Veyrath had spent weeks refining his new abilities.
Now, it was time to see if they worked.
Not in the controlled isolation of the wildlands.
Not against the nameless being.
But against people.
Against an entire city.
Because if he could not strike fear into the heart of civilization itself—
Then he was not ready for the future he envisioned.
So he walked.
Not as a beast lurking in the dark.
Not as an unstoppable force.
But as a phantom.
A thing that should not be seen—yet could not be ignored.
A shadow woven into the fabric of the world.
And tonight, the city would learn what true fear was.
The city of Aldrath was large, prosperous, and secure.
It was not a fortress.
Not a military stronghold.
It was a place of commerce, of trade, of order.
The people felt safe.
Because no army marched toward their gates.
No tyrant threatened their rule.
But safety was an illusion.
An illusion that Veyrath would shatter.
Because no walls could stop him.
No guards could protect against what they could not see.
And no one could defend themselves from something that was already inside.
Veyrath did not rush.
Did not strike immediately.
He had a city to dismantle, a population to break.
And fear grew best when it was nurtured.
His first victim was a merchant.
A man returning home late at night, tired from a long day.
The kind of person who should never have been a target.
And that was why he was perfect.
Veyrath followed from the rooftops, moving with a presence so light it was almost absent.
He focused.
Lowered his existence.
Tried to make himself unimportant, overlooked.
And it worked.
The merchant stopped.
Looked around.
Felt something was wrong—
But could not see anything.
His instincts screamed at him to run.
But he had nothing to run from.
And in that hesitation,
Veyrath struck.
Not with rage.
Not with a brutal, messy execution.
But with precision.
A single silent cut across the throat, deeper than needed, slow enough to let the man feel every second of it.
The merchant gasped, stumbled, reached out—
And died.
His body collapsed onto the cobblestone, blood pooling in the cracks.
And no one had seen a thing.
Because in the moment of his death,
Veyrath had willed himself to be forgotten.
And so, the world chose not to notice.
Veyrath did not leave the body.
He waited.
A moment later, a patrolling guard approached.
Saw the corpse in the street.
Eyes went wide with shock.
Hand went to his weapon.
And that was when Veyrath made his move.
He let his presence rise.
Not fully.
Not enough to be seen outright.
But just enough to be felt.
The guard froze.
A cold sweat broke across his brow.
His breathing quickened.
Something was here.
Something was watching.
He turned slowly—
And Veyrath let the world decide that he was just beyond sight.
Close enough to be sensed, never enough to be seen.
The guard drew his sword, shaking, his mind unraveling.
There was nothing there.
And yet, he felt as though something was staring right at him.
Then, from the darkness,
A voice.
A whisper, low and sharp, sliding into his thoughts like a blade.
"Run."
The guard broke.
Sprinted down the street, abandoning the body, abandoning his post.
Because whatever was there—
It was something he was not ready to face.
One body became two.
Two bodies became five.
Five bodies became ten.
None of the deaths were immediate.
None of them were simple.
Each was drawn out, deliberate.
Each left witnesses who never saw the killer, only felt the terror.
By the second night, the city was whispering.
By the third, people refused to go outside after sunset.
By the fourth, panic had begun to take hold.
And Veyrath watched.
He had become a myth in the making.
A phantom that no one could fight, no one could see.
Not a warrior.
Not an assassin.
But a force of fear itself.
And this was only the beginning.
By the fifth day, the city guard was at full alert.
Torches burned throughout the streets.
Teams of soldiers patrolled in groups, refusing to walk alone.
Priests walked among them, chanting wards of protection.
The mayor had declared a citywide curfew.
Because they knew, now.
Something was hunting them.
But they still had no idea what.
And that was why they were already defeated.
Because they were fighting a shadow.
Something they could not see, could not predict, could not defend against.
And when people fight something they cannot understand—
They break.
And Veyrath was going to enjoy watching that happen.
