As the sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the ruins of Villedor, a lone figure stood atop a crumbling rooftop, motionless, silent, observing.
Draemir.
His cloak shifted slightly in the wind, but his posture remained rigid, composed.
From this height, he could see everything.
But more than just sight…
He could see the trails.
The red trails—marked by the survivors. Their paths wove through the streets, markets, and hideouts, twisting like veins across the city.
The light blue trails—the Virals. Restless, unpredictable, their movements erratic and sharp. They still carried fragments of awareness, the echoes of what they once were.
And then, the grey trails—Biters. Mindless, sluggish, their paths were slower, lazier, like drifting dust in the air.
Draemir studied them all.
He had spent years mastering this sight—this ability to perceive the world beyond normal vision.
And now, Villedor unfolded before him.
A living, breathing map of movement.
Even from this distance, he could hear them.
The whispers.
The murmurs of the people below.
Survivors talking in hushed voices, trading rumors, speculating.
Some spoke of the Pilgrim—of Aiden.
Others whispered of the Volatiles.
And then…
Some spoke of him.
The God of the Sun.
Their words were soft, uncertain, skeptical.
Few believed.
Most feared.
Draemir remained still.
He had no need to correct them.
Because in time—
They would see the truth for themselves.
As the hours passed, the golden hues of daylight slowly faded, giving way to the creeping shadows of night.
Draemir remained in the backstreets, standing atop a ruined structure, his golden eyes flickering as he scanned the city.
Villedor lay before him, pulsing with life—both human and infected.
But what he sought… was absent.
He had been tracking, searching, scanning the trails left behind.
Yet, there was no sign of Crane.
No trace of the Night Hunter.
Draemir's clawed fingers flexed slightly.
It wasn't that Crane was hiding.
It was that Crane was waiting.
Draemir exhaled slowly, his breath turning into a soft mist in the night air.
If Crane wouldn't reveal himself…
Then Draemir would force him to.
The best way to trap a hunter… was to become the prey.
But to do that—he needed to be noticed.
He needed all of Villedor to know he was here.
Draemir's gaze swept across the city, analyzing.
He needed to understand how Villedor's community worked.
How their hierarchy functioned.
Who they listened to.
Who they feared.
And most importantly…
How to command their attention all at once.
Because once he did…
Crane would come.
And this time—
There would be no escape.
Draemir moved through the streets, his steps deliberate but unhurried.
Villedor—or what this city had become—was still a mystery to him.
He had observed it from a distance, watched its people move, heard their whispers.
But now, he was among them.
They didn't recognize him.
Not yet.
To them, he was just another survivor—
A towering figure clad in robes, his golden eyes hidden behind the sun mask.
But that wouldn't last long.
He needed to know—how this city functioned.
How its people received news.
Where they gathered.
Who they followed.
So he did the simplest thing possible.
He asked.
To every survivor he passed, he spoke, his voice calm but commanding.
Draemir:
"Where do your people receive news?"
"Where do your leaders speak?"
"Where does your community listen?"
Some survivors ignored him.
Others glanced at him, wary.
A few hesitated, their eyes flickering between curiosity and suspicion.
But Draemir remained patient.
He would find the answer.
Because once he did—
He would make sure every soul in this city knew his name.
The survivors of Villedor moved cautiously around Draemir.
Some pretended not to hear him, hurrying past as if his presence was nothing more than another passing shadow in the night.
Others stole quick glances, whispering to one another.
Draemir could sense their unease.
Not fear—not yet.
But wariness. Suspicion.
He was an outsider, unknown.
And in a city like this, trust was not given freely.
But then, a man—lean, worn, dressed in scavenged armor—paused.
He studied Draemir for a moment before speaking.
Wary Survivor:
"You're not from here, are you?"
Draemir's golden eyes flickered behind his sun mask.
Draemir:
"No."
The survivor nodded slowly, arms crossed.
Wary Survivor:
"Figures. You talk like someone expecting order. You won't find much of that here."
Draemir remained silent, waiting.
The man sighed.
Wary Survivor:
"If you're looking for where people get their news, there ain't a single place. Depends who you ask."
He gestured toward the distant rise of buildings, fortified walls, and banners.
