The first time I kill a man, I don't mean to.
It's my eighteenth birthday, and I've spent the morning as I always do—in silent meditation at the Stone Monastery, attempting to suppress the strange heat that pulses beneath my skin. The monks have taught me control through discipline, through sacrifice, through pain. Eighteen years of training my body to be a fortress against whatever burns inside me.
Eighteen years of failure.
"Focus, child," Master Torin instructs, his weathered face creased with concern. "Your thoughts betray you."
I nod, eyes downcast, palms pressed together. I don't tell him about the dreams—crimson landscapes where winged figures circle overhead, calling to me in languages I somehow understand. I don't mention how the candles in my chamber dance when I wake gasping in the night, or how the strange markings on my inner wrists have darkened in recent weeks.
The monastery bells toll noon when I feel it—a disturbance in the air, like the pressure before a storm. Master Torin feels it too, his eyes widening as he rises from his meditation cushion.
"They've found us," he whispers, and for the first time in my life, I see fear in the old monk's eyes.
The doors to the meditation hall burst open. Black-clad figures pour in, their faces obscured by masks emblazoned with silver sigils. One steps forward, pointing a gloved finger directly at me.
"The abomination," the figure announces, voice muffled behind the mask. "Surrender it, and the monastery will be spared."
Master Torin moves with surprising speed for a man of seventy, placing himself between me and the intruders. "She is under our protection," he declares. "Leave this sacred place."
The lead figure tilts its head. "A shame." With a fluid motion, it draws a curved blade that gleams with unnatural blue light. "The Purifiers do not negotiate with demon-harbors."
Everything happens too quickly after that. The masked figures surge forward. Master Torin shouts for me to run. A blade flashes toward the old monk's chest.
And something inside me snaps.
The heat I've spent my life containing erupts from my skin in waves of crimson energy. The stone floor cracks beneath my feet. The air itself seems to ignite, and a sound like a thousand screaming voices fills the meditation hall.
When my vision clears, the intruders lay scattered across the floor. Some moan in pain; others are terrifyingly still. Master Torin stands frozen, staring at me with an expression I've never seen before.
Horror.
"What am I?" I whisper, looking down at my hands. The markings on my wrists have spread up my arms, glowing sigils that pulse with the same rhythm as my racing heart.
Then, before my eyes, something impossible happens. Transparent blue rectangles materialize in my vision, hovering like phantoms only I can see. A presence, cold and mechanical, echoed in my thoughts.
System initializing…
Something deep within me stirred, ancient and powerful. Heat pulsed through my veins, my body reacting to an unseen force.
Bloodline awakened. Demonic heritage detected.
The words seared into my consciousness, undeniable and absolute. The power I had always felt lurking beneath my skin had a name.
Sorcerous affinity confirmed.
More details surfaced, aligning in my mind as if I had always known them.
My name was Aria—though my family name remained unknown. My level stood at one, marking the beginning of something far greater than I had ever imagined.
My class, however, was unexpected.
Unbound Hybrid. Rare.
The term sent a shiver through me. I wasn't just one thing—I was a fusion of something unique, untethered by conventional rules.
Then came the breakdown of my attributes:
Health Points (HP): 110/110. My demonic heritage granted me slightly more endurance than a typical human.
Mana Points (MP): 150/150. A wellspring of arcane energy, ready to be shaped into spells.
Strength: Eight. I wasn't weak, but I wasn't built for raw power either.
Agility: Twelve. Quick, nimble—movement would be my advantage.
Constitution: Nine. My endurance left something to be desired.
Intelligence: Fourteen. A sharp mind, adept at learning and wielding magic.
Wisdom: Eleven. A solid foundation for resisting magical interference.
Charisma: Thirteen. A natural force of presence, perhaps even persuasion.
The knowledge didn't stop there. My abilities surfaced next, each one unlocking a new layer of understanding.
Active Ability:
Chaotic Surge (Level One)—An untamed release of raw magical energy. Its destructive force ranged between forty and sixty damage, but it lacked control. Worse, it required a full twenty-four hours to recharge.
Passive Abilities:
Blood Resonance (Level One)—My demonic heritage allowed me to sense magical energies and beings of similar origin within a ten-meter radius.
Arcane Adaptation (Level One)—A natural resistance to magical effects, providing a modest five percent reduction in their impact.
Then came the warnings.
A sharp pain pulsed through my core. The raw force of Chaotic Surge had already been unleashed—its cooldown period had begun.
Somewhere nearby, a dark presence lurked.
Demonic resonance detected in vicinity. Caution advised.
And lastly, the system had one final directive.
System tutorial pending. Find a safe location to continue initialization.
I exhaled slowly, my mind racing. Whatever I had become, it was only the beginning.
I blink rapidly, trying to dismiss the floating text, but it remains stubbornly in my field of vision. "What is this?" I mutter, reaching out to touch the intangible words.
"You must go," Master Torin says, his voice hollow. He reaches beneath his robes and withdraws a small leather pouch. "I had hoped this day would never come."
"You knew?" Betrayal floods through me. "You've always known what I am?"
"I know only what I was told when you were left at our gates—that you were in danger, and that this belonged to you." He presses the pouch into my palm. "Now go. More will come."