The city was no longer Aldrath.
Not in the way it had been days ago.
It was changing.
Not through war.
Not through plague.
But through fear.
A silent, unseen hand had begun to tighten its grip.
And now, the people felt it.
Even if they did not yet understand what was happening.
That was the beauty of terror.
It did not need proof.
It did not need logic.
It only needed to be believed.
And once it had taken root—
It could never be torn out.
Veyrath could smell it.
Not in the way a beast smells prey.
But in the way a hunter senses weakness.
The way a shadow knows when it has stretched too far for the light to reach.
Fear had a weight.
It filled the air like mist.
It curled around corners, hiding in the cracks of the city's walls.
And Veyrath bathed in it.
Because this was no longer about testing his abilities.
This was about enjoyment.
About watching them break.
And they were so close.
By the fourth night, no one slept peacefully.
Those who had heard the whispers of what lurked in the streets locked their doors.
Those who had seen the bodies refused to leave their homes.
The patrols had tripled.
The torches never dimmed.
And yet, the deaths continued.
Not in ways that could be predicted.
Not in ways that could be defended against.
A guard found hanging from a rooftop, his own sword buried in his gut.
A priest was found kneeling at the altar, his head twisted completely backward.
A merchant's body was discovered sitting at his stall, eyes wide open, his lips curved into a smile that was far too deep.
And yet—
No one had seen anything.
No one had heard a struggle.
No one could say when it had happened.
The city was awake—
But that only meant they could feel the fear more clearly.
Because it did not come in their dreams.
It was here, in the waking world.
Where they could do nothing to stop it.
The guards were afraid.
They did not admit it.
Not openly.
But Veyrath could see it in their movements.
The way they kept glancing over their shoulders.
The way their hands trembled when gripping their weapons.
They did not speak of it,
But they knew.
The thing hunting them was not human.
Not something they could trap or kill.
Because it was not there until it was too late.
And that meant every patrol was already dead before they even stepped onto the street.
Veyrath made sure they understood that.
He did not just kill them.
Not anymore.
That was too simple.
Too predictable.
Now, he played.
Let them see things that should not be there.
Let them hear whispers that were never spoken.
It started with small things.
A guard turning a corner, only to find himself staring at his own dead body lying in the street.
A patrol that walked for hours, only to end up where they started—without ever turning around.
A priest blessing a man's house, only for the walls to start bleeding the moment he left.
And as the city tried to explain it away—
As the priests prayed harder, as the guards grew more desperate—
Veyrath tightened the noose.
Because panic was not something that happened suddenly.
It was a slow, creeping sickness.
And once it began to spread,
There was no stopping it.
By the fifth night, the first guards abandoned their posts.
Not officially.
Not in a way that could be recorded.
But in the dead of night, some left their barracks and never returned.
Because they had seen enough.
They had felt it, that suffocating certainty that they were already dead.
And so they ran.
Hoping to outrun something they did not even understand.
And Veyrath let them.
Because the ones who ran would spread the terror elsewhere.
They would take their stories with them.
They would whisper to other cities, to traders, to anyone who would listen.
And long after this place had fallen—
The legend of its undoing would remain.
Because stories were power.
And terror did not end when the killing stopped.
Terror grew.
The mayor was desperate now.
The priests had failed.
The city guard was falling apart.
And so, he turned to other means.
He sent for mercenaries—men who had no fear of death, who lived by the sword.
Hardened killers, willing to hunt anything if the coin was right.
And Veyrath welcomed them.
Because they did not understand.
They thought they were hunting a man.
A killer who could be cut down like any other.
But Veyrath was not something that could be fought.
Not something that could be tracked or killed.
He was a force.
A presence that did not chase prey—
But let prey destroy itself.
And the moment they stepped into the city,
They had already lost.
Because fear had already taken root.
And it would not let them go.
The people of Aldrath had always believed their walls would protect them.