Wary Survivor:
"The Peacekeepers? They run their own broadcasts, tell their people what they wanna hear."
Then, he motioned toward the old marketplace, the Bazaar.
Wary Survivor:
"Then you got the folks at the Bazaar. They spread news through word of mouth, through their people. More trust, less control."
A slight smirk touched his face.
Wary Survivor:
"And then there's the rest of us. We get our news from whoever survives long enough to tell it."
Draemir processed the information.
There was no single leader.
No centralized control.
This wasn't a kingdom like Solara.
It was a fractured city, divided by factions and uncertainty.
That made things messy.
But it also made things easier.
He didn't need to convince one ruler.
He just needed to make sure everyone heard him.
He turned his gaze back to the survivor.
Draemir:
"Where do the largest crowds gather?"
The man hesitated, then gestured toward a large open square, not far from the Bazaar.
Wary Survivor:
"If you're looking to talk to a lot of people at once, go there. Just don't expect them to listen easy."
Draemir nodded once.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the square.
Because soon—
Villedor would listen.
The center of Villedor's streets led Draemir to an open, bustling square—a place filled with merchants, wanderers, and survivors, all moving in a delicate, unspoken rhythm.
Stalls made from scrap metal and salvaged wood lined the area, traders bartering for food, weapons, and rare supplies.
Fires burned low in makeshift barrels, casting faint orange glows against the ruined buildings surrounding the square.
Above it all, old structures loomed—some collapsed, others repurposed as watchtowers or refuges.
This place wasn't just a market.
It was the heart of Villedor's survival.
It was where people gathered. Where rumors spread. Where the city whispered its truths.
A Higher Ground
Draemir's golden eyes swept the area.
Then—he found it.
A high vantage point above the square—an old, rusted overhang, just tall enough to command attention, just sturdy enough to hold his weight.
Without hesitation—he moved.
His legs tensed, and in a single leap, he landed on a lower structure.
Hands gripping old metal, he crawled swiftly, his movements precise, controlled—predatory.
Within moments, he had ascended.
From this height, he could see them all.
But now—some of them saw him too.
Survivors paused mid-conversation, turning toward the lone figure perched above them.
Murmurs spread.
Curious glances shifted toward him.
They didn't recognize him—not yet.
But they would.
Draemir stood tall, his presence commanding.
And then—he spoke.
A Deal with the God of the Sun Draemir:
"Everyone, listen!"
His voice carried, steady, firm—neither demanding nor pleading, but filled with absolute authority.
More people turned, conversations dying down, eyes locking onto the masked figure standing above them.
The whispers grew.
"Who is that?" "Is he Peacekeeper? No… he looks different." "That mask… I've never seen it before."
Draemir continued, unfazed.
Draemir:
"You may not recognize me. I won't blame you for that."
(A slight pause.)
"I am Draemir, the God of the Sun, and I arrived from Solara."
Some in the crowd exchanged confused looks.
Others… stiffened.
Some of them had heard that name before.
Draemir's gaze swept over them.
Draemir:
"Some of you may recognize my name from when I spoke through the radio Aiden held while he was here. Much of you may not."
"But that does not matter. What matters now… is something I need from all of you."
The murmurs died down.
Curiosity—and wariness—spread through the crowd.
Draemir:
"I don't know if you're aware… but a predator stalks these streets. It lurks in the shadows, waiting, watching. A monster. A hunter."
A few survivors shifted uneasily.
They knew.
Even if they hadn't seen it, they had felt it.
The Night Hunter.
Draemir:
"I need you to call it for me. I need you to make it come." (His voice darkened slightly.) "And when it does… I will hunt it."
The unease in the crowd grew.
But Draemir wasn't done.
His tone shifted.
A different approach.
Draemir:
"I also know some of you rejected Aiden."
(A ripple of tension.)
"You refused his offer. You chose to stay here."
"Perhaps Volatiles and smoke weren't enough proof for you."
(A slight pause.)
"So let's make this clear, shall we?"
"A deal."
The crowd listened now.
Draemir:
"You help me. You call the predator to me. You bring it out."
"And in exchange? I offer you the same deal Aiden did."
"A path to Solara."
"Escorted by me."
A moment of silence.
Then—whispers.
