended into madness.
The guards rushed to reinforce the gates.
Merchants shut their stalls, barricaded their doors.
People whispered, shouted, demanded answers.
But there were no answers.
Because no one knew what was happening.
They had only found bodies.
No witness.
No attacker.
Just death.
And when people are afraid of something they cannot see—
That is when they become truly dangerous.
That is when they turn on each other.
And that is when the city begins to eat itself alive.
Veyrath did not stop.
He moved through the city like a ghost, striking at random.
A man walking alone down an alley.
A noble stepping out of his estate.
A blacksmith closing his shop for the night.
None of them were spared.
None of them had a reason to die.
And that was what made it worse.
Because the moment death becomes random—
That is when fear becomes permanent.
By midnight, the city was no longer under control.
The guards had lost their grip.
People had stopped listening to orders.
Fires burned in the distance—houses set ablaze by terrified men convinced they were hunting a demon.
Screams echoed from the deeper streets.
Families fled their homes, seeking shelter anywhere they could.
But there was no shelter.
No safety.
Because Veyrath was everywhere.
And no one knew who would be next.
This was what he had always understood.
What men never learned.
You did not need to slaughter armies to win.
You did not need to besiege cities to break them.
Veyrath stood atop the highest building in the city, his burning eyes casting an eerie glow over the chaos below.
He had seen cities collapse before.
Watched kingdoms fall, watched empires crumble.
But this?
This was art.
Because this city was not being conquered.
It was devouring itself.
And he had only nudged it in the right direction.
The soldiers had stopped patrolling.
They had stopped searching.
They were no longer fighting to protect the people.
They were fighting to survive.
The captain of the guard—a man who had commanded respect just days ago—was now barricaded inside the barracks, barking orders at men who no longer listened.
The chain of command had broken.
Loyalty had shattered.
Now, it was every man for himself.
And Veyrath loved it.
The merchant district had descended into madness.
Shops were looted, stalls overturned.
Desperate men fought over scraps of food and stolen goods.
Some still clung to the belief that law existed.
That if they just held out a little longer, order would be restored.
But those men were dying just as quickly as the rest.
Because in a city where no one knows who will die next—
Everyone assumes they will.
And when a man believes he is already dead,
He stops caring who he kills to stay alive.
High above the streets, the city's wealthiest still clung to their illusions of power.
They had barricaded themselves in their estates, surrounded by private guards, believing themselves untouchable.
But fear had already seeped through their walls.
Their servants had fled.
Their loyal guards had turned against them, demanding riches in exchange for protection.
And when the lords and ladies refused to give up their gold,
Their own men cut them down.
Veyrath smirked as he watched a noble's body thrown from a balcony, his silk robes now stained with his own blood.
They had thought themselves safe from the chaos.
Had thought that power still mattered.
They had forgotten the only truth that mattered.
Fear is the only power that lasts.
And tonight, fear ruled this city.
The night dragged on, but the city did not sleep.
Fires burned in the lower districts, filling the air with thick smoke.
The once-busy streets were now filled with bodies.
Most had not died by Veyrath's hand.
They had killed each other.
And that was what made it so much sweeter.
By the time dawn began to break,
The city was dead.
Not in the way a battlefield is left lifeless.
Not in the way a kingdom falls to war.
But in the way a man dies with a whisper, slowly and painfully, knowing his fate but unable to stop it.
This city was nothing now.
A ruin that had once called itself strong.
And Veyrath had never even needed to fight them.
He had let them destroy themselves.
And that?
That was true victory.
As the sun rose over the wreckage, Veyrath finally moved.
Not to kill again.
Not to hunt the last survivors.
But to leave.
Because there was nothing left for him here.
The legend would spread.
The survivors would whisper his name in terror.
And the next city would hear the stories.
Would wonder if they would be next.
And one day, they would be.
But for now, Veyrath walked away.
Not as a conqueror.
Not as a warlord.
But as a shadow in the wind.
Because fear did not need a throne.
It only needed a place to grow.
And Veyrath would always find fertile ground.