That the city watch, the priests, the laws, the torches in the streets—
All of it was meant to keep them safe.
But safety was an illusion.
One that had already shattered.
The people just didn't realize it yet.
Veyrath knew the truth.
He was not fighting them.
Not in the way armies clashed on battlefields.
Not in the way thieves fought guards in dark alleys.
He was breaking them from the inside.
Not through violence alone.
But through doubt.
Through fear.
Through the slow, unstoppable decay of the mind.
And tonight, that decay would deepen.
The night no longer belonged to the people.
No one walked alone.
Not even the guards.
They moved in groups of four, torches raised high, hands clenched around weapons.
But even in groups, they feared the darkness.
Because torches only pushed the shadows back—
They did not erase them.
And shadows were where Veyrath waited.
Watching.
Listening.
Toying with them as a predator toys with cornered prey.
It started with something small.
Something that shouldn't have mattered.
A patrol of four guards.
Walking down one of the main roads, their armor clinking softly in the night.
Veyrath moved with them.
Not in the rooftops above.
Not in the shadows ahead.
But right behind them.
Close enough that their instincts should have screamed at them to turn.
Close enough that they should have noticed.
But they didn't.
Because he had made himself irrelevant.
Not hidden.
Not invisible.
Just overlooked.
His presence was there, but it was something their minds refused to acknowledge.
And then, after three blocks of silent movement,
He let his steps become louder.
At first, just one extra set of footsteps.
Then, two.
Then, three.
And that was when they noticed.
One of them stopped.
Turned suddenly.
The others froze as well, gripping their weapons.
The street was empty.
Nothing but stone and silence.
The lead guard exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"It's nothing."
They kept moving.
But this time, they were walking faster.
And this time, Veyrath let them hear it again.
More footsteps.
Not behind them this time.
Ahead of them.
Just out of sight.
A sound that should not exist.
A presence they could not track.
By the time they reached the end of the street, their hands were shaking.
Their breath was ragged.
They did not speak of it.
But their minds were already unraveling.
And Veyrath left them like that.
Not dead.
Not wounded.
Just afraid.
Because fear was the real weapon.
The taverns were still open.
Not for joy.
Not for celebration.
But because people were too afraid to be alone in their homes.
The taverns were crowded, noisy, filled with the scent of stale ale and sweat.
Veyrath walked among them.
Not noticed.
Not seen.
Just a shadow slipping through bodies, touching lives without being known.
And in one of these taverns, he played his next game.
A drunken man.
Loud, obnoxious, trying to pretend the fear was not getting to him.
Veyrath let him stumble toward the latrines outside.
And then, he shifted the world around him.
Not physically.
Not through illusions.
But through perception.
The drunken man walked down the hall to the latrines.
But when he reached the end, he was still in the hallway.
Another step.
The same hallway.
His breath hitched.
He turned around.
The door to the main hall was gone.
Another step forward—
Still in the hallway.
His hands began to shake.
His drunkenness was vanishing, replaced by panic.
Another step.
The walls felt closer.
The air was thicker.
Then, a whisper against his ear.
"Keep walking."
The man screamed.
Staggered forward, running, panting, desperate—
And then, suddenly, he was back in the tavern.
The hallway was gone.
The latrines were back where they had always been.
But his face was pale.
His hands were still shaking.
And when people asked what happened—
He could not explain.
Because nothing had happened.
And that was the worst part.
Because fear that had no reason
Was unbreakable.
By the sixth night, the city had stopped functioning properly.
Merchants still opened their stalls.
People still bought bread, still went to work.
But there was no laughter.
No music.
No joy.
The city was still alive—
But it was rotting from the inside.
The guards still patrolled,
But now they jumped at every sound.
The priests still prayed,
But now they clutched their relics as if their gods had abandoned them.
And the mayor?
The mayor was no longer seen in public.
Because even he knew what was coming.
Even if he could not name it.
