The hunters entered the village at sundown, their cloaks damp from the mist rolling in from the hills. They did not speak to the villagers. They did not threaten. They simply waited.
Among them was a younger man, eager, overconfident. He had trained all his life, studied war, and killed before. But this? This was just a priest. A myth. And myths do not survive steel.
Salvatore watched them from a distance, amusement flickering in his eyes. He had seen this type before—men who believed skill alone would keep them alive. But skill without wisdom was a death sentence. As the hunters spread out, trying to establish their presence, he simply waited. They would come to him.
And they did.
The young hunter, no older than twenty, stepped forward from the group, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His stance was eager, almost impatient. He wanted to prove himself.
"Salvatore Vernoux," he called, his voice sharp and certain. "Your time is up."
Salvatore sighed dramatically, stepping out of the church's shadow. "Ah. Another one." His tone was almost playful, as if he had been expecting company and was only mildly inconvenienced.
The young man scowled. "Enough talk. Draw your weapon."
Salvatore raised an eyebrow. "And why would I do that?"
"You know why. You're coming with us."
Salvatore chuckled. "Am I?"
The hunter took a step forward—then another. His hands shook slightly on the sword's hilt, but his confidence remained. "You can't run anymore," he said.
Salvatore tilted his head. "Run? My dear boy, I haven't run in centuries."
And then, he simply stood there. No weapon drawn. No defensive stance. Just waiting.
The young hunter hesitated. He had expected a fight, resistance. But this? His grip tightened. He lunged.
And Salvatore moved. Not backward. Not away. Forward. His fingers snapped out, catching the blade mid-swing.
The young man gasped as the steel stopped inches from Salvatore's face, trapped in his grasp like a mere toy.
Salvatore smiled. "Predictable."
With a flick of his wrist, he shattered the sword.
The young hunter stumbled back, panic rising in his chest. "What the—"
Salvatore punched him.
The impact sent the boy flying backward, crashing into the mud. The other hunters froze.
Salvatore exhaled. "Gods, I almost feel bad for you."
The young man scrambled to his feet, his breath ragged. He tried to speak—but Salvatore was already in front of him.
Too fast. Too inhuman.
He grabbed the hunter by the throat, lifting him off the ground with one hand. The boy struggled, his legs kicking uselessly in the air. His companions hesitated, hands on their weapons, but none dared to move.
"You came all this way," Salvatore mused, watching the young hunter's eyes widen in terror. "And yet, you're so very unprepared."
The boy clawed at Salvatore's grip, but it was useless. His strength was nothing compared to what held him.
Salvatore let out a disappointed sigh. "I expected more."
Then, without warning, he let go.
The hunter crashed to the ground, coughing violently. He looked up, confusion and fear battling in his expression.
Salvatore grinned. "Lucky you. I'm in a good mood tonight."
The hunter's relief was short-lived. Because then, Salvatore snapped his fingers.
Behind him, the church doors slammed open, and something crawled out.
The hunters stepped back instinctively. The air around them grew colder, an unnatural hush falling over the village. What emerged from the church was not a man, nor an animal.
It was one of Salvatore's failures.
A body—once human, now twisted. It moved on all fours, its limbs elongated and wrong, as if it had been stretched beyond its natural limits. Its face was still that of a man, but its mouth had been sewn shut, its eyes filled with endless suffering.
The young hunter screamed.
The creature lunged at him, but Salvatore raised a hand, and it froze, trembling violently. He looked back at the boy, amusement clear in his expression.
"You see," Salvatore murmured, "you came here thinking you were the hunter." His voice lowered, his tone almost mocking. "But you were prey the moment you arrived."
The boy, his body shaking uncontrollably, stared up at him, unable to speak.
"Go back," Salvatore continued, stepping away. "Run home. Tell your king what you saw here tonight. And tell him—" He smiled, his voice dripping with amusement.
"Try again."
The hunters didn't need to be told twice. They turned and fled into the night, leaving their fallen comrade behind.
By morning, the young hunter was found hanging upside down from the church bell, completely naked except for his boots. A sign had been tied to his chest with a single word:
"TRY AGAIN."
He was alive. Humiliated.
The hunters were gone. For now.
Salvatore, sitting on the church steps, smirked as he sipped his wine.
"Well," he muttered, "that was fun."