The lead Purifier stirs at our feet, reaching for his fallen weapon. Without thinking, I kick it away, then lean down to rip the mask from his face. The man beneath is young, perhaps only a few years older than myself, with eyes that burn with hatred.
"Demon spawn," he spats. "We'll hunt you to the ends of the earth."
I feel the heat rising again, coiling in my chest, but nothing happens. The system notification flashes in my vision:
Chaotic Surge - Cooldown: 23:58:42
"Who sent you? How did you find me?" I demand.
The man laughs, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "Your kind cannot hide. The blood calls to blood."
Before I can question him further, shouts echo from outside the hall. More intruders are coming. Master Torin grips my shoulders.
"There is a tunnel beneath the herb garden," he says urgently. "It leads to the forest. Follow the stream north until you reach the crossroads. Seek the one they call the Huntsman. He knew your mother."
"My mother?" The word feels strange on my tongue. "She's alive?"
Something like pity crosses the old monk's face. "Go, child. And may the gods have mercy on us all."
I run.
Through the monastery's winding corridors, past the kitchens where I've spent countless hours peeling vegetables as penance for my nightmares, into the garden where I once hid for three days when my powers first manifested at age seven. The tunnel entrance is hidden behind a stone statue of a weeping angel, its face worn smooth by centuries of rain.
Behind me, I hear screams. Smoke begins to rise from the monastery's eastern wing. I hesitate, torn between the only home I've ever known and the unknown darkness of the tunnel.
A sharp pulse throbbed in my skull, an irritating buzz that refused to be ignored. The system's voice cut through my thoughts like an uninvited guest.
Quest alert: Escape the Purifiers.
I groaned. Fantastic. More cryptic commands from the disembodied narrator in my head.
Objective: Reach the crossroads and find the Huntsman.
Right. Because that wasn't vague at all. Did this thing ever come with actual details?
Reward: 100 XP, System Tutorial Unlock.
Progress. I supposed that was something. But the next lines wiped away any lingering sarcasm.
Failure: Capture or Death.
Time Limit: 6 hours.
The irritation in my head twisted into something sharper. Six hours. Six hours to get to a crossroads I'd never seen, to find a Huntsman I didn't know, all while avoiding Purifiers—whoever the hell they were.
I exhaled through my nose. "Great. No pressure."
The system, predictably, had nothing to say to that.
The pouch in my hand seems to grow warm. With trembling fingers, I open it and withdraw a pendant—a tarnished silver disk etched with symbols similar to those now glowing on my skin. In its center is embedded a fragment of what appears to be a map, the edges charred as if torn from a burning document.
And something else—a folded piece of parchment, the ink faded but still legible.
My dearest daughter,
If you are reading this, then the wards have failed, and they have found you. What I did, I did to protect you from those who would use your power. Trust no one who claims to know your purpose. The blood of both worlds runs in your veins, a key to unlock what should remain sealed.
Find the Huntsman. He owes me a debt that can only be repaid to you.
Forgive me for what I've cursed you with.
—M
A crash from inside the monastery jolts me back to the present. I clutch the pendant to my chest, slip into the tunnel, and pull the entrance closed behind me.
The passageway is low and narrow, forcing me to crouch as I feel my way forward in near-total darkness. The only light comes from the sigils on my skin, casting an eerie red glow that barely illuminates the path ahead. The air grows colder and damper the further I go, the sounds of conflict above fading to a muffled rumble.
After what feels like hours, the tunnel widens into a small chamber. Moonlight filters through a grate overhead, revealing a rusty ladder leading up to the surface. I climb, pushing aside the covering of leaves and branches that conceals the exit.
I emerge in the forest, the massive stone walls of the monastery visible in the distance. Flames now dance along the rooftops, black smoke billowing into the night sky. My home—the only home I've ever known—is burning.
And it's my fault.
I stumble back, heart pounding, staring at the inferno that consumes the monastery behind me. A chill runs through me, not from the cold air but from the realization that the world has just become a far more dangerous place.
I turn away, focusing on the path ahead—the only way out. The tunnel. The Huntsman. The uncharted crossroads I need to find.
The pouch feels like it's burning a hole in my palm. I clutch it tighter, feeling the weight of the map and the cryptic message within. A dark dread twists in my gut, knowing the journey ahead is nothing like the quiet life I had known.
The distant roar of flames is the only sound now. But just as I begin to move forward, a faint, sickening sound echoes from the trees behind me. The unmistakable scraping of boots against stone.
I freeze, my pulse spiking.
The Purifiers. They're still at the monastery.
A gust of wind stirs the leaves around me, carrying with it a muffled voice. It's distant, but there's no mistaking it.
"Find her. Don't let her escape."
I curse under my breath. I run.
My feet pound against the earth, but my mind races even faster. The crossroads—the Huntsman—am I even headed in the right direction? The pendant feels like a cruel weight in my hand, its markings pulsing in time with my frantic heartbeat. The parchment, its fragile words now seared into my thoughts, offers no clarity, no reassurance. It's a path laid out in shadows, and I have no choice but to follow.
Will I make it in time? Or will the Purifiers catch me before I even get a chance to find the Huntsman?