Veyrath had taken a city that once stood tall
And turned it into a place of whispers and paranoia.
And he was not finished yet.
Not until this place was no longer a city—
But a graveyard.
Veyrath had forgotten how much he enjoyed this.
Not just killing.
That was too easy.
Too quick.
But this—this slow unraveling of an entire city, this carefully woven nightmare—
This was art.
And he was the painter.
With every whisper, every subtle movement in the shadows, every corpse left in just the right way—
He was shaping their world into something they no longer understood.
Something they could not escape.
And he had missed this.
By the seventh night, the city was barely functioning.
The markets still opened, but fewer people came.
The guards still patrolled, but they walked as if every shadow might swallow them whole.
People whispered in the streets, eyes darting, never lingering too long in one place.
And that was the moment Veyrath knew he had won.
Not because the city was dead.
Not because the bodies had piled high.
But because the people had turned against themselves.
They were watching each other now, searching for an enemy they could not see.
Fear had made them distrustful, irrational.
And soon, they would destroy themselves—
Without him ever lifting a blade.
The city watch had once been proud.
Strong.
A force that stood against thieves, against bandits, against the threats beyond the city walls.
But they were not prepared for this.
Because how do you fight something you cannot see?
How do you hunt something that is already inside your mind?
They had no answers.
And that made them the most fun to play with.
Veyrath followed a patrol through the empty streets.
Three men, moving too quickly, whispering under their breath.
They did not believe in their weapons anymore.
Not really.
Veyrath let his steps fall in sync with theirs.
Matching their pace exactly.
Making them feel as if there was an extra man marching among them.
One of them stopped.
Turned.
"Did you hear that?"
The others froze.
Looked at each other.
One of them shook his head.
"Stop it. You're imagining things."
And that was when Veyrath spoke.
Not loudly.
Not in anger.
But just a single whisper, directly into the ear of the one who had stopped.
"No, you're not."
The guard screamed.
The others jumped back, weapons drawn, eyes wide with terror.
There was no one there.
Nothing but the cold night air.
And yet, the first guard was already breaking.
His hands were shaking.
His breath was ragged.
"It was right there! It was right there!"
His comrades grabbed him, dragged him back toward the barracks.
Because now, he was useless.
And the rest of them knew it.
Fear was not just a weapon.
It was a disease.
And Veyrath was watching it spread.
The people of Aldrath no longer trusted their homes.
Doors that had once been sanctuaries now felt like traps.
Windows that had once let in the sunlight now seemed like open invitations to something waiting outside.
Veyrath made sure they were right to be afraid.
A woman woke in the middle of the night to find her bedroom furniture rearranged.
Not just moved, but placed perfectly, subtly different, just enough to unsettle her.
A blacksmith locked his door before bed—only to wake up with it standing wide open.
Nothing stolen.
Nothing disturbed.
But the message was clear.
"You are not safe."
A family of five vanished.
Not kidnapped.
Not killed.
Simply gone.
Plates still on the table, food half-eaten, candles still burning.
And that was the worst part.
Because if there had been a struggle, if there had been blood—
They could have understood it.
They could have rationalized it.
But this?
This was something they could not explain.
And that made it so much worse.
The rumors were growing.
People no longer trusted their neighbors.
"It's one of us," they whispered.
"It has to be."
"A killer walking among us, pretending to be normal."
And so the accusations began.
A man was dragged into the streets, beaten by a mob because someone had seen him walking alone at night.
A woman was found dead in her home—stabbed, not by Veyrath, but by someone convinced she was responsible for the disappearances.
The city was breaking.
Not because of what he had done.
But because of what they were doing to themselves.
That was what he loved most.
That was what he had missed.
The slow, delicious destruction of order.
The moment when the prey stopped fearing the hunter—
And started tearing each other apart.
He did not need to strike them down.
Not when they were already destroying themselves.
Not when they were giving him so much more to enjoy.