The crowd reacted in different ways.
Some were intrigued.
Others… uncertain.
But the seed had been planted.
Now…
He waited for them to decide.
The Decision of Villedor
The square remained silent, the weight of Draemir's words settling over the crowd.
Tension hung thick in the air.
The survivors exchanged glances, some uncertain, others intrigued.
The offer was simple.
Call the predator.
Lure the monster.
And in return—a path to Solara.
A chance at a better life.
But still—hesitation.
Some survivors stepped back, shaking their heads.
"We don't mess with that thing." "You want us to call for death? That's suicide." "No deal."
Others, though… were thinking.
Weighing the risk against the reward.
A few leaned toward each other, whispering.
"If he's telling the truth… this might be our only way out." "I've heard of Solara. Aiden spoke of it. It's real." "If this guy can actually kill that thing…"
Then, from the back, a voice spoke up.
Cautious Survivor:
"You think you can kill it?" (His tone was skeptical, but not dismissive.)
Draemir's golden gaze locked onto him.
Draemir:
"I don't think." (A pause.) "I will."
The crowd murmured again.
And then—another voice.
Desperate Survivor:
"I'll help." (A woman stepped forward, determination in her eyes.)
"I've lost too much to that thing. If there's a chance to get rid of it… I'll take it."
Her words sparked a reaction.
More people started shifting. Thinking. Deciding.
And then, slowly—one by one—
Survivors began stepping forward.
Some hesitant.
Some fearful.
But all of them ready.
Because in the end—
A chance at something better… was worth the risk.
The Convincing of Villedor
Draemir stood tall, unwavering, his voice carrying over the square as more survivors gathered, listening.
Draemir:
"Alright, listen!"
"I don't know how many of you I need to make it come."
"But the more, the better."
He let the words settle, his golden eyes sweeping across the faces before him.
Some still doubted.
Others were curious.
Many were uncertain.
And Draemir understood.
He would have doubted, too.
So he gave them the truth.
Draemir:
"I know you may doubt me. And I would, too, if I were you."
"But let me tell you this…"
A slight pause—his tone shifted, carrying weight, authority, history.
"Years ago… I already fought it."
The murmurs began again.
Whispers spreading through the crowd.
He continued.
Draemir:
"I gave it the biggest beatdown I could. I almost killed it."
"The only reason it still breathes? The GRE stood in between."
A few people tensed at the mention of the GRE.
Others narrowed their eyes.
Most had no love for the organization.
Draemir:
"They made it escape from death."
"This time… they're not here to stop me."
"And if nothing else gets in between—"
"I will kill it. Easily."
The square was silent now.
The weight of his words hung in the air.
Then—Draemir took a step forward.
His voice lowered slightly, sharpened.
Draemir:
"So tell me… what do you need as proof? What will make you accept to call it?"
The Murmurs of Villedor
The crowd shifted, voices rising again.
Some people were stirring, uncertain.
Others were still skeptical.
A few were already convinced.
But then—the questions came.
Skeptical Survivor:
"You say you fought it before? Then where are the scars?"
"You don't look like someone who almost died fighting that thing."
Curious Survivor:
"What even is it? No one knows what it is!"
"You want us to call it? Fine. But tell us what we're calling."
Fearful Survivor:
"You think you can kill it, but what if you don't? What happens to us?"
"If it goes wrong, we'll be the ones it kills first!"
Doubtful Survivor:
"If you're that strong… prove it."
"You want us to believe you're some 'God of the Sun'? Show us. Give us a reason to believe you're more than just a masked man with a loud voice."
The crowd continued murmuring.
Some were on the edge of agreement.
Others wanted more.
And now—Draemir had to decide how to answer.
The Proof of the God of the Sun
The square fell silent.
Draemir's voice carried like a hammer striking stone, each word sinking into the crowd's uncertainty, fear, and doubt.
Draemir:
"For the scars? I don't know."
"It has been years since I last saw it."
"And I know you don't know if it has scars either… because if you did, you'd be dead."
His golden eyes flickered, scanning the crowd.
No one argued.
Because he was right.
Draemir:
"And even if it did have scars? It has probably healed by now."
"Years have passed."
"And let's be clear on something—the one who was going to die that night… wasn't me."