And he was not finished yet.
Veyrath stood atop one of Aldrath's highest rooftops, staring down at the ruined city below.
The streets were quiet now.
Not because the fear had vanished—
But because it had consumed everything.
No one walked alone anymore.
No one even spoke in full sentences.
They just whispered, eyes darting, hearts pounding, waiting for the next horror to strike.
And he had let it go on for so long.
Too long, perhaps.
He had been enjoying himself.
Savoring the fear.
But now, it was time to move forward.
Because while fear was delicious—
Experience was what truly mattered.
And there was so much of it waiting to be claimed.
He exhaled, reaching out with his mind.
And called forth his status window.
Name: Veyrath
Race: [REDACTED]
Level: 12
Strength: 17
Dexterity: 19
Endurance: 20
Magic: 24
Perception: 22
Ritual Mastery: 9
Abilities:
• Unmaking (Advanced)
• Perception Manipulation (Beginner, Improving)
• Presence Control (Beginner, Improving)
• Psychological Warfare (Mastered)
Experience Required for Next Level: [Hidden]
Current Quests:
• Toy With Their Fear [Completed]
• Dismantle Aldrath [In Progress]
Veyrath tilted his head, a slow smirk spreading across his lips.
"Really, I should stop playing around and start gathering some experience."
His gaze drifted to the streets below.
So many afraid, helpless, lost.
And now, they would die.
Not cleanly.
Not quickly.
Because he would still toy with them.
But no more games without reward.
This time, every kill would count.
And by the time the sun rose again, Aldrath would drown in its own blood.
Veyrath did not rush.
A predator never rushes.
The first kill was a man standing near the city gates.
A simple merchant.
Shaking hands clutching a dagger far too small to save him.
He had heard the stories.
He had seen the bodies.
But he had not yet felt the horror himself.
Veyrath made sure he did.
The merchant blinked—
And suddenly, he was no longer standing in the street.
He was in his own shop.
The counters were smeared with blood.
The shelves were lined with severed hands.
His own hands.
He looked down.
Saw the stumps where his fingers should have been.
And he screamed.
The illusion flickered—
And Veyrath was behind him.
The merchant turned, eyes wide with terror.
His lips parted to beg, to plead—
But the words never came.
Because Veyrath's claws sliced through his throat before he could speak.
And as the merchant collapsed, choking on his own blood,
Veyrath whispered softly into his ear.
"Shhh… The real nightmare is only beginning."
One kill became two.
Two became ten.
Ten became thirty.
But none of them were simple.
None of them were merciful.
A woman ran through the streets, screaming for help.
Every door slammed shut as she approached.
Not because the people inside were heartless—
But because they knew.
If they opened their doors, they would die too.
She reached the market square, gasping, sobbing.
And then she heard it.
A voice right beside her ear.
"Run."
She didn't think.
She just ran.
But no matter how far she went—
She never left the square.
Her mind told her she was moving.
Her feet told her she was running.
But when she turned back—
She was still where she had started.
Still trapped in the same nightmare.
And then, Veyrath let her see.
Not the world as it was—
But the world as it would be.
The streets filled with bodies.
Her own corpse among them.
Lying in the dirt, her eyes wide open, staring into nothing.
She clawed at her own face, screaming.
Trying to make it stop.
Trying to wake up.
But there was no waking from this.
And then—
A shadow fell over her.
Veyrath smiled down at her.
"You should have run faster."
The blade sank into her heart before she could beg for her life.
By midnight, the city was in full panic.
People ran through the streets, screaming.
Some jumped from rooftops to escape a fate they didn't understand.
Others stabbed themselves, convinced they had already been cursed.
The guards had stopped patrolling.
The priests had stopped praying.
Because there was nothing left to protect.
Nothing left to save.
Veyrath walked through the chaos, untouched, unseen.
He was not a man.
Not a killer.
He was the nightmare they had always feared.