The murmurs grew quieter.
Some people shifted, the weight of his words starting to settle.
Then—he answered the real question.
The one they feared most.
Draemir:
"For what it is? It used to be Kyle Crane."
The name hit like a wave.
Gasps. Murmurs. Whispers.
Some people had heard that name before.
Aiden had spoken of Crane.
But not like this.
Draemir:
"I don't know what he has become."
"But I do know what he was."
"I was sent to Harran with him, years ago. We were sent together by the GRE."
His voice darkened.
"I don't know what he is now. I don't know what he's capable of."
"But I know one thing."
A sharp pause. A slow inhale.
Then—Draemir's tone dropped lower.
Draemir:
"He became the night."
"And I became the day."
"And there is no darkness… that isn't weak to the burning bright of the sun."
A few survivors instinctively stepped back.
Not in fear.
But because they felt it now.
They felt his presence. His conviction.
This wasn't a lie.
This wasn't a game.
Then—the final answer.
The one that sealed it.
Draemir:
"Do I think I can kill him?"
He **paused—**just for a breath.
Then—his voice sharpened, edged with finality.
"No. I don't think so."
"It is something I will do."
"I won't let anything get in my way this time."
"And I will make sure nothing gets in between."
His golden eyes flashed.
His voice carried not as a plea, not as a demand…
But as a fact.
Draemir:
"For those he abandoned in the Slums of Harran."
"For the Mother, who led before me, who gave everything for a future she never saw."
"And for me. The one he left behind, more than once."
His fingers tightened into fists.
Draemir:
"He left me surrounded by what could have been a hundred Virals."
"When I was not like this."
"And I had to fight by myself."
The crowd was silent now.
No more murmurs.
No more doubts.
They were listening.
And then—Draemir moved.
The Proof of Power
His clawed fingers rose to his mask.
The air felt thick, charged.
With a slow, deliberate motion—he removed it.
The sun's light hit his skin, revealing his Volatile-like features.
Then—he opened his maw.
And he growled.
A deep, guttural, inhuman sound.
The air shuddered.
And then—
He roared.
A mighty, deafening Volatile growl—so powerful, so commanding, that the night itself seemed to bend to its will.
A call to the infected.
And the city answered.
The Gathering of the Dead
From the shadows, from the ruins, from every broken corner of Villedor—
They came.
Virals sprinted through the streets, their bodies moving with unnatural speed, crashing over obstacles, climbing, leaping, crawling—
All rushing toward the square.
Biters followed slowly, aimlessly drifting forward, pushing into the crowds.
Survivors panicked.
Some reached for weapons.
Others froze in terror.
But the infected…
Did not attack.
The Virals jumped onto buildings, onto stalls, clinging to the walls, growling, waiting, surrounding Draemir.
The Biters stood among the people.
Not biting.
Not clawing.
Just… existing.
The streets of Villedor had become a hive.
Draemir exhaled, lowering his maw, his voice calm.
Draemir:
"Do you want proof?..."
His golden eyes swept over the terrified faces before him.
Draemir:
"Tell me... is there any better proof… than this?"
The infected surrounded him.
He stood among them, untouched, unchallenged.
A king among beasts.
Then—his voice softened.
Draemir:
"And in case you need more…"
"Do you think I need to give you my blessing just so you can feel the proof?"
"Do you want to feel the cure for yourself?"
He took one slow step forward.
His golden eyes locked onto the doubters.
Draemir:
"Because if you do... I will gladly glow your path with a bright light."
"I will give you the cure you so desperately seek."
Silence.
Pure, unbreakable silence.
And now…
They had to decide.
The Fear of Villedor – The Moment of Truth
A cold wave of silence swept through the square.
No one breathed.
No one moved.
The infected stood among them—unmoving, waiting.
Virals perched on rooftops, their glowing eyes locked onto Draemir.
Biters stood between survivors, lifeless yet eerily still, as if awaiting a command.
The people of Villedor had never seen anything like this.
Their world had always been one of survival.
Where infected meant death.
Where the only rule was kill or be killed.
Yet now—this was something else.
Something beyond comprehension.
And they didn't know how to react.
The Murmurs Begin
Then—the whispers started.