And tonight, he was unstoppable.
He let them see him now.
Just enough to break them completely.
A shadow in the corner of their eyes.
A whisper in their ears.
The last thing they saw before death took them.
And he reveled in it.
Because this—this was what he lived for.
The feeling of a city breaking beneath his hands.
The taste of terror so strong it lingered on his tongue.
The knowledge that even after he left, Aldrath would never be the same.
Because even if he killed them all—
The fear would remain.
And fear, as he had always known,
Was immortal.
The streets of Aldrath were unrecognizable.
Once, they had been filled with life.
Merchants calling out prices, children running through alleyways, lovers whispering under torchlight.
Now, they were silent.
Except for the screams.
And Veyrath moved through them like a shadow given form.
His work was not yet finished.
Not until the city was empty.
Not until the last breath had left the last throat.
And he had all the time in the world.
Those still alive had abandoned hope.
There were no more guards to protect them.
No more priests to pray for them.
Only the echoing sound of their own heartbeat—
And the knowledge that they were next.
Some tried to hide.
Some tried to run.
Some tried to barricade themselves inside their homes, as if wooden doors and locked windows could stop what was coming.
It did not matter.
Veyrath found them all.
One by one.
He took his time.
He let them think, for just a moment, that they had escaped.
Only to show them, in the end, that there was never any escape at all.
A nobleman, once wealthy, once powerful, once untouchable,
Now barefoot, covered in filth, trembling with terror.
He had been running since the killing started.
He thought if he kept moving, he would live.
But Veyrath had other plans.
For hours, he let the man run.
Through streets that all looked the same.
Through alleyways that never seemed to end.
And each time the noble turned a corner,
He found himself right back where he started.
At first, he thought it was a mistake.
Then, he thought he was losing his mind.
And then, when he turned a corner for the seventeenth time and saw the same bloodstained fountain,
He screamed.
Fell to his knees, sobbing, clawing at his own face.
"I don't understand! I don't understand!"
Veyrath appeared behind him, stepping into his view as if he had always been there.
Smiling.
"No, you don't."
And with that, he ripped the man's throat out with his claws.
Letting the noble die gasping, still trying to figure out why the world had betrayed him.
A mother and her two children cowered in their home, holding onto one another.
They had survived this long by staying silent, never making a sound, never drawing attention.
But Veyrath had been watching.
He stood in the doorway of their home, unseen, unfelt, just watching.
Then, he whispered softly into the mother's ear.
"You don't have children."
She flinched.
Shook her head, tightening her grip on them.
"Go away."
Veyrath leaned closer, his voice dripping with malice.
"You never had children."
The mother let out a ragged breath.
She could feel her daughters.
Could hear their frantic breathing.
But then, Veyrath whispered again.
"Look at them."
And she did.
And she saw nothing.
The children were gone.
Or maybe, they had never been there at all.
Her hands curled around empty air.
Her mind fractured.
Tears ran down her face as she screamed and screamed—
Until Veyrath sank his claws into her spine and silenced her forever.
Another victim, another game.
Veyrath found a beggar curled up in an alleyway, shaking.
A man who had nothing.
No home.
No wealth.
No family.
And Veyrath crouched beside him, tilting his head.
"Tell me your name."
The man blinked.
Tried to answer.
But the words didn't come.
He opened his mouth again—
And there was nothing.
His mind was empty.
His name, his past, his memories—all stolen in an instant.
He grabbed at his own head, eyes wild, trying to remember something—anything.
Veyrath whispered softly in his ear.
"You never existed."
And the man collapsed, his body still alive—
But his mind gone forever.
Veyrath left him there.
A breathing corpse with no soul.
Because death was not always the worst fate.
By the ninth night, the city was barely alive.
There were no more markets.
No more gatherings.
No more hope.
Only a handful of people left, hiding in corners, waiting for death.
And Veyrath gave them what they were waiting for.
Not quickly.
Not cleanly.
One by one, he found them.
Dragged them from their holes.
Made them beg.
And then he ended them.
Until there was no one left.
By dawn, Aldrath was gone.
Not just its people.
But the city itself.
It had been a place of commerce, of life, of order.
Now, it was a graveyard.
The streets were littered with bodies.
The air was thick with the stench of rot.
The buildings stood, but they meant nothing.
Because a city was not its walls.
A city was its people.
And its people were gone.
Veyrath stood in the center of the ruins, taking it all in.
Breathing in the victory.
The silence was perfect.
No more screaming.
No more begging.
Just the stillness of a place that no longer had a reason to exist.
And he smiled.
Because this—this was what he had been waiting for.
And now, it was done.
Veyrath stood in the center of Aldrath, a city that no longer existed.
The streets once filled with merchants, laughter, and footsteps were now choked with bodies and silence.
Not a single voice remained.
No cry for help.
No plea for mercy.
Nothing but the stench of death and the echo of his own footsteps.
He closed his eyes for a moment, listening.
Letting the silence wash over him.
It was not just the absence of sound.
It was the absence of life itself.
And it was perfect.
This was what true victory felt like.
Not a battle won.
Not an enemy defeated.
But total, absolute erasure.
Aldrath was not a ruined city.
It was a corpse.
A place that had once lived and breathed—
And now was nothing at all.
And that made him smile.
Because he had not just killed a city.
He had unmade it.
Veyrath stepped over a corpse, then another, then another.
His work had been thorough.
No one had escaped.
No one had survived.
Even the rats had begun to feast on their former masters, the streets already ripe with decay.
And yet, something lingered.
Not guilt.
Not regret.
But something deeper.
A sense of realization.
He had not been at his full strength when he began this.
Not even close.
And yet, he had erased an entire city without a single army, without a single ally.
That was the power of fear.
The power of inevitability.
And he had only begun to tap into it.
How many more could fall like this?
How many more could be stripped of their lives, their history, their very existence?
How far could he take this?
And more importantly—
What lay beyond this?
Because he was not done.
Not by a long shot.
But this was a step.
A lesson.
Proof that he was capable of more.
And now, he had the experience to prove it.
Veyrath extended a clawed hand, summoning the numbers that defined his existence.
He had gained much from this slaughter.
And now, he would see just how much.
A flicker of power ran through his body as his status window manifested before him.
Name: Veyrath
Race: [REDACTED]
Level: 18
Strength: 22
Dexterity: 25
Endurance: 26
Magic: 30
Perception: 28
Ritual Mastery: 14
Abilities:
• Unmaking (Advanced, Near Mastery)
• Perception Manipulation (Intermediate)
• Presence Control (Intermediate)
• Psychological Warfare (Mastered, Beyond Mortals)
Experience Required for Next Level: [Hidden]
Current Quests:
• Toy With Their Fear [Completed]
• Dismantle Aldrath [Completed]
• Next Prey: Awaiting Selection
Veyrath let out a slow breath.
"Now, that is progress."
He flexed his fingers, feeling the strength that had been woven into him.
His magic had deepened.
His understanding of fear had expanded beyond even his expectations.
He was not just a killer anymore.
He was a force.
A being that did not just take life—
But unmade it in a way that left echoes long after the bodies rotted away.
And he had only just begun.
He wandered through the dead city, letting his mind process the enormity of what he had done.
Even when the bodies decayed, even when the bones turned to dust,
The memory of this place would linger.
Travelers would arrive and find only death.
Other cities would hear whispers of what happened here.
And they would fear it.
Fear him.
And that was what mattered.
Not just the killing.
But the legend it left behind.
Because he would move on.
But Aldrath would never truly leave him.
It would always be another step in his path—
Another reminder of what he was capable of.
And he had no intention of stopping.
Not until the whole world learned what true fear was.
And by then, it would be far too late.
For everyone.