First, just one. A breathless, shaken voice.
"They're not attacking..."
Then another—uncertain, panicked.
"They're just… standing there. Why aren't they moving?"
And then, more.
"This isn't real. This isn't real." "How the hell is he doing this?" "They're waiting. He's controlling them…" "Goddamn it, this… this ain't normal."
Some people backed away, their bodies shaking.
A few clutched their weapons, but none dared swing.
A woman covered her mouth, her body trembling.
A man gripped his friend's arm, his knuckles white.
"The Biters… they're among us…" "One wrong move, and they'll turn." "They'll kill us all."
Some survivors were paralyzed.
Others?
Others were starting to believe.
"He said he was the God of the Sun…" "Maybe—maybe he's telling the truth." "He called them. He commands them." "If this is real… then what else is?"
Fear. Doubt. Awe. Disbelief.
A swirling storm of emotion rippled through Villedor's people.
And all around them—
The infected waited.
Staring at Draemir.
Motionless.
Waiting for his will.
Draemir: "I see you are overwhelmed... I will give you my blessing... The cure..."
Draemir then inhaled highly, and then, his Volatile maw opened, and he exhaled, spitting the golden blue smoke among them.
The Decision of Villedor – Between Fear and Faith
The air was suffocating.
The people of Villedor stood frozen, surrounded by the very things they had fought their entire lives to avoid.
Virals perched above them, clinging to walls and rooftops, their bodies tense—watching, waiting.
Biters stood among them, unmoving, their dead eyes locked on Draemir, responding only to him.
For the first time, Villedor's people weren't being hunted.
They were being judged.
And in that moment, something changed.
Draemir was no longer just a man in a mask.
He was something else.
Something beyond their understanding.
A monster?
A god?
They didn't know.
But they knew one thing.
He had power.
Real power.
And now—they had to choose.
The Ones Who Rejected Him
Some survivors couldn't accept it.
Couldn't accept that this was real.
That an infected man could walk among the dead and command them.
"This… this is wrong. This is unnatural." "No one should have this kind of power." "He's not human. He's something else. And I want no part of it."
One man turned and left immediately, shaking his head in denial.
Another woman grabbed her child's hand and walked away quickly, refusing to even look back.
A few others followed, some in fear, some in disgust, some in pure disbelief.
"We've survived this long without him. We don't need him now." "This isn't salvation. This is something else entirely." "I won't follow a man who thinks he's a god."
They didn't want to see the truth.
They didn't want to believe.
And so, they walked away, back into the uncertain life they already knew.
A life of struggle. Of hunger. Of death waiting at every corner.
But at least it was a life they understood.
The Ones Who Accepted Him
But others?
Others saw the truth.
And they couldn't ignore it.
They saw the Biters standing still, not lunging at their throats.
They saw the Virals perching like sentinels, waiting for a command.
And they saw Draemir.
Standing among the infected, untouched. Unchallenged.
This wasn't just luck.
This wasn't just survival.
This was control.
And control?
Meant hope.
A young man stepped forward, swallowing his fear.
Young Survivor:
"If you can do this… if you can control them… then maybe—" (He hesitated, but then his voice steadied.) "Maybe you really can kill it."
An older man, scarred and weary, nodded.
Weary Survivor:
"I've seen too many people die. If you can take that thing down, I'll help however I can."
A woman—one of the first who had stepped forward earlier—spoke with conviction.
Determined Survivor:
"I lost my brother to that thing. If luring it out means putting an end to it? Then I'll do it."
Then, more voices joined.
"He's offering us something better." "A chance to fight back. To end this nightmare." "I don't know what he is… but I know what he's done." "He's done more than anyone else has."
One by one, they stepped forward.
First a dozen.
Then twenty.
Then more.
Over half of the people who had gathered in the square stood with Draemir.
Their faces still carried uncertainty, still carried fear.
But they had seen something undeniable.
And now?
They had chosen.
The Divide
By the end, Villedor had been split.
Those who refused to accept what they saw—left.
But those who believed in a better future—stayed.
They didn't fully understand Draemir.
They didn't fully trust him.
But they trusted what they saw.
They trusted results.
And now?
They would help him.
They would call the Night Hunter.
And